Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class 'Mail Rates. Copyrighted in 1881 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. March 1. 1881. 1 N0. 68. VOL. 111. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST, N. Y. PRICE, CENTS- . Weavers and Walt; or,“Luva That Hath Us In His Nat.” BY MISS M. E. BRADDON. CHAPTER I. AT THE STAR AND GARTEB. Gmmous June weather, tender moonlight from a moon newly risen -—a mystical light—silver bright on far-OR glimpses of the winding river, soft and mysterious where it falls upon the growing darkness of the woodland; a pensive light, by which men not altogether given up to the world are apt to ponder the deeper enigmas of this life, and to look backward, Heaven knows with what keen agonies of regret, to youth that has vanished and friends that are dead. Two men, who have been dining at the Star and Garter, and who have stolen away from the dessert to smoke their cigars under the mid— summer moon, contemplate the familiar landscape in a lazy, meditative silence. One is sitting on the stone balustrade of the terrace, with his face turned to the distant curve of the river, watching the tender light with a very somber expression of countenance; the other stands with his elbows resting on the balustrade, smoking industriously, and looking every now and then with rather an uneasy glance at his companion. The first is Sir Cyprian Dave. nant, the last scion of a good old Kentish family, and owner of one of the finest and oldest places in the county of Kent. The Davenants have been a wild, reckless set for the last hundred years, and there is not an acre of , Davenant Park or a tree in Dave— nant woods unencumbered by mortgage. How Sir Cyprian lives and contrives to keep out of 'a debtor’s prison is a subject for the wonder of his numerous ac- quaintances. His intimate friends know that the man has few ex- pensive habitS, and that he has a small income from an estate in- herited from his mother. Sir Cyprian’s companion is a man approaching middle age, with a decidedly plain face, re- deemed from ugliness by a cer- tain brightness of expression about the mouth and eyes. This ‘ gentleman is James Morton . , I Wyatt, a solicitor, with an ex— l l» a ,' ' I! cellent practice, and a decided r ‘ taste for literature, which he is ’— “ rich enough to be able to culti- vate at his leisure, leaving the Ordinary run of cases to the care Of his junior partner, and only Putting in an appearance at his l :i l l lfhll CONSTANOE GAVE A FAINT CRY 0F HORROR, AND STARTED BACK. office when an affair of some importance is on hand. James Wyatt is a bachelor, and a great favorite with the fair sex, for whom his fashionable modern cynicism seems to possess an extraordinary charm. The cynic has a natural genius for the art of flattery, and a certain subtle power of pleasing, that surprises his male acquaintance, who wonder what the women can see in this fellow, with his long, mean~ looking nose, and his small gray eyes, and his incessant flow of shallow talk. ' “You’re not very lively company to-night, Davenant," James Wyatt said at last. “I’ve been waiting with exemplary patience for some kind of reply to the question I asked you about a quarter of an hour a o. ' 3“ 'You can scarcely expect much liveliness from a man who is going to start for Africa in four-and-twenty hours, with a. very vague pr08~ pect of coming back again.” ' “Well, I don’t know about that. It’s a pleasure trip, isn’t it, this African exploration business?” “ It is to be called pleasure, I believe. My share in it would never have come about but for a promise to an old friend. It is a point of honor with me to go. The promise was given five or six years age, when I was hot upon the subject. I expect very little enjoyment from the business now, but I am bound to go.” He ,sighed as he said this, still looking far away at the winding river, with the same somber ex- pression in his eyes. It was a face not easily forgotten by those who had once looked upon it, a face of remarkable beauty, a little wan and faded by the cares and dissipations of a career that had been far from perfect. Cyprian Davenant was not'quite five-and-thirty, but he had lived at a high pressure rate for ten years of his life, and bore the traces of the fray. The perfect profile, the broad, low brow, and deep dark eyes, had not lost much in losing the freshness of youth, but the pale cheeks were .just a little sunken, and ‘there were lines about those splendid eyes, and a rigid look about the . resolute thin lips; If there was a fault to be, found in the face, it Was, perhaps, the too promi— nent ’lower brow, in which the perceptive organs were develop- ed in an extreme degree, yet this very prominence gave char- acter and individuality to the countenance. , James Wyatt heard the regret- ful sigh, and noted the despon- dence of his companion’stonia. “I should have thought there were not many people in Eng land you Would care about leav« other people’s. V your reluctance to leave England. There is " were a wise man, I should be very glad of this Ag.“ Jim, for - would smoke a ," . {-1 .‘e. ,. t. e WEA VERS AND WEFT. MW .. m .. . _- . .... ._.» M.- ..pw. . .. HE , Bergman,” he a curiously watch}? élfiyarde's. And now I suppose we’d better a Jeers: the other man’s half averted face. “133.th you boast of standing alone in the w J! “Rather‘a barren boast, isn’t it 1’” said Sir Cyprian, with a brief and bitter laugh. “ Yes, I am quite alone. Since, my sister Marian’s w domplete abso on, in nursery cares and wursery joys, there is no one to offer letsrhindjance to jlny‘gtoing I have .friendstlotmcourse, ajigre'n‘ 'ins.ny-_—‘-sti’ch~ 88 you, " oh fellows, who ‘ me to. night in the of friendship, and who would hear of my "viithout turning a- ” if ’t talk platitudes about your friends, " than no doubt they are as good as I don’t know a man going more popular than you are.” Cyprian Davenant took no notice of this re- “ Dear old river!” he murmured, tenderly. “:Poor old river, how many of the happiest hours of my life have been out upon your banks, or on our breast! Sh I ever see you again, Iwon er, orshallIiind a grave in the sand far away from the Thames and Medway ? Don't think me a sentimental old fool, Jim, but the fact is I am a little out Of spirits to-night. I on htnot to have accepted Sinclair’s invitation. I . ed nineteen to the dozen at, dinner, and drank no end of hock and seltzer,’ but I felt as dreary as a ghost assisting at his own funeral. I suppose I am too old for this African busi- ness. I have outlived the explorer’s spirit, and have a foolish kind of presentiment that the thin will come to a bad end. Of course I we dn’t own to such afeeling among the men who are going, but I may confess as much to you without being put down as a craven.” “ I’ll tell you what it is, Darenant,” answer- ed the lawyer. “ There is something deeper than you have owned to yet at the bottom of some one, at least~a woman.’ v The other tinned his face full upon the speaker. “ You're about right Jim,” he said, W8 the end of his cigar away as he spoke. “There is _a woman—not a sudden caprice either—but a woman I have loved truly and fondly for the last five years of my life. If I chance of curing my infatuation by putting a few thousand miles between myself and the loveliest face I ever saw.” “ It’s a hopeless case then, I suppose,” sug- gested James Wyatt. “ Quite hepeless. What have I to offer the woman I love ? The income upon which I have managed to live since my ruin and subsequent reformation would be something worse than beggary for a wife such as the woman I love. Even if she were willing to share my poverty, could I be mean enough to drag her into such a slough of despond? No, Jim, it is a hopeless case. M pretty one and I mist-“Eat. I to dreary 0‘ bachelorhood, she to her mis- sion, and make one of the grandmatches of the season. . ‘,‘I I knowI-‘tgie:1 18.3132” James Wy- att, s owly. “ r ny e’s est daughter; the new one, eh, Cyprianyimng'he Clanyardes are neighbors of yours in Kent, I know.” . “ Of course I can trust you, Jim. Yes, you’ve hit it. But what made you fix upon Constan Clanysrd‘e ?” ~ - “Have not I senses to understand, and ey to see, and have I not seen you and Miss Clan- ' _,together at least three times? Why. the infatuation on both sides is patent to the must unsophisticated observer. It’s a pity you’ve only four hundred a year. That "would be rather; ti ht squeeze for a Clan 6. They’re snbtorio y extravagant set, I ow, have been up to their eyes in debt for the years. Yes, I have seen, the lady, and she is very lovely. , Upon my word I’m sorry for ou.’ \ go back to our friends. " “ I think so. By-the-way, what do you think of the» ' we were asked to meet?” “ Mrs. alsingham? Sheis very handsome. A widow, I suppose." r “ She is rather silent on that have heard it hinted that Colonel Walsingham -—he was colonel in the co ' ant, I believe, and count of theHoly Roman pire —-still walks this earth, and that the lady owes her agreeable freedom to an American court of antecedents are altogether douth ml, "and Mrs. ’Walsingham’s setis of the cider fast furious. Gilbert Sinclair likes that kind of thing. " “ And I suppose Mrs. stingham likes Gil- bert Sinclair." “Or his money. Sinclair's about. the big est fish in thematrimonial waters, and she be a happy angler who lands him. But I really believe Mrs. Walsingham has a weakness for the man himself, independent of his money.“ Strange, isn’t it? Sinclair’s the dearest fellow in the world, andas his friend, of course I dots upon him; but I confess that if I were a wo-. man I should regard him with unmitigated loathing." “ That’s rather strong." “Of course he’s a most estimable creature; but such an unspeakable snob, such a pompous, purse-proud cad. Ah, there he is at the win- ow looking for us. If I were a woman, you know, Cyprian, that man would be the object of my aversion; but I’m not, and he's my cli- ent, and it is the first duty of a solicitor to love his clients. Coming, Gilbert.” The two men crossed a little bit of lawn, and went in through the open window. The room was lighted with wax candles, and a merry party was crowded round a table, at one end of which a lady was dispensing tea in quite a home-like fashion. She was a very beautiful woman, of a showy type, dressed in white muslin half cov- ered with lace, dressed just a shade too youth- fully for her five-and thirty years. There were two other ladies resent, one a fashionable actress, the other or friend and confidante, also an aspirant to dramatic fame. The first was occupied in an agreeable flirtation with a' comet of dragoons, the second was listening with delight to the lively conversation of Mr. Bellingham, manager of the Phamix Theater. A c0 iple of gentlemen belonging to the stock- broking fraternity, and Gilbert Sinclair, the giver of the feast, made up the party. Mr. Bellingham had been entertaining the “company with anecdotes of MacStinger, the great tragedian, the point of every story tummg on the discomfiture of the great man by some blundering tyro in dramatic art. Mrs. Walsing- ham had heard most of the stories a good many tunes before, and she gave a pable little yawn as Mr. Bellingham told her ow the pro- vincial Horatio informed the great Hamlet that his father’s ghost “w0uld have much amused you.” She covered the yawn with her prett plump little hand, watched Gilbert Sinc ' 3 face with rathera troubled expression in her own, and in so doing was a little inattentive to the demand for more cups of tea. . Mr. Sinclair was a man whom many people admired, and who was in no obvious manner deserving James Wyatt’s unflattering descrip- tion. He affected a certainbluntness of style, which his friends accepted as evidence of a can- did and open soul and a warm heart. He was generous to a lavish degree toward those he as- sociated with and was suppoaed tolike; but he was not liberal with protestations of re and he had few intimate e was a man whom some game called handsome—a big man, upward of feet high, and with a pan..- derous, powerfulframa. lie regular features, a florid complexion, p . t red- dish-browneyeathiek , helrofthesame reddish-brown, and intensely whiteteeth. The chief claim whioh'Mr. I to notoriety was comprised mthe fact of ‘ ‘i’rhmks, old/f ., I needn't ask on not to mention my name in conjunction with Miss «- V 12‘. N wealth. He wasthe owner eta great estate in the north, an estate «:0nt of iron-works he ,He had been at'R. coal-pits, theannualincomefromwhieh was said to besomething stuv ndous, andhehad shares inmate a mines and foreign loans than human ,. oculd fatherhad been dead about five years, v Gilbert sole ‘ - i possessor of this great fmtune unfettered by a paint, and I L claim,forthe oungmanw‘asanonl child,‘ and hadneither" norkintosha'reliisweslth. ' and'Cambridge, andhad traveled all over pe jg rivets tutor. He had seen, eye , .been'taught ev thmg' that a " N f, ‘ v _ n oufgttosee orto ‘ j in a very moderate degree bythe He had a termination to enjoy existence gym fashion. After three years 1'. in his com- panionship, his tutor remarked that he scarcely knew Gilbert Sinclair an better at the close of their acquaintance than e ,had'knownhim at the beginning of it. K ' “ And yet the fellow seems so candid,” said Mr. Ashen, w’onderingly.’ I ' " “ I wish you would ve ineJa littlezas‘dstence with the tea-cups, G' bert,” Mrs. Walsingham said, rather impatiently. “It is all very well to talk of the pleasantness of having the tea made in the room in this way, but one requires some help. Thanks. Take thatto Sir Cyprian Davenant, if you please, and bring me Sophy Morton’s cup.” . . Mr. Sinclair obeyed, and when he came back with the empty cup Mrs. W ' motioned him to a vacant chair by her side, and detained him there till the carriages were announced. She called him by his Christian name in the face of society, and this party of tonight was only one of many entertainments that had been given at different times for her gratification. It was scarcely strange, therefore, if rumor, es ecially loud on the part of the lady’s friends, eclared that Mr. Sinclair and Mrs. Walsingham were engaged to be mended. But the acquaintance between them had continued for a long time, and those who knew most of Gilbert Sinclair shooktheir heads significantly when the matri- monial question was mooted. .“ Gilbert knows his own value,” growled old Colonel Mordant, an inveterate whist-pla er and diner-out, who had introduced young inclair into fast society. “ When he marries-he will in well. A man with my friend Sinclair’s fortune must have all the advantages in the lady of his choice—youth, beauty, rank—~or at any rate position—and most men of that caliber look out for a corresponding amount of wealth. I don’t say Sinclair will do that. He is rich enough to indulge in a caprice. But as to mar- rying Clara Walsingham—a deuced fine woman, I grant ou—pas st bete !” . Mrs. alsingham detained Mr. Sinclair in con- versation some time after the carriages had been annOunced. She was very bright and animated, and looked her best as she talked to him. It was nearly eleven o'clock when she was reminded of the lateness of the hour, and the length of the drive before them, by Miss Sophy Morton, who had latterly transferred ,her attention from the callow comet to Mr. Wyatt, much to the dis- gust of the youthful dragoon. . I “Yes, So by, I am 'ust going to put on my shawl. W‘ I you fetc our wings from the next room, please. Mr. Wyatt? ill you take the back seat in the brough‘am, Gilbert, and wind up with a lobster salad in Half-Moon Street ? It is really early, you know.” “ Thanks. no. man to drive those chestnuts; so I think I’ll go back in the phaeton; and I’m due at a hop in Eaton Square.” ’ “ Indeed ?” asked the lady, curiously, and with a rather anxious look. “ You used not to care for dancing parties.” . , “I don’t care for them now; but one has to sacrifice inclination now and then, you know.” “Do I know thepeople?" askede Wal. '. Sinclairsmiled as he replied, “I think not. ” ~ A cloud came over the lady’s face, and when stro willandegreat “PM, I ' his ownnsgeorets, and had life Eide- I could scarcely trust my' \ WEA VERS AND WEFT. bl) 1 a; r, M a i)‘ it? ‘ 1 ' 7a . ' é A n. " v her shawl had been adjusted she, took Gilbert Sinclair’sarminsilence. Nor dids‘hespeakto him on the way to theporch ofthehotel, where a mail phaeton and a couple of brough- ms were waiting. Her adieu: to the reetof the party were brief and cold, and Gilbert him- self she only honored by a stately inclination of h beautiful head, with its coronal of bright extinct hair, and coquettish little curls dotted about a broad white forehead Mr. Sinclair stood bare-headed under the porch as the Walsingham brougham dr0ve away, and then turned with a frown to perform his uties in other Here, however, he found there was left for him to do. Miss Merton and her companion 'had been escorted, to their carriage bySir ' Daven- ant and ‘Mr. Wyatt, and were waiting to bid their host good-by. ‘ “And a thousand thanks for our delightful day, Mr; Sinclair, "which we are not likely to fomfor a long time, are we, Imogen ?” ' Imogen Harlow who had been born Watson and christened Mary Anne, shook her empty little head coquettishly, and declared that the memory of that Richmond dinner would remain with her to her dyin day. And on-the way home the two ladies ' usseer. Sinclair ‘and this income, and speculated‘as to the chances of his ultimately marrying Mrs. Walsingham. __——__ . CHAPTER II. “wins we no mam.” Sm Grrnnn Dimm and James Wyatt went back totownbyrail, andpartedcompanyatWa- terloo. the baronet going westwardto his bache- lor lodgingsinone of the shabbiest streets about enor Square, the lawyer to 'a big dull house on the coldest side 0 Russell Square, which his father had bought and furnished some fifty years before, and in which there was a large collection of old pictures, and a still larger collection of rare old wines stored away in great gloomy cellars with ponderous iron~ plated doors. Mr. Wyatt the elder had done a good deal of business of a very profitable kind with the youthful members of the British aris— tocracy, had raised loans for them at heavy rates of interest, never omitting to remind them of the sacrifice they made, and only yielding to the stern necessities of their posi- tion in a reluctant grudging spirit at the last; whereby the foolish young men were in no manner prevented from rushing blindfold along the broad road to ruin, but were kept in 1 norance of the fact that it was from Thomas yatt’s own coffers that the money came, and thatto him the interest accrued. James Wyatt inherited his father’s cautious Spirit, other with his father's handsome for- tune, an he had cultivated ve much the same kind of , business, making himself emi- nently useful to his young friends, and win- ning. for himself the character of a most pru- dent friend and adviser. He did not take the risks of an ordinary money-lender, and he raised mono for his clients on terms that seemed in crate when compared with the usurer's exhorbitant demands; but he con- trived, nevertheless, to profit considerably by every transaction, and he never let a client es- cape him while there was a featherto pluck. Sir Davenant had been in this gen- tleman’s ands ever since his coming of age, but now that there was not an acre of the Dev- enant estate mortgaged, and the day was not far ofi‘ in which must come foreclosure and “51°. therelations between the two men were “the: those of friendship than business. Cy- Pflqn had lived his life. «had wasted his last 8yallable shilling. and had reformed. His dis- §lpations had never been of a base or degrad- mg order. He had been wild and reckless, layed high at his club, and lost money 0}! t e turf, and kept an extravagant stud, and ridden in steeple-chases at home and abroad. {Skilled _mdulged in many other follies pecu- liartohuageandstation; buthe had nolow View. and when his money was gone, and the 3 , - _. . < H ,_ _ 'v .5311} . on 'she said, (is g. a an”: ‘4‘? '” a f' freshness of youth with it, he fell from & ranks of his fast friends without a sigh. It was too late for him to think of a profession ; and there seemed to be no brighter fate possi— ble for him than the dreary monotony of old bachelorhood on a limited income; “I suppose'I shall live to be an old fogy," he said to himself. “ I shall have my particu- lar corner at the club, and be greedy about the newspapers, and bore the youngsters with my staipid old stories. What a life to look forward to I Sir.Cyprian had work to do after the Rich- mond dinner, and was occupied till long after daybreak with letter-writing and the last de- tails of his apacking. When all was done, he was still w eful, and sat by his writing-table in the morning sunlight thinking of the past‘ and the future with a gloomy face. Thinking of the past—of all those careless hours in which one bright girlish face had been the chief influence of his life; thinking of the future in which he was to see that sweet face no more. “ How happy we have been together I” he thought, as be bent over a photograph framed in the 11d of his dispatch-box, contem ting the lovely face with a fond smile, and a ten er, dream- ing look in his dark eyes. “ What long hours of' boredom I have gone through in the way of evening parties in order to get a waltz with her, or a few minutes of quiet talk in some balcony or conservatory, and all for the vain dehght of loving her—swithout one ray of hope for the future. with the knowledge that I was doing her a great wrong in following her up so closely with my barren love! So even James Wyatt saw my infatuation ; and hers, he said. Is there any truth in that last assertion, I wonder? Does Constance really care for me? I have never asked her the question, never betrayed myself by any direct avowal. Yet these thi make themselves understood somehow, and think my darling knows thathould' die for her; and I think I know that she will never care for any man as she could care for me." He shut the dispatch-box, and began to walk slowly up and down the room, thinking: “ There would be just time for me to do it," he said to himself, presently—“ just time for me to run down to Davenant, and see the old place once more. It will be sold before I come back from Africa, if ever I do come back. And there would be the chance of seeing her. Ikno’w the Clanyardes have gone back to Kent. Yes, I will run down to Davenant for a few hours. A man must be hard indeed who does not care to give one farewell look at the house in which the brightest years of his life have been spent. And I may see her again, only to say good-by, and to see if she is sorry for my going. What more can I say to her? What more need be said? She knows that I would lay down my life for her.” He wentto his room, and slept akind of fitful sleep until eight o’clock, when he woke with a start, and began to dress for his journey. At nine he was driving through the streets inaHan- som, and at mid-day he was inone of the woody lanes leading across country from the little Kent- ish railway station to his own ancestral domain, the place he had once been proud and fond of, but which he looked at now in bitterness of spirit: and with a passionate regret. The estate had been much encumbered when it fell into his but he knew that, with prudence, he might have saved the greaterpart of it. Heentered the park by a rustic gateway, beside._which there was a keeper’- 1 e, a gate dividing the thickest rt of the w from a broad green valley, w ere the fern grew deep under the spreading branches of grand old oaks. and around the smooth silver- grey trunks of mighty The Davenant timber had suffered little from the prodigal’s deetro ' hand. He could better endure the loeeof eplseethanitsdeeecration. The woman at the keeper's lodge welcomed her master with an exclamation of rise. “ I hope you have com? t0,stay, Sir Cyprian,” ing a rustic courtesy. 7 “No, Mrs. I have only come for a last aux , ' .,~. lbbk at the old place before I go away from England.” V “ Going away, sir? that’s bad news." , Cyprian cut short her lamentations with a- friendly nod, and was walking on, when it sud— .denly struck him that the woman might be useful. - I “ Oh, by-the-way," he said, “ Lord Clanym‘da is at Marchbrook, is he not ?” “Yes, sir; the family have been there for the last week. ” “Then I'll walk over there before I go on to the house, if you'll unloak the gate again, Mrs. H . . “ShallIsend one of my boys, to thehouse with a message, sir, about dinner, Or anything? “ You are very good. Yes, you can Send the lad to tell old Mrs. Pomfret to get me some. thing to eat at six o’clock, if you please. « I must get back to London by the 7:30 train.” “ Deary me, sir, going back so soon as that f" The gates of Marchbrook were about a mile distant from the keeper’s lodge. Lord Clan- yarde’s house was a dreary red brick habitation of the Georgian‘era, with long lines of narrow windows looking out upona blank expanse’of pasture land, by courtesy a park. Anavenuo of elms led from the e-gate to the southern front of the house, an on the western side there was a prim Dutch garden, divided from the park by a herbs. The place was in order, but there was a cold, bare'look about poverty. V A woman at the lodge informed Sir that there was no one at home. Lord Chuynde had driven to Maidstone; Miss Clanyarde was in the village. She had gone to see the ehildren at the National School. She would be home at two to lunch, no doubt, according to her usual habit. She was very fond of .the school, and sometimes spent her morning in teaching the children. , i . “ But they leave school at twelve, don’t they ?” demanded Sir Cyprian. “Yes, sir; but I dare say Miss Constance‘has stopped to talk to Miss Evans, the school- mistress. She is a very genteel young person. and quite a favorite with our ladies.” Cyprian Davenant knew the little school- house and the road by which Constance Clanyarde must return from her mis- sion. Nothing could be more pleasant to him than the idea of meeting her in her sol— itary walk. He turned away from the lodge- keeper, muttering something vague about calling again later, and walked at a rapid pace to the neighboring village, which consisted of two straggling rows of old-fashioned cottages fringing the skirts of a common. Close to the old ivy-covered church,with its massive square tower and grass-grown graveyard, there was a modern Gothic building in which the» village children struggled through the difficulties of an educational course, and from the open win- dows whereof their youthful, voices rang loudly out upon the summer air every morn- ing in a choral Version of the multiplication table. Miss Clanyarde was standing in the little stone porchtalking to the school-mistress when Sir Cyprian opened the low wooden gate. She looked u at the sound of his footstep with a sudden lush. ' ' “ I did not know you wore at D.wenant, Sir Cyprian,” she said, with some little embarrass- ment, as they shook hands. “I have not been at Davenant, Miss Clon- yarde. I only left town this morning. I have come down here to say good-by to Davenant and all old friends.” ‘ The blush faded and left the lovely face very pale. “ Is it true that dyou are going to Africa. Sir Cyprian ? I hear from some friends in town that on were going to join Captain Harcourt’s exp 'tion." .. “It is quite true. I promised Harcourt some years ago.that if he ever went again]. would 0 with bun.” . I “ hyou are pleased to go. I so pose?" " No, 188 Clanyarde, not pi toga. But - t 5'. _ everything that was eminently suggestive of .1 I 4 . . ri ..,,..:' {s WEA VERS k. ifs . . ff“ Es?» w " t . ‘ 4, r A. , ‘ I think that sort of thing is about the best employment for the energiesof a waif and ._. stray, such as I I haveli’ved my. life, you .see, andhave not a single card; left to plum-in. thegameoilcivilized existence. ,There is some hope of adventure out yonder. Are you going ._home?”, , , . ' a _ _ _ ‘ "“‘ Yes, I was just saying good-byto Miss , Evansas you came in.” . , . ’ “ Then I’ll walk back ' to Marchbrook- with on, if you’ll allow me. -I told the, lodge- : 'Iwould return by-and-by in the ,hope , in , . ' o gmLord Clanyard'e." I » . T‘ You . ve been to Marchbrook already, then Y’” ‘ ' , '- "1“, Yeaan'd the told me at the lodge that I cannons you ere.” , , , ,, ‘ this there caule rather an, awkward si- lence! ‘The'y walked aWay from the school- house, side by side, Sir , rian furti'vel ‘watchful of [his , companion’s ‘ ace, in whic ‘ there Were signs of a sorrow that seemed some- thing1 deeper than the ‘ conventional regret " whic a fashionable beauty might express for " ‘the‘departure of a favorite waltzer. The silence was not broken until they had ’ arrived at a point where two roads met, the, ":turnpike road to Marchbrook, and'a shady lane ' +5 cross-country road, above which the over- ' “arching branches of the elm8 made a reef of foliage at * this bright midsummerLs‘eason. Was a way of reaching Marchbrook by ’this lane—~a tempting walk compared to the high-road. , ._ 4 V“ Let us back by the lane,” said Cyprian. ‘ “It is a litt 9 longer, but I am sure you are not a hurry. You would have dawdled away ' half the mornin talking to that young woman at the schooLi I' hadn’t come to fetch you ; and itwill be our last walk together, Constance, I may call you Constance, may I not, as I used -' when you were in the nursery ! I am entitled to a few dismal privileges, like a dying man, you know. 0h, Constance, what happy hours we have spent together in these Kentish lanes! -’1 shall see them in my dreams out yonder, and our face will shine down 11 n me from a azackground of green‘leave's an blue sky ; and then I shall awake to find myself camping out upon some stretch of barren sand, with jackals howling in the distance.” ,. “What a dreadful picture !” said Constance, 'with a faint, forced laugh. “ But if you are so reluctant to leave England, why do you persist in this African expedition?” ‘ “ It isa point of. honor with me to keep my E... , ,Eronliailsle ; and it is better fpr me to be away from 1 ng .7! - . V“ You are the best judge of-that uestion.” , - Sir Cyprian was slow to reply to t is remark. r4 . fie/had come down to Kent upon a sudden im- ” ' pulse, determined in no manner to betray his own folly, and bent only upon snatching the vain, delight of a farewell interview- with the girl he loved. But to be with her and not to tell her the truth was more difficult than he had imagined. He could see that she was sorry for his departure. He believed that she loved him, but he knew enou h of Viscount Clanyarde’s principles and his ughter’s edu- cation to know there would be something worse than cruelty in asking this girl to share his broken fortunes.» . . . . “Yes, Constance," he went on, ‘” it is better ’ for me to be away. So long as I am here it is the old story of the insect and the flame. I .cannot ’keep out~of temptation.- I cannot; keep myself from haunting the places where I" ,ishly, hopelessly. Don’t look'at me with those 55 ” astonished eyes, my darlin ; you have'known ' gummsecret ever so. long. , (meant'to keep si- dence till the very end; but, you see, the words ~‘nre spOkani in spite of me! My love, I dare not u . ask you Yto be 'my wife. I dare only tell on ., that no other womanfwill fill that place. cu: are not angry with me, Constance, for. having ,,,__4;‘Anfy« With .you”—she began, and then Joroke own utterly and burst into/tears. . * r - ‘Hedrewhis arm‘firoundherwith a tender, ancient ‘ gesture, and soothed her‘ gently, as V, 1% Am. Payment by this time, and might have hoped; io-makeyou my wife. re .” - ' fire was much more talk between them be- :ot their. journey, speeding toward Marseilles. 3., cam: liker tomeetthe girl‘I love, fendly, fool—' ~ ' l ‘l > ‘ ’ ' H I ' Var Wasrnnw earn Erna: riser on) um.” glamorousan weather, the West End streets 41‘ she been a child. r. «Mu .~ ‘ ‘y‘ My darling, I am not worth your tears. If I had been a better man, I might have redeemed There would have been some hope for me, would there not, dear, if I could have offered you a home thatyour father could approve I” - ‘ n. . I , .5 "‘ I am notso mercenary as you'think me,” answered Constance, drying‘her tears and dis- engagingherself from Sir Cyprian’s encircling arm. “ I am not afraid of poverty. But I know that my father‘would never forgive”-——-— . I“ And I know it too; my dearestgirl, and you shellinot be'asked’t‘o break-with your father for such a man as I: I never meant to speak of this, clear, but perhaps it is better that-I should have spoken. You will soon forget me, Con-y stance, and I shall hear or yOu making some brilliant marriage before I‘have been away very long.” God grant the‘man: may be, worthy of. you. ' God grant youmay marry a good man !” ' “ I am not very likely to marry, ”' replie Miss Clanyarde. , . "- My dearest, it is not possible you can eacape ; and’I-Ieaven ferb’idrthat my memory shOuld‘come between you and a happy future I It is enough for one of us to carry t e burden of a life-long fore they arrived at a little gate opening mto the Marchka kitchen-garden, fond regretful talk of the days that were gone, in which they had been so much togetherdown-in Kent, with all the freedom 1permitted ' between friends and neighbors of ong standing, the days before Constance had made her debut in the great world. ' ‘ ' = - Sir Cyprian did not persevere in his talked-of visit to Lord 'Clanyarde. He had, in truth, very little desire to see that gentleman, who was one of the most pompous and self-opinionated of nobleman. At the little garden gate he grasped Miss Clanyarde's two hands in his own with one fond, fervent clasp. ’ “ You know the old story,” he said, “ it must be for years, and it may be forever." It is, an eternal parting for me, darling, for I can never hope to call yOu by that sweet name again. You have been'very good to me in'letting me speak so freely to day, and it is a kind of consolation to have told you my sorrow. God bless you, and good-by !” " . This was their parting. Sir Cyprian went back to Davenant, and spent a dreary hour in‘ walking up and down the corridor and looking into the empty rooms. He“ remembered them tenanted with the loved and lost. How dreary they were now in their blank and unoccupied ‘ state, and how little likelihood there was that he should ever see them again! His dinner was served for him in a pretty breakfast-room, with a bay-window overlooking a garden that had been his mother’s delight, and where the mass ‘she'had loved still blossomed in all their glory. The memory of the dead was with himas he‘ate his solitary meal, and he was glad when it was time for him to leave the great desolate house, in, which every door closed :with a dismal re- verberation. as if it had been shutting upon a vault. ‘ x» . - , _, Heleft Davenant immedietely after dinner, and. walked back to thelittle station, thinking mwrnfuuy enough of his day’s work and of the life that lay before him. Before noon'next day he andhis i companions were on the first stage [- CHAPTER In. ; Munro: 3 year had gone since Cyprian Dave- nan‘t turned his back upon British soil. It was the 'endof May,ihigh season ianondon, and un- and squaresythrcn l with cdrriag’es, and m - where thmuglroutg‘etgat bright Western worlgya delightfulfiutteryandbuzaof and gayety, as if the children of that pleasant region had indeed. marines mufed~ad"exemption and were bent on making . the, most of their privilegedexistence. . . v , ; a . neatly} paintedbroushsm‘ waited before the door ofgggiousein Half-Moon Street, and had been ' ,' . for. sometime.r, It was Mrs. _Walsinghams brougham, and the, lad herself was slewhr pacing to and fro be: little. wins- room, pausing- every now and then to lool‘out of the window, and info. very unpleasant state of mind. She was dressed for walking, elegantly dressed in henfavorite toilet of India muslin and lace, with abonnet, atseemed tomemadeof pansies, and ‘she was _ ', in spite of the cloud upon her smoothzwhite brow and a. :csrfsainJomimua glitter; meet the ores- r‘l‘lrssprose he is not 00mins."‘fihe:.1euttere imr'athere asulky tone. .‘4 I: made you that Oder: in: W,T‘When I believed you to bea‘ widowya'nd‘ rwlieni :Iz‘was madly in love with you. ‘ But six? yearsfisfn‘long time,..and”—.—.,—’i a _. a: a; ’t"§:f‘€-"‘7ti’ ‘w-flie broke down again; inductor-e her withhis eyes fixedfionthe'ground. 5 ' ’ ‘ “Lend men are fickle,” she, said, takihg up. his unfinished ‘- sentence.~ ""‘You have grown; tired of me, Gilbert; is ‘rthat what“ yen 111mm,, . hiyears “.3” " from the cares and sorrows of meaner mortals, “ Not exactly that. Clara, but rather tired of care for their tiresome classicalmusio, or tobe ~ “My dear Clara, what a fiend you7l'.cali lookf :4 \ a ' I' 'on that keepsane a single man without a man’s Ebert ‘; "You and I , I _ teas exact— in ‘g’ as" a mere I ' ‘ Emil? film-h”, a mistress; fend ’ I am“ getting‘to an“ ‘age'now’ltti’whieh’ is man begins to feel a kind of yearning‘f‘or something more like a home than chambers in the' Albany, some “one fmore 'Ilike a wife'than a lady wh’o" requires one to be perpetually playing ‘the cavaliere‘servanieg " ' ‘ ‘ ‘ “Have Ibeen exacting, Gilbert? I did'not know that. I have tried my uttermost to make my house agreeable to you. Believe me, I care less‘for gayety than you imagine. I- should be satiSfied"w1th a very dull life If I saw you often. Oh, Gilbert, I think you ought to know how well I'love you." ' ‘ “ I could'better have believed that six years ago, if you had consented to leave England with me, as 1"" oposed when I found out the secret of Mr.‘ alsmgham’s existence, and that the Yankee divorce was all bos .” “ I loved you too well to sink as low as that, Gilbe .” “ I thought the strength of a woman’s love was best sho‘vm by her sacrifice of self. You preferred your reputation to my happiness, and have kept me dangling on ever since, for the gratification of your vanity, I suppose. It would have been more generous to have dis- missed me, and made an end of the farce at once." 9 “ You were not so willing to be dismissed un- til very lately, Gilbert. Why have you grown so tired of me all of a sudden ?” “I tell you again it is the position I am tired of, not you. If you were free to marry me, it would be a different thin , of coursei As it is, we are both wasting our 'ves and getting our- selves talked about into the bargain.” ' Clara Walsington laughed scornfully at this. “I care very little what people say of me,” she said. ' “ English society has not chosen to receive me very grac you would consi at yourself injured by having your name linked with mine.” “ But, you see, Clara, it does a man harm to have it said he is engaged to a woman he never I can m It does him some kind of harm in certain Circles." ‘ “ How vague you are, Gilbert, and how mys- terious! ‘ Some kind of harm in certain cir- cles.’ What does that mean ?” She stood for a minute looking at him, with a sudden intensity in her face. He kept his eyes on thegronnd during that sharp scrutiny, but he was fully conscious of it nevertheless. , :‘ Gilbert Sinclair,” she cried, after a long ause, “ you are in love with some other woman. on are going to jilt me." I There was a suppressed agony in her tone which both surprised and alarmed the man to whom she spoke. Of late hehad doubted the sincerity 6f her attachment to him, and had fos- tered that doubt, telling himself that it was his Wealth he cared for. I I “ Would it grieve you very much if I were to marry, Clara?” he asked. " - .‘ ‘Grieve me if you were to marry ! It would be the end of my life. I would never forgive you, But you are playing with .me. You are only trying to frighten me.” ' V ‘f: You‘are frightening yourself,” he answered. “ I only put the question in a speculative way. Let us drop the subject. If you want to go to 'ihs,ceseer.t”—~ . t . . , fiftith want to go; I‘am not fit to go‘ any Wherej ‘Will’ you ring that bell, please? I Shall‘send the brougham back; to the stable." I ‘f Won’t you drive in'th‘e parklthis fine after- noon '2” , ,f‘INo gi'I am fit for nothing now.” ‘ A maidLservant came in answer to the bell. . ,“ Ion can take my bonnet, Jane," said Mrs. Welsmgham, removmg that fieral structure, .‘.‘ tell Johnson I I shall not Want the . brIou ham to-da . roam stop to dinner, won't WEI. ilbert '3" s e went on when the maid had figured. ' "Manna is to be here, and 'Sophy o e 7) , , ‘ v v anaemia you are of those actor e0 19! Wyatt is comi ' p P I , is he? ‘I rather to toe him. But I vs other engage- iously, and I did not think ' ments this afternI on, and I really don’t think Posh-stay."w~ a . «it 6w: " so- eagerétorun away. ’ a u 'Very well, Clara; if you-make a point o'm, _ I will stop.” . . Mr; Sinclair threw himself into one of the loweluxurious chairs with an air of resignation scarcely complimentary to his hostess. Time wasvwhen this .woman had exercised a pro- found power over him, when he had been in- deed eager to make henhie wife; but that time was past and gone. He - was - tired of an alliance which demanded from him so much more than it was in his selfish nature to give; and he Was inclined to be an y - with himself for having wasted so much oighis life upon an infatuation which he now accounted the one supreme mistake of his career. Before his charmed eyes there had appeared a vision of womanly loveliness compared with which Clara Walsingham’s beauty seemed of the earth earthy. He could not deny that _she Was beautiful, but in that other girlish face there was a magic which he had never before en- countered, a glamour that enthralled his nar- row soul. The interval before dinner dra ged wearily, in spite of Mrs. Walsingham’s Iegforts to sus- tain a pleasant conversation about trifles. Gil- bert was not to be beguiled into animated dis- cussion upon any subject whatever. It seemed as if the two were treading cautiously upon the very verge of some conversational ab ss,‘ 'some dangerous chasm, into whose dead y depths they might at any moment descend with a sudden plunge. Mrs. Walsingham questioned her companion about his plans for the end of the season. “ Shall you go to Norway for the salmon fishing ?” she asked. . “ I think not. I am tired‘of that part of the world.” “Then I suppose you will amuse yourself with the grouse in Scotland?” “ No, I have just declined a share in a meor. I am heartily sick of grouse shootin ‘. I have really no settled plans yet. I shal contrive to get rid of the autumn, somehow, no doubt. The conversation dawdled on in this languid manner for a couple of hours, and then Mr. Sinclair went away to change his dress for the regulation dinner costume. The smile which Mrs. Walsingham’s face had worn while she ‘talkedto him faded the moment he had left her, and she, began to pace the £00m with rapid steps and a‘darkly clouded row__ , , H “ Yes, there is no doubt of it,” she'muttered to herself, with suppressed passion. " “'I have seen the change in him for the last twelve months. There is some one else. How should I lose him if it 'were not so? Heaven knows what pains I have taken to retain my hold u on him! There is some one else; 'He is afrai to tell me the truth. He is wise in that respect. Who can the woman be for whom I am to be forsaken? He knows so many people, and visits so much, and is everywhere courted and flattered on account of his money. Oh, 'Gil- bert, fool, fool! Will any" woman ever love you as I have loved you, for your ‘own sake, without, .a thought of your fortune, with a blind; idolatry of your. ve I Ifaults ?. What is itthat I love in him, I won er? I know that he is not a good man. I have seen. his heart. lessness too often of late not to know that he is hard and cruel and remorseless toward those who come between him and his iron will. But I too could be hard and remorseless if. a: great wmngIWere done‘me. Yes, even to;him. Let him take care howrhe provokes, a passionate. reckless nature like mine. Let him beware 'of playing with fire”... , r . This was the 'st of herftho ts during a gloomy reverie! get lasted 'morepgtiian an hour. At the end of that time Miss Mortonwas an- nounced, and came fluttering into the room, .re- splendent in a brilliant ' costume of moo-colored ‘srlkaudblack ’lace,‘follcwed shortly by".James Wyatt, the lawyer, courteous and debonair, full ‘ r ‘ . . . .2 h {’14: ‘Sinclairfwas $913612; ' ‘ i“‘0‘h, 'yes; ‘ “emu-um mucosa." _ ’ Ir was not till the early spring that Mr. and Ira} Sinclair returned to Englandx‘ They had spent the winter in Rome, where Gilbert'had found some con-- genial friends, and where their time had been occupied in one perpetual round of gayety and dissipation." Constance had shown a great taste for pleasure since her marrla’ 0. She seemed to know no wearlnele iof‘ visiting an being visited, and people who remembered, her in her girlish days were surprised to find what‘- a thorough woman of the world she had become.’ Nor' was Gilbert displeased that it should be so. ‘He liked. to see his wife occupy a prominent position in moiety, and having no taste himself for the pleasures of the domestic hearth, he was neither surprised nor vexed byv Constance’s indifference to her home. Of course it. would all be different at Davenant Park ; there would; be plenty of home life there—La little toomuch, per- haps, Gilbert thought with a yawn. ' They there had not been the shadow of disagreement b"! a tween them. Constance's manner to her husband was "‘ amiability itself. She treated him a llttlede ham as bar it is true, made her own plans for the'moet part without reference to him, and graciously informed him of her arrangements after they were completed. But then, on the other hand, she never objected to his disposal of his time, was never exacting; or jealous, or capricious, as Clara Walsingham had son. She was always agreeable to his friends, and was eminently popular with all of them; so Gilbert Sinclair was, upon the whole, perfect! his marriage, and had no ear of evil days in the future. What James Wyatt had said of him was perfectl - true. He was not gifted with very fine feelings, a that sense of Iomethln wanting in such a union. which would have dietur ed the mind of a nobler man. did. not trouble him. They returned to England early in Febru ,and went at once to Davenant, which had been tux-ale ed in the modern mediaeval style by a West End u holsterer. The staff of servants had been provided by y Clan- yarde, who had bestowed much pains and labor upon the tank of selection, bitterly bewailing the degeneracy of the race she had to deal with during the on»: romance of this difficult service. All was ready w on It. and Mrs. Sinclair arrived. A pompous house- k diapered and courteeled in the hall; on cocaine m coo hovered tenderly over the route and the. ' stew-pans in the great kitchen ; house-maids In smart cape flltted about the passages and poked the fires in bed-room and dressing-rooms. bath- room and morning-room, e or to get an earl look at their new lady ; abut er of the usual cl - cal appearance ushered the way to the lamp-lit drawing-room. while two ponderous footmen con~ veyed the rugs and newspa re and morocco bags from . the carriage, leavln all the savior l of unknown under ment. Mr. and Mn. flinch-{r dined alone upon this first evening of their return. under the inspection at the clerical butler and the two ponderous footxnen. They talked chier about the house, which rooms wort most successful in their new erran ement, and so :3 a little about what they had been oing in Rome; a little about their plans for tho nextmonth. whet guests were to be invited, and what rooms they woreto occupy. It was all the mest matter-of-fact.canveno tlonal talk, but the three men retired with the impres- sion that Gilbert Sinclair and his wife were a my . happy couple, and reported to that “teeth the how * keeper's room and the servants’ hall. . Before the week had ‘ended the great house was {an of cam my. That feverish desire for gsyety and change. which _ seemed a part of Constance'e nature an.” r her marritgg. in no way subsided ,on her am"; .1; Davenant. e ure only, and her guests declared her the most charms lug hostess that ever to nod over a country-house. Lavish as he was. Mr. Sin air 0 shed his eyes to their widest extent whenhe perceive his wife's capacity!“ spending money. -‘ , , , , _ A "It's rather lucky log you that you didn't may“; a 1‘ man. conetance." a said, with a boptful laugh. She looked at him for a moment with 1‘! ex. recommend then turned very pale. “1 “9111 not have been-trek! to .fece poverty," she sold, "it it had been my fate to do IO." ' " If on could have faced it with the man you “lanai. Constance? That's 'ebout whet you innit i u _ I _ , , 3‘ I' Is this intended for a complaintallbert?‘ hi wlh had been married nearly four months, and; satisfied with the result of g e i .'\ w 1 ma 1 gage to the cares s attached to t e stable depart» W“ appeared to exist for pleasure, andpleo‘lé f a» M o ,e, l ’1‘ s .l- ,k‘i $ ' ~ 1dr. Wyatt gratified himself by the ‘1" :_ [whwrwa or"; z u , 'f t... 10 win YERS AND- «inn asked, in her coldest tones. " Have I been spending too much money it” ‘ «"llo, no. I didn't mean that. I was only congratulat- ing you upon your fitness for the position of a rich man’s wife." This was the first little outbreak of Jealousy of which Gilbert Sinclair had been guilty. He knew that his wife did not love him. that his conquest had been achieved through the influence of her family, and he was almost angry with himself for being so fond of her. He could not for et those vague hints that had been dro shout r Cyprian Daveuant, and was tor- men by the idea that James Wyatt knew a sat deal more than he had revealed upon this oint. his hidden Jealousy had been at the bottom of is purchase of the Davenant estate. He took a savage ride in reigning (aver the little kingdom from which lie rival been e ' pos . Among the visitors from London appeared ldr. Wyatt. always unobtrusive. and always useful. He contrived to ingratiate himself very ra idly in Mrs. Sinclair's favor, and established himscl as a kind of adjunct in her household cc . always ready with advice upon every social subjec . from the costumes in a tableau oi- eaat to the composition ofthe menu for a dinner party. Constance did not particularly like him; but she lived in a world in which it is not necessary to have a very sincere regard for one's acquaintance. and she con- sidered him an agreeable person. much to be preferred to the generality of her husband's chosen companions, who were men without a thought beyond the hunting field and the race-course. Mr. Wyatt, on his part. was elittle surprised to see the mums! in which Lord Clsnyarde's daughter filled her new ition. the unfailin vivacity which she dis eyed n the rformance 0 her duties as hostess, an the excellen terms upon which she appeared to live with her husband. He was accustomed. however, to look below the surface of things. and by the time he had been a fortnight at Davcnant he had discovered that all this brightness and gayety on the part of the wib‘indicated an artificial state of being. which was very far frmn real happiness. and that there was a wing sense of disappointment on the part of the glosband. He was not in the habit of standing upon much cere- , many in his intercourse with Gilbert Sinclair. and on " the first convenient occasion questioned him with »- blunt directness upon the subject of his marriage. “ " I hope the alliance has brought you all the happi- use you anticipated 2" he said. “ 0h yes,Jim," Mr.Slnnlair answered, rather moodily, “ my wife suits me pretty well. We get on very well together. She’s a little too fond of playing the woman offaahion; but she'll get tired of that in time. I dare say. I’m fond of society myself. you know, couldn‘t lead a solitary life for any woman in Christendom; but I should like a wife who seemed to care a little more for my compan , and was not always occupied with other people. {don’t think we have dined alone three ' times since we were married." It was within a few days of this conversation that erformancs of a little experiment which he had devise in the comfort- able retirement of his bachelor room at Davensnt. He had come into Mrs. Sinclair's morning-room after buoskfast to consult her upon the details of an amateur dramatic performance that was to take place shortly, ' and'hsd, for awonder, found the husband and wife alone together. “Perhaps we'd better discuss the business at some other time." he said. " I know Sinclair doesn't care much 'about this sort of thing." “Is that your theatrical rubbish ?" asked Gilbert. “You’d better say what ou've got to say about it. You needn’t mind me. can absorb myself in the s. _ ‘ x i». study of Bell's Life for a quarter of an hour or so." ‘9'" '1 5‘ '4' Hewiihdrew to one of the windows, and occupied him- self with his newspaper, while James Wyatt showed Constance the books of some farces that had just come to him by post, and discussed the fitness of each for drawing-room representation. "Ev amateur in olite society believes himself able top ay Charles Mat ' ews's business." he said, laugh- ‘ in " It is a fixed delusion of the human mind. 0f , ,oonrse we shall set them all by the cars. do what we mar. Perhaps it would be better to let them draw lots for the characters, or We might put the light comedy parts up to" auction, and send the proceeds to the poor-box.” He ran on in this strain gayly enough, writing lists of the characters and pieées, and putting down the names of the guests with a rspi.l pen as he talked, until Gilbert. Sinclair threw down his newspaper and came over to the fire-place, politely requesting his friend to " stop that row." It was a hopelessly wet morning. and the master of ‘" Davenant was sorely at a' loss for amusement and occu- tion. ‘ He had come to his wife's room in rather a innit spirit. determined that she should favor him with a little more of her society than it was her habit to _ 4341176 him, and he had found her writing letters. which she- declared were imperative. and had sat by the fire entomol- her correspondence to be finished, in a very su mood. ’ “ t's the last news, Wyatt 7" he asked, poking the fire sav, sly; "anything stirring in London 1" “ Kctlxng—iin London. There is some news of snold friend ofm no who's far away from Mullen-mews, I don'tzdtogather like." v ‘ ' “Some client who has boltedfn order to swindle you out of a long bill of costs. I suppose,” answered Gilbert. I , it . etriendlam talkin of is a gentleman we mflb—th. late owner of th a place." "Sir Cyprian Davsnant i" cried Gilbert. v tsnoelooked up from her writing. , " r'Cyprlan Davenant.” repeated James Wyatt. “ Kassaythiag happened to him 1" g A»: >~~ . i s “ About the last and worst thi that can happen to any man, I ‘ fear," answered the awyer. " For some time since there have been no reports of Captain Har- court's expedition; and that, in a negative way, was about as bad as it could be. But in a letter} received this morn- ing from a member of the geographical society, there is worse news. My friend tells me there is e verngeneral belief that Harcourt and his party have been m c away '~ with by the natives. .Of course this is only clubgos- sipas yet, and! trust that it may turn out a false arm. Constance had dropped her pen, making a great blot upon the page. She was very pale, and her hands were clasped nervously upon the table before her. Gilbert watched her with eager, angry eyes. It was just such an o portunity as he had wished for. He wanted above all t lugs to satisfy his doubts about that man. " I don't see that it much matters whether the report is true or false," he said. " as far as Davenant is con- cerned. The fellow was a scamp. and only left England because he had spent his last sixpence in dissipation." " I beg your pardon, Sinclair," remonstrsted Mr. Wyatt, " the Davensnt property was impoverished by Cyprisa's father and dfather. I don't say that he was not extravagant imself at one eriod of his life, but he had reformed long before he is England." “Reformed—yes, he had no more money to spend. That's a common kind of reform. However, I an ose you've profited so much by his ruin that yen can 0rd to praise him." " Hadn't you better ring the hell 7 " asked James leatt, very quietly ; “I think Mrs. Sinclair has taint. . DO He was ri ht; Constance Sinclair’s head had fallen back upon t e cushion of her chair, and her eyes were closed. Gilbert ran across to her, and seized her hand. It was deadly cold. " Yes," he said, " she has fainted. Sir Cyprian was an old n-lenh of hers. You know that better than I do. thought you have never chosen to tell me the truth. And now, I suppose, on have trumped up this story in order to let me see w at afooi I have been." " It is not a trumped-up story," returned the other. “ It is the common talk among men who know the travelers and the line of country." " Then for your friend’s sake it is to be hoped it's true." . " Why so i” “ Because if he has escaped those black fellows to come my way it will be so much the worse for both of us; for as sure as there is a sky above us, like and I meet I shall kill him." "Bah." muttered Mr. Wyatt. contemptuously, “ we don't live in the age for that sort of thing. Here comes your wife's maid ; I'll get out of the way. Pray apolo- gize to Mrs. Sinclair for my indiscretion in forgetting that Sir Cyprian was a friend of her family. It was only natersl that she should be affected by the news." The lawyer went away as the maid came into the room. His face was brightened by aaatisfled smile as he walked slowly along the corridor leadng to the'bil- hard-room. " Othello was a fool to him in the matter ofiealousy.‘ he said to himself. “ I think I've fired the train. If the news I heard is true, and Davenantis on his way home, there‘ll be nice work brand-by.” CHAPTER VIII. " nan YOU Lovan us one: as up navl nor aovan.” GILBERT Sincmn said very little to his wife about the fainting fit. She was‘herself perfectly candid upon the subject. Sir Cyprian was an old friend—a friend whom she had known and liked ever since her child- hood—and Mr. Wyatt’s news had quite overcome her. She did not seem to consider it necessary to apologize for her emotion. _ , - “ I have been over-exerting myself a little lately, or I should scarcely have fainted, however sorry I felt,” she said. qulctly, and Gilbert wondered at her self possession, but was not the less convinced that she had loved—that she did still lovo-Cyprlaa Davenant. He watched her closely after this to aseif he could do- tect any signs of hidden grief, but her manner in so- ciety had lost none of its brightness, and when the Harcourt expedition was next spoken of she bore her part in the conversation with perfect case. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair left Davenant early in May for a Charmin house in Park Lane. furnished thi-cu bout with dcl cats tints ofwhite and green, like a shy- sprinkled meadow ln-earl spring. a style in which the upholsterer'had allowed ull scope to the sentimental- ity of his own nature, bearin in mind that the house was to be ecccupied by a now -married couple. Mrs. Sinclair declared herself per , y satisfied with the house, and hire. Sinclair's friends were in raptures with it. .She instituted a Thursday evening so per after the opera. which was an immense success, an en. ioyed a popularity that excited some envy on the part of unmarried beauties. lira. Valsinghsm heard of the Thursday evening parties, and saw her beautiful rival very often at the o ; but she heard from James Wyatt that Gilbert Sinclair spanks great deal of time at. his club, snd‘ma'le a point of attending all the race, meetin . habits that did not eugur very well for his domes ’ happiness. , " He will grew tired other, as he did of me." thought Clara Walsingham. _ But «Gilbert was in no way weary of his wife. He loved her as passionately as he had loved her at the first: with an exacting selfish passion, it is true. but with all the intensity of which his nature was Wble. lfbehed lived iathe good old feudal days he would have shut her up inst land: turret chamber, where scene but scald sp reach her. He knew that 1 she did‘aotlevehim; an withhdsmefibction for 'her‘ there was always mingled an angry sense of her coldness and ingratitude. , The London season came to an end once more. and Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair went back to Davsnant. Nothing had been heard of Sir Cyprian or his companions throughout the summer, and Gilbert had ceased to trouble himself about his absent rival. The man was dead. in all probability, and it was something more than folly to waste a thought upon him. So things went on pleasantly enough. until the early eprin gave a baby daughter to the master of Dav! ensnt. muc to his disappointment, as he ardently de- sired a son and heir. The birth of this inhnt brought a new sense of toy to the mind of Constance Sinclair. She had not thought it posible that the child could five her so much happi nose. She devoted herselfto er‘bsby with a tender- ness which was at first very pleasing to her husband, but which became by-and-by distasteful to him. He grew jealous of the child's power to absorb so much af- fection from one who had never given him the love he longed for. The existence of his daughter seemed to brin him no nearer to his wife. The time'and attention whi she had given to society she now gave to her child; but her husband was no more to her than he had ever been a little less, perhaps, as he told himself an- grily, in the course of iagloomy meditations. Hrs. Walsingham read the announcement of the in- fant's birth in extreme bitterness of spirit. and when James Wyatt next called upon her she asked him what had become of his promise that those should be parted by his agency. The lawyer shrugged his shoulders recetingly. " I did not tell you that the parting shoul take lace within any given time," he said; " but it shall 0 ard with me if I do not keep in promise sooner or ater." He had indeed not been i . The wicked work which he had set himself to do had arogressed considerably. It was he who alwa s contrive n a subtle mm. to remind Gilbert inclair of his wife’s coldness toward himself, and to hint at her anection for another, while seeming to praise and defend her. Throu bout their acquaintance his wealthy client had treats him with a selfish indifierence and a cool, unconscious insolencs that had gelled him to the quick, and he took a ma- licious pleasure in the discomflture which Sinclair had brought upon himself by his marriage. When the Sin- clairs returned to London, some months after the birth of the child, James Wyatt contrived to make himself more than ever necessary to Gilbert, who had taken to play higher than of old, and who now spent four even. ings out of the six lawful days at a uororious whfst club. sitting at the card table till the morning sun shone throu h the chinks in the shutters. Mr. Wyatt was a member 0 the same club, but too cautious a player for the set which Gilbert now afiected. "That fellow is going to the bad in every way,” the law er said to himself. " If Clara Walsinghsm wants to see im ruined she is likely to have her wish without any direct interference of mine." The state of affairs in Park Lane was indeed far hem satisfactory. Gilbert had grown tired of playing the indulgent husband, and the inherent brutality of his nature had on more than one occasion displayed itself in angry disputes with his wife. whose will he now seemed to take a pleasure in thwarting, even in trifles. He complained of her present extravagance. with inso- lent reference to the poverty of her girlhood, and asked savagely if she thought his fortune could stand forever against her expensive follies. " I don't think my follies areso likely to exhaust your income as your increasing taste for horse-racing, Gil- bert,” she answered, coolly. “ What is to be the cost of these racing stables you are building near Newmarket? I heard you and that dreadful man your trainer. talking ofthe tan gallop the other day. and it seems to me al- together rather au expensive affair. especially as your horses have such a knack of getting beaten. Itis most gentleman-like of you to remind me of my verty. Yes. I was very poor in my girlhood—and very appy." “ And since you’ve married me you've been miser- able. Pleasant, upon my soul l You’d have married that fellow Cyprian Devenant and lived in a ten-Nomad house in the suburbs, with a maid-of-all-work, and called that happiness, I suppose i' “ If I had married Sir Cyprian Davenant I should at lets: have been the wife of a gentleman,” replied 003-, s cc. This was not the first time that Gilbert had mentioned Cyprian Davenant of late. A report of the missing trav- elers had a in one of the newspapers, and their friends began to hope for their safe return. Gilbert Sinclair brooded over this probable return in a savage frame of mind, but did not communicate his thoughts on the subject to his usual confidant, Hr. Wyatt, who thereupon o ined that those thoughts were more than ordinarily bi ter. Before the London season was ever Mr. Sinclair had occasion to attend a rather insl incest meeting in. Yorkshire where a two-yesr-old ill y, from which he as- pocted great thin s in the future, was to. try it. strength in a hand cap race. He came home by way of Newmarket, where he spent a few da s plesantly enough in the supervision of his new buildings. and he had been absent altogether a week when he returned to Park Lane. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when he drove up to his own house in a hansom. He found his wife in the drawing-room occupied with several vidtore. among whom appeared a tell ii are which he remem- bered 01:13. too well, Sir I! Dave-ant. bronaed and looking has or than when he left Gilbertstood at assure-oases onto the surprise. and t on went through thee cerng hand-shaking with his wife's guests in an awkward, “mummnfim with): nsleoldness d V m _ or u. e n he felt himself altogether at a disadvantage in, the ....~.-.-.a....._ st<—- .. presence of the man he feared and hated. me blmselt‘however. determined toseethe end ofthie ob- noxious shit, and remained fllont until the callers had dropped 01‘ one by one, Cyprian among the earliest departures. Gilbert turned savagely upon his wife directly the room was clear. ' , “ our old favorite has lost no time in renewing his intznecy with you," he said. “ I came home at rathu an awkward moment, I fancy." “ I did not perceive any particular awkwardness in you return," his wife answered, coolly, “ unless it was your own manner to my friends, which was a little cal. ouleted togtve them the idea that you scarcely felt at home in your own house." “There was some one here who seemed a little too much at home, Mrs. Sinclair—some one who will find my presence e cod deal more awkward if I should to And im here again. In plain words, I for- ‘b u to receive Sir Cyprian Davenent h my house." " can no more close my doors upon Cyprian Devenent than on any other visitor.” replied Constance, “and I donet choose to insult an old friend of my “fly for the gratification of your senseless jeal- “ you mean to defy me 'I" ‘ " There is no uestion of defiance. I shell do what I ooslsiderri ht, thout reference to this absurd fancy ofyours. ir Cyprian is not very likely to cell upon one again, unless you cultivate his ueintance." " I am not very likely to do that," lbert answered, savagely. His wife‘s quiet defiance bellied him, and he coul find nothing more to say for himself. But this Jule of Sir Cyprian was in no manner abated by cc's self-possesion. Remembered the faint- in at in the morning-room at Davenent, end he was determined to find some means of punishing her for her secret ce for this man. An u ly notion dashed across mind by-and-by, as he sew erwith her child lying in her lap, bending over the infhnt with a look of suprenm election. " She can and love for everything in the world except Inc," he said to himself. bitterly. He had ceased to care for the child after the first month or so of its ex- istence. being inclined toresent its sex as a. personal Mara, and disllking his wife's devotion to the infant. whic seemed to make her indifference to himself ell the more obvious. He left the house when Constance went out for her daily drive in the ark. end strolled in the same direc- tion, caring very ttle where he went upon this par- ticular afternoon. The Ladies Mlle was thronged with carriages. end there was a block at the corner when Gilbert took hie place listlessly man the loungers who were lolling over the rails. Hen ed to the men he knew, and anew briefly enough to some friendly inquiries about his luck in Yorkshire. " The filly ran well enough," he said, " but I doubt If she’s got stay enough for the Chester." “ 0b, of course you went to keep her dark, Sinclair. Iheard she was a dyer, though.” Mr. Sinclair did not pursue the conversation. The es moved on for a few paces. at the instigation of a pompous mounted policeman, and then stopped a sin, leaving a quiet little brougham exactly in front 0 Gilbert Sinclair. The occupant of the broughem was Mrs. Walsinghem. The stoppage brought her so close to Gilbert that it was impossible to avoid some kind of greeting. The widow's handsome ihce paled as she recognized Gilbert, and then, with a sudden impulse, she held out her hand. It was the first time they had not since that unpleasant interview in Half-Moon street. The opportunity was very gratifying to Mrs. Walslangham. She had most ardently desired to see how bert supported his new position, to see for her- self how for Mr. Wyatt’s account of him might be credited. She put on the propitietory manner of a woman who hes forgiven ell pest wrongs. "Why do you never come to see me 9" she asked. uIsoetrcely thought you would care to receive me. liter what you said when we last met," he replied, rather embarrassed by her easy way of treating the sit- nation. "Let that be forgotten. It is not fair to remember what a woman says when she is in e ession. I think You expressed a wish that we might friends after your marries and I was too angry to accept that proof of your reg as I should have done. I have grown with the eof time, and.believe me, I am still your friend?!“ There was a softness in her tone, which flattered and touched Gilbert Sinclair. It contrasted so sharply with the cool contem t he had of late suflered at the hands of his wife. e remembered how this women had loved him ; and he asked himself whatgood he had gained by his marriage with Constance Olenyerde. ex- cept the empty triumph of an alliance with a family of I rank to his own, end the vein delight of mar- : an acknowledged beauty. Before Mrs. Welein hasn's broughem had moved on. he land raised to loo in upon her that evening, and at tn clock he was seated in the familiar drawing-room. tellln her his domestic wrongs, end freel confessing that marriaggnhed been a failure. tle by little Ills lled h into “11:1; her these things, and er pert of visor coneoler with exquisite not once allow ng him to perceive thy pleasure his ‘ n alcrdedher. He e of his child without the faintest expression of tion, end laughed bit- terly as he described his wife’s devotion to her infant. " thought as a women of fashion she would have given herself very little trouble about the baby." be said. " but she continues to Ind time for maternal rs ‘ have in spite of her incessant visitig. I have told her mu vans AND man. a "Suffer! Yes, I was thinkin of that this afternoon when she was engaged in her worship. She would taken: deathcoolly ,Ihave no doubt;but1be- have t close of that chil would kill her." Inna’after Gilbert Sinclflr had left her that night Clare elsingham set brooding over ell that he had told her upon the subject of his domestic life. " And so he has found out whet it is to have a wife who does not care for him.” she said to herself. “ He has gratified his ihncy for a lovely face, lid is paying a heavy price for his conquest. And I am to leave ell my hopes of revenge to James Wyatt, end am to reward his services by marrying him. “ No, no, Mr. Wyatt ; it was all very well to promise that in the day of my despair. I see my way to something better than that now. The loss otherch would kill her, would it? And her death would bring Gilbert back to me, I think. His loveless marriage has taught him the value of e wo- man's aflections." CHAPTER Ix. run pronouns or aonaow. Sanraun did not again cell at the house in Park Lane. He had heard of Constance Clanyardo’s mer- riage during his African travels, and had come back to England resolved to avoid her. as far asit wee this for him to do so. Time end absence had one little to lessen his love, but be real ed himself to her marriage with another as an inevita is fact. only regretting she had married a man of whom he had by no means an exalted opinion. James Wyatt was one of the em person he visited on his arrival in London. and from him he heard a very unsatisfactory account of the marriage. It was this that had induced him to break through his resolution end call in Park Lane. He wanted to see for himself whether Constance was obviously unha y. He saw little, however, to en- lighten him on t is point. He found the girl he had so fondu loved transformed into a perfect women oi the world:end he could drew no inference from her careless gayety of manner, except that James Wyatt had said more then wee justified by the circumstances of the case. Instead of returnin to Devnnt for the autumn months, Mr. Sinclair c ose this you to go to Germany, an extraordinary sacrifice of inclination. one might eup- pose, as his chief delight was to be found at En lish race meetings.end in the supervision of his stab e at Newmerhet. Mrs. Sinclair’s doctor had recommended change of some kind as a cure for a certain lownese of tone and general derangement of the nervous "stem under which his patient labored. The medical men suggested Harrowgste or Buxtcn, or some Welsh water-drinking lace; but when Gilbert proposed Schenestehl, in the lack Forest, he caught a the idea. ” Nothing would be better for Mrs. Sinclair and the baby," he said; 'and you'll be near Baden-Baden if you want geyety.” " I don't care about brass-bands and a lot of people," answered Gilbert; “lcan shoot capercailzies. I shall get on well enough for a month or so." Constance had no objection to offer to this plan. She cared very little where her life was spent, so long as she had her child with her. A charming villa had been found half hidden among pine-trees, and here Mr. Sinclair es- tablished his wife, with a mixed household of English and foreign servants. She was very glad to be so com- pletely withdrawn from the obligations of society, and to be able to devote herself almost entirely to the little girl, who was of course, a paragon of infan tine grace and intelligence in the eyes of mother and nurse. The nurse was a young woman belonging to the village near Msrchbrook, one of the pupils of the Sunday-school, 'whom Constance had known from girlhood. The nurse-meld who shared her duties in London had not been brought to Schonestshl, but in her place Mrs. Sinclair engaged eFrench girl, with sharp dark eyes and a very intelligent manner. Martha Briggs, the nurse, was rather more renowned for honesty and good temper than for intellectual qualifications, and she seemed unusually slow and atol d in comparison with the vivacious French girl. This girl had come to Be- den with e Parisian amily,and had been dismissed with an excellent character upon the family’s depar- ture for Vienna with a reduced staff. Her name was Melanie Duport, and she contrived very rapidly to in- gratlato herself with her mistress, as she had done with the good priest of the little church she had attended during her residence at Baden, who was delighted with her artless fervor and unvaryingfiiety. Poor Martha Briggs was rather inclined to be 1 one of this new ri- val in her mistress’e iavor,and derived considerable comfort from the fact that the baby did not take to Melanie. If the baby preferred her English nurse to Melanie, the little French rl, for her part, seemed passionately devoted to the be y. She was always eager to carry the child when, the two nurses were out together, and resented Martha's determination to deprive her of this pleasure. ing together upon this subject, Marthe bawllng at the French girl under the opular idea that she would make herself understood fshe only talked loud enoiig-h. Melanie re ng her few words of broken Eng h with many em hatic shrugs and frowns and 110118. a lady stopped listen to them and to admire the baby. Shes he in French to Melanie. and did not address Keri a at all, much to that young rson’a indignation. She asked Melanie to whom the c id be- longed, and how long she had been with it. and whefiier 1)- she was accustomed to nursing children adding with a smile. that she looked rather too nay-ill. a»: a nurse- «1 M she is killing herself. did 3 doctors tetlhcr anal getty much the same; but abewill harsher own , ' wouldnn'er ll lfthe hlld " “MW. M y c weretodie. Melanie was quite subdued by this compliment. She told the lady that this was the first time she had been nurse-maid. She had been lady’s-maid hheriaetsltuationmnd had preferred the'place very One day when the two were disput- . 11 much to her present position. She told this strmge lady nothing about that rapturous affection for t e baby which she was in the habit of expressing in Mrs. Sinclair’s presence. She only told her how uncomfort- able she had been made by the English nurse’: "I am staying at the Hotel du Roi," said. after talk to Melanie for some little time, "and should like see you it you can find time to call upon me some evening. I might be able to be of some use to you in finding a new situation when your present mistress leaves the neighborhood." Melanie courtsied, and replied that she would make a point of waiting 11 the lady, and then the two nurses moved on with their little charge. Ruth. asked Melanie what the foreign lady had been saying. and the French girl replied carelessly that she lied only been praising the baby. " And well she may," answered Miss Bri I rather sneppishly, “for she‘s the sweetest child t at ever lived ; but, for my own part, I don't like foreigners, or any oftheirnesty. deceitful ways." This rather invidious remark was lost u Mede- moiselle Duport, who only understood a few words of English. and who cared very little for her fellow- servant’s opinion upon any subject. In spite of Gilbert Sinclair's protestation 0f indiffer- ence to the attractions of brass-bands and crowded as- semblios. he contrived to s d the roster part of his time at Baden, where the oddesa o Chance was still worshiped in the brilliant Kurssal. while his wife left to drink her an of forest beauty and ‘that distant glory of inaccessible hills, which the sun dyed rosy-red in the quiet even-tide. ' In these tranquil days, while her husband was weit~ ing for the turn of Fortune's wheel in the golden salon. or yawning over Galignasi in the reading-room. Con- stancc’s lite came for nearer happiness than she had ever dared to hope it could come, after her perjury at God's altar two years ago. Many atime, whileshe was her butterfly life in the flower-garden of which. snak- ing dissipation stand for pleasure, she had told herself. in some gloomy hour oi reaction. that no good ever could come of her marriage; that there Was I cures upon it, a righteous God's anathema against falsehood. And then her baby had some. and she had shod her first happy tears over the sweet smell face, the blue gyastllookin up at her full of vague wonder, and she a an nay. 1W. for the worse, and there had been many a lite pess- age-at-erms between husband and wife, an these en~ counters, however courteously performed, are apt to leave ugly scars. But now, far away from all her frivolous acquaint- ance. free from the ell-engrossing duties of a fine lady's existence, she put all evil thoughts out of her mind, Gilbert amen them. and abandoned herself wholly to the delight o the pine forest and baby. She was very gracious to Gilbert when he chose to spend an hour or two at home, or to drive with her in the pretty little pony-carriage in which she made most of er explore- tions; but she made no complaint, she expressed no curiosity as to the manner in which he amused hime self, or the company he kept at Baden-Baden, and: though that center of gayety was only four miles off, she never expressed a wish to share in its amusements. Gilbert was not an agreeable companion at this time- That deep and suppressed resentment against his wife, like rancorous Iago's jealousy, did " gnaw him inwar "~‘ " and although his old passionate love still remained,» t was curiously interwoven with hatred. Once when husband and wife were seated opposite each other, in the September twillght,after one of their rare fete-wide dinners, Constance looked up suddenly and caught Gilbert’s brooding eyes fixed upon her face with an ex ression which made her shiver. “ If you 00k at me like that, Gilbert," she said. with a nervous laugh, “ I Shall be afraid to drink this has a r,‘ ’ of Mercobrunner you've just poured out for me. here “I might be poison it. I hope I have done nothing to de— serve such an en ry look. Othello must have looked something like hat, I should think. when he asked Deedcmona for the strawberry—spotted handkerchief." " Why did you marry me,Conetance ?" asked Sinclair-L ignoring his wife's speech. There was someth ng almost pitcous in this ques- tion. wrung from a man who loved honestly. according to his lights, and whose love was turned to men: I) the knowledge that it had won no return. ' . “What a question. after two years of married life t: Why did I marry you 1’ Because you wished me to marry you; and because I believed you would make me a good husband. Gilbert; and because I had firmly resolved to make you a good wife.” She said this earnestly, lookin at him through un- shed tears. Since her own life becomeso much happier, since her baby's caresses had awakened all the dormant tenderness of her nature, she had felt more anxious to be on good terms with her husband. film would have taken much trouble. made some sacrifice 'of womanly pride. to win him back to that amiable state ' of mind she remembered in their honeymoon. , "I've promised to meet Wyatt at the Kureaal evening,’ said Sinclair, looking at his watch as he rose from the table, and without the slightest notice of his wife's reply. " Is Mr. W sit at Baden l” r " Yes ; he asceme over for a little amusement at the tables—deuced lucky dog—always contrive! to leave off a winner. One of those cool-headed foams who know‘ the turn of the tide. You've no objeollon to help; there. I suppou ?" ' ' ' " ‘ "I wish you and he were not such” blends, Gil- bert. Mr. Wyatt is no favorite of mine.” " Isn't he! Too much ofthe watch I about him. I suppose. As for fast friends. there's ' much fdsnd~ ship between Wyatt and, me. lie's a useful fellowto have about one, that'sali; He has served ans Nthfully. and has get well paid for his services. It's a matter of Heaven for this new bliss. and believed” 23:1 her sin forgiven. After that time Gilbert hid changed ' ~‘. ‘ 4 «l _...._ A-A‘..n. ._. -44. _ ' i ,4 .4 9 I j is gents}? humans. ‘1‘ tobormudshall have to pay pretty stlmy for it. I 12 WEA VERS AND. WEFT. ‘pounds, shillings, and pence on his side, and a matter of convenience on mine. No doubt Wyatt knows that he well as I do." ' " Don’t you think friendship on such a basis may be rather an insecure bond '1’”~ said Constance, gravely: ' " and that a man who can consent to profess friendship on such degrading terms is likely to be half an enem ?" e “ Oh, I don't go in for such high-flown ethics. i Wyatt knows that it’s his interest to serve me well, an that it’s as much as his life is worth to play me false. Jim and I understand one another perfectly, Constance, you may be sure.” “ I am sure that he understands you," answered Con- stance. . But Gilbert was gone before she had finished her sentence. ’ Baby, christened Christabel after the late Lady Clan- yarde, was nearly a twelvemonth old, and had arrived, in‘ the opinion of mother and nurse, at the most inter- esting "epoch of babyhood. Her tender cooings. her joyous _chucklings,lher pretty cluek-clucking noises, as of anxious maternal hens calling their offspring, her inarticulate language of broken syllables, which only maternal love could interpret, were an inexhaustible _ fountain of delight. She was the blithest and happiest , ,_ f babies, and every object in creation with which she ‘ '5 ' amemewly acquainted was a source of rapture to r. The flowers, the birds, the insect life of that ' y‘pino forest,filled’her with delight. The soft lue' eyes sparkled with pleasure. the rose-bud lips bubbled her worldless wonder, the little feet danced with ecstasy. ' . "Oh," cried the delighted mother," if she would always‘bejust like this, my'plaything and my darling l :Of course I shall love her Just as dearly when she is older-ea long-armed lanky girl in a brown holland pinafore, always inking her fingers and getting into trouble about her lessons—like my sisters and 'me when we were in the school-room ; but she can never be so'pretty or so sweet again, can she, Martha?" "L r’ mum, she'll always be a love,” replied the devoted nurs ; " and as for her arms being long and her an era in y, you won't love her a bit less—and I’m 'sure, 119 e she won‘t be worried with too many lessons, for do think great folks' children are to be pitied, half their time cooped up in school-rooms, or stretched out on backboards, or strumming on the pialgo,” while poor children are running wild in the he s. ’ ' “ Oh, Martha, how shocking,” cried Mrs. Sinclair, pretending to be horrified, “ to think that one of my gavori'te pupils should underrate the value of educw ioni ' " Oh no, indeedema’am, I have no such thought. I have often felt what a blessing it is to be able to read a good book and write a decent letter. But I never can think that life was meant to be all education." "Life is all education, Martha," answered her mis- “tress, with a sigh, " but not the education ofgrammars and dictionaries. The world is our school, and time our school- master. No, Martha, my Christabel shall not be harassed with too much learning. We won't try to make her aparagon. Her life shall be all hap— piness and freedom, and she shall grow up without the knowledge of care or evil, except the sorrows ofothers, ' and those she shall heal '; and she shall marry the man she loves, whether he is rich or poor, for I am sure my s set one would never love a bad man." g 91 don‘t say that, ma'am," reiterated Martha; ooks are so deceiving. I'm sure there was my own cousin, on the father’s side, Susan Tsdgers, married the handsomest young man in Marchbrook village, and before they'd been two years married he took to drinking, and was so neglectful of himself you wouldn't have known him; and nowshe's gone back to'her friends ; and his whiskers, that he used to take such a pride in, are all brown and shaggy, like a stray Scotch terrier." The day after that somewhat unpleasant Moo-lets between husband and wife, Gilbert Sinclair an- nounced his intention of going back to England for the Leger. " I never have missed a Leger," he said, as if atten- dance at that race were a pious duty, like the Commi- ~nation,,service on, Ash-Wednesday, " and I shouldn't hike to miss this race." _ \si'Hadn’t we better go home at once, then. Gilbert ? quite read to return}! ’ve taken this place till the filth, of shall‘co‘me back directly after the Doncaster." " But it will be a fatiguing journey for you. " “ I'd‘just as soon be sitting in a railway train as any- where also." , " Does Mr. Wyatt go back with you 7” "Ho ; W att tits I‘ at Baden for the next week or so. ,vprotsn s to be are for the sake of the waters, goes little to the Kursaal, and lives quietly like a care- lolcl bachelor who wishes to mend a damaged constb ( ‘on,bnt I should rather think he had some deeper ,_ e than water—drinking. gflbert departed, and Constance was alone with her ' ld’. ' The weather was delightful—cloudless skies, ‘ {My 6‘”. blissful weather for the grape gatherers on the viewing! slepea that sheltered one side of this usint old village of Schonesthal. A river wound ‘ rough the valley. a deep and rapid stream narrowing in this cleft of the hills, and utilized by some saw-mills in the outskirts of the village, whence at certain sea- oons rafts of timber were floated down the Rhine. r A romantic road following the course of this river ’ was one of Mrs. Sinclair's .ihvorite drives. There were picturesque old villages and romantic ruins to be ex- plored,.aud my level spots to be showntobaby. 1>hough .inarticu etc. was supposed, to be ap- p . , vs. : . the first day of Gilbert’s absence Martha 3 .mhomen-om, hei- afternoon promenade with be y looking flushed and tired. and complaining of sore A throat. Constance was quick to take alarm. The poor girl was going to have a fever, perhaps, and must in- stantly be separated from baby. There was no medical man nearer than Baden. so Mrs. Sinclair sent the room of! at once to that town. She told him_to inq re for ‘Ihe best English doctor in the place, or if there were no English practitioner at Baden, for the best German doctor. The moment she had given these directions, however, it struck her that the man, who was not re- markable for intelligence out of his stable, was likely to lose time in making his, inquiries, and perhaps got misdirected at last. "‘ Mr. Wyatt is at Baden," she thought ; " I dare say he would act kindly in such an extremity as this, though I have no opinion of his sincerity in a general way. Stop, Dawson,” she said to the groom, "I'll give you a note for Mr. Wyatt, who is staying at the Badonscher Hof. He will direct you to the doctor. You’ll drive to Baden in the pony-carriage, and, if possible, bring the doctor back with you." Baby was transferred to the care of Melanie Duport, who seemed full of sympathy and kindlinees for her fellow-servant. a sympathy which MarthaBri gs’s surly British temper disdained. Mrs. Sinclairh Marthas bed movedfrom the nursery into her own dressing- room, where she would be able herself to take care of the invalid. Melanie was ordered to keep strictly to her nurseries, and on no account to enter Martha’s room. ' r “ But if Martha has a fever, and madame nurses her, this little angel may catch the fever from madame.” suggested Melanie. ., » r “ If Martha’s illness is~contagious I shall not nurse her," answered Constance. - " lean get a nursing Sister from one of the convents. But I like to have the poor girl near me, that, at the worst, she may know she is not deserted." “ Ah, but madame is too good i servo so kind a mistress l” . Mr. Wyatt showed himself most benevolently anx- ious to be useful on the receipt of Mrs. Sinclair’s nob. He made all mace-nary in uiries at the once of the hotel, and having found‘ou the name of the best doc- tor in Baden, took the trouble to accompany the groom to the medical man'shouse, and waited until Mr. Paul- ton, the English surgeon, was seated in the pony-car- riage. . . “ I shall be anxious to know if Mrs.‘Sinclair's nurse is seriously ill,” said Mr. Wyatt while the groom was taking his seat. " I shall take the liberty to call and inquire in the course of the evening.” “ Delighted to give you any information,” replied Mr. Paulton, graciously ; " I’ll send you a line if you like. Where are you staying '2” ' " At the Badenscher." “ You shall know how the get back.” . “ A thousand thanks." .———.— CHAPTERX. ran CBUEL nzvns. Mus. Moran’s precautions had been in no wise fu- tile.‘ Hr. Paulton pronounced that Martha's symptoms pointed only too plainly to some kind of fever—possi- bly scarlet fever—possibly typhoid. In any one. there could not be too much care taken to guard against con- tagion. The villa was airy and spacious, and Mrs. Sin- clair’s dressing-room at some distance from the nurse- ry. There would be no necessity, therefore, Mr. Paul- ton said, for the removal of the child to another house. ’He would send a nursing Sister from Baden—an experi- enced woman—to whose care the sick-room might be safely confided. ’ The Sister came—a middle-aged woman—in the som- ber garb of her order, but with a pleasant, cheerful face, that well become her snow-white heed-gear. She ShOWed herself kind and dextroua in nursing the sick girl, but before she had been three days in the house, Martha, who was now in a raging fever, took a dislike to the nurse, and raved wildly about this black-robed figure at her bedside. In vain did the Sister endeavor to reassure her. To the girl's wanderin wits that foreign tongue seemed like the gibberish 0 some un- holy goblin. She ahrioked for help, and Mrs. Sinclair ran in from the adjoiniugroom to see what was amiss. Martha was calmed and comforted immediately by the sight of her mists-I- ; and tom that time Constance dogged herselfto the lick-room, and shared the nurse's we . This meant separation mom Christobel. and that was a hard trial for the mother. who had never yet lived a day art from her child; but Constance bore this brave y for the sake of the faithful girl—400 thankful that her darling had escaped the fever which had so strangely stricken the nurse. The weather continued glorious. and baby seemed quite happy with Melanie, who roamed about with her charge all day, or went for lo drives in the pony-carriage under the care of the {alt l Dawson, who was a pattern of sobriety and steadiness. and incapable of fliration. liar. Wbiatt‘rgde over from Baden every (life! dahyi ta i:- qurya u snurse’s row—on. nqu ry w c e might just as easily have made of the doctor in Baden-g and this exhibition of good feeli on his part induced Constance to think that she had mistaken in her estimate of his character. ' " The Gospel says 'judge not.’ " she thought. "and yet we, are, always sitting in jud ment upon one another. Per after all, Mr. yatt is as kind- hearted “his. irers think him, and I have done wrou in unnameiudloed t him. He was Will‘s $31; too: .always up of him with particular Consch remembered that scene in the morning- What happiness to young woman is directly I V room at.Davenant. It was one of those unpleasant memories which do not grow fainter with the passage 'of years. She had been inclined to suspect James ya ofa malicious intention in his sudden announce- ment of SirCyp-rian’s death—the wish to let her hus’ band see how stron a hold her first love still had upon her heart. He, w 0 had been Cyprian Davenaut’s friend and confidant, was likely to have known some thing of that early attachments, or at least to have formed a shrewd guess at the truth. _ “Perhaps I have suspected him wrongly in .Vthat afl'alr," Constance thought, now that she was dis- posed to think more, kindly of Mr. Wyatt. “His mention of Sir Cyprian might have been purely ac— cidental." . Four or five time in every day Melanie Duport brought the baby Christabel to the grass—pl ot under the window of Mrs. Sinclair‘s bed—room, and there were tender greetings betweent mother and child, baby struggling in nurse’s grasp, and holding up her chubby arms as if she would fain have embraced her mother evenat that distance. These interviews Were a sorry substitute for the long happy hours of closest companionship which mother and child had enjoyed at Schonesthal, but Constance bore the trial bravely. The patientwas going on wonderfully well, Mr. Paulton said; 'the violence.“ the fever was considerably abated. It had proved a light attack of scarlet fever, and not typhoid, as the doctor had. feared it might have proved. In a Week the patient would most likely be on the high-road to recovery, and then Mrs. Sinclair could leave her ren- tirely to the Sister’s care, since poor Martha was now restored to her right mind, and was quite reconciled to that trustworthy attendant. , _ » “And then," said Mr. Paulton, “I shall send, you to Baden for a few days, before you go back to baby, and you must put aside all clothes that you have worn in the sick-room, and I think we shall escape all risk of infection.” This was a good hearing. Constance, languished for the happy hour when she should be able to clasp that rosy babbling child to her breast once more. Made- moiselle anort had been a marvel of goodness throughout this anxious time. “I shall never forget how good and théughtfnl you have been, Melanie," said Constance, from her window. as the French girl stood in the garden below, holding baby up to be adored before setting out for her morn- ing ramble. . " But it is a pleasure to serve madame,‘.' shrieked Melanie, in her shrill treble. , . “Monsieur returns this evening," said Constance, who had just received a hurried scrnwl from Gilbert, naming the hour of his arrival; “ you must take care that Christabel looks hot prettiest." . “Ah, but she is always ravishingly pretty. If she were only a boy, monsieur would idolize her." " Where are you going this morning, Melanie i" “To the ruined Castle on the hill." ' “ Do you think that is a safe place for baby i" " What could there be safer? What peril can madame foresee?" u No," she is as safe there-as anywhere else, uneasy when she is away from me.” “ But madame's love for this little one is a passion l" ‘ ’ Melanie departed with her charge, and Constance went back to the sick-room to attend to her patient while the Sister enjoyed a few hou‘rs of comfortable .1 . said Constance with a si h. “I suppose ut I am - always cop. Ono o'clock was Christabel’s dinner.time, and Chris- tabel'e dinner was a business of no small importance in the mother's mind. Ono o'clock came, and there was no sign of Melanie and her charge, a curious thing, as Melanie was methodical and punctual to a praisoworthy degree, and was provided with a great little silver watch to keep her acquainted with the une. . Two o'clock struck, and still no Melanie. Constance began to ow uneasy, and sent scouts to look for the nurse an child. But when three o’clock came and baby had not yet appeared, Constance became seriously alarmed, and put on her hat hastily, and went out to search for the missing nurse. She would not listen to the servants who bad Just returned from their fruit- less quest, and who begged her to let them go in fresh directions, while she waited the result at home. "No," she said,‘"I could not rest. I must go my- self. Senate the police, any one, the rope: author~ ities. Tell them my child‘ is lost. them send in every direction. You have been to the ruins l” “ Yes, ma'am.” ‘ “And there was no one there? nothing i” "No. ma'am," answered Dawson the groom; "the placehwas quimnmome. There was nothing but grass uppers c ng.‘ ‘ . “The river i" thought . Constance. white with horror; “the ruins are only a little way horn the river.” . ~ . . " She ran along the romantic pathway which followed the river-bank for about half a mile, and there seconded the stee hill on the slope of which stood the battered old she lwhich had once been a feudal castle. with dungeons beneath its stately halls, audit defilnd secret well for the safe puttin away of troublesome enemies. Very peaceful looks the old ruins on this balmy September day, in the mellow, .afternoon sun- shine, sol tary, silent, deserted. There us no trace ofnurso or child in the assy coaster on the crumb— ling old ramrl. Yes, not where F116 rmphrtlookod down upon t e river, just at that paint Where the short sunburned grass slo d steepeo . Constance Sinclair found a token of her c ild's presence. I toy dog, white, decay, and deliciously untrue ,tofnature—an animal mesa-halide“ beauty had been the baby Christabol’a 1 . Constance gave a little cry of joy. "They have been here. thgy are somewhere near." she thought, and then, sudde y. in the met summer You could hear stillness the peril of this particular spot struck her... v i; , ‘lVEA VERS AND WEFT. 13 , Watson descent-Ahosunbumed- award, slippery as Mme deep, swift current below—the (utter loneli- ness of the some—410. help at hand. “Oh, God 1” she cried, “the river, the river!" She looked rou’nd her with wild, beseeching eyes, as if she would have asked all nature to help her in this great agony. There was no one within sight. The nearest house was a cottage on the bank of the river, about a hundred yards from the bottom of the slope. A narrow footpath at the other Hide! the rampart led to the bank, and by this path Constance hurried down tomake inquiries at the cottag . The door was standing open, d there was a noise of several voices within. Some one was lying on a bed in a corner. and a group of peasant women were round her ejaculating compassionately. . " Das arme msdchen. Ach, Himmel 1 Was gibt es ?" and a good deal mere of a spasmodic and sympathetic nature. A woman’s arment’s dripping wet, were hanging in front of t e stove, beside which eat an elderly vine-dresser with stolid countenance, smoking his pipe. _ Constance Sinclair put the women asxde and made her way to the bed. It was Melanie who lay there vrra in a blanket, sobbing hysterically. “ elanie, where is my child ?” The girl shrieked and turned her face to the wall. “ She‘risksd her life to save it," said the man in Ger- man. “ The current is very rapid under the old Schloss. She plunged in after the baby. I found her in the water, clinging to the branch of a willow. If I had been a little later she would have been drowned." " And the child—my child ?" “ Ach, meiu Gott i" exclaimed the man, with a shrug. "No one has seen the poor child. No one knows." “ My child is drowned!" “ Hebe Frau," said one of the women, “ the current is strong. The little one was at play on the rampart. Its foot slipped, and it rolled down the hill into the water. This good girl ran down after it, and jumped into the water. My husband found her there. She tried to save the child, she could do no more. But the current was too strong. Dear lady, be comforted. The good God will help you,” » " No. God is cruel," cried Constance. serve Him or believe in him any more.” And with this blasphemy wrung from her tortured heart, a great wave of blood seemed to rush over Con- stance Sinclair’s brain, and she fell senseless on the stone floor. .. “I will never CHAPTER XL GETTING OVER 11‘. Ban! Chars-rants was drowned. Of that fact there could be no shadow of doubt in the minds of those who had loved her, although the sullen stream which had swallowed her lovely form refused to give it back. Perchance the lurleya had taken her for their play- feliow, and transformed her mortal beauty into some- thing rich and strange. ‘ _ Anyhow, the nets which dragged the river-bed did not bring up the golden hair, or the sad drowned eyes that had once danced with joyous life. And if any- thing could add to Constance Sinclair’s grief it was 'this last drop of bitterness—the knowledge that her child would never rest in hallowed ground, that there wu‘no quiet grave on which to lay her aching head and feel nearer her darling, no spot of earth to which she could , css her lips and fancy she could be heard by the litt e one lying in her pure shroud below, asleep on Mother Earth's calm breast. N0, her little one was driven by winds and waves, and had no restingplace under the weary stars. , Melanie Duport, when she recovered from the horror of that one dreadful day, told her story clearly enough. It was the same story she had told the peasant woman whose husband ’rescued her. Baby Christabel ' was playing on the rampart, Melaiue holding her securely, as she belieVed. when the little one, attracted by the flight of a butterfly. made a sudden spring—513,51 madame knew how strong and active the dear angel was, and Bow difficult it was to hold her sometimes— an’d slipped out of Mclanie's arms on to the rampart, and from the rampart—which was very low just there, as madame might have observed-«on to the grass, and rolledaud rolled down to the river. It was all quick as thought; one moment and that angel's white frock was floating on the stream. Melanie tore down, she knew not how: it was as if Heaven had given her wings in that moment. The white frock was still floating. Melanie plunged into the river; ah! but what was her life at such a.t1me l—a nothing. Alas 1 she tried to grasp the frock. but the stream swept, it from her; an instant, and one saw it no more. She felt «herself sinking, and then she fainted. She knew noth- ing till she woke in the cottage where madame found hfielanie was a heroine in a small way after this sad event. The villagers thought her .a wonderful young person. Hervmaster rewarded her handsomely. and promised to retain her in his service till she should choose to marry. Her mistress was as gratefulas despair can befor any service. The light of Constance Sinclair’s life had gone. Her one sourceof joy was turned to a fountain of bitter- ness. A drill and blank despair took possession of her, She did not'suocnmb utterly to her dgrief. She strugy sins't itbravel . and she afoul accept no oue’s again” or sympazhy. One of her married sisters, p comfortable matron with half adozcn healthy child. ran in her nursery, odored to come and stay with Mrs. Sinclair; but this kindly odor was refused almost un- cjx‘lgyhat good could you do me i” asked Constance. " If on spoke to me of my darling I should hate you, yet should always be thinking of her. Do you sup- poseyou, could comfort me by telling about our herd of children, or by repeating little bits of -ri ture, such as people quote in letters of condolence No;- there is no such thing as comfort for my grief. I like to sit alone and think of my pet, and be wretched in my own way. Don’t be angry with me, dear, for writing so savagely. I sometimes feel as if I hated every one in the world, but happy mothers most of all." Gilbert Sinclair endured the ass of his little girl with a certain amount of philosophy. In the first place she was not a boy, and had offended him ab initio b that demerit. She had been apretty little darling, no oubt, and he had had his moments of fondness for her; but his wife’s idolatry of the child was an oflense that had ranklod deep. He .had been jealous of his infant daughter. He put on mourning, and expressed himself deeply afflicted, but his burden did not press heavily. A oy would come, perhaps, by-and-by, and make amends for this present loss, and Constance would begin her baby worship again. ‘ Mr. Sinclair did not know that for some hearts there is no beginning again. . Martha Bri gs recovered health and strength, but her grief for the 0st baby was very genuine and unmistak- able. Constance offered to keep her in her service,but this favor Martha declined with tears. " No, ma'am‘it’s best for both that we should part. I should remind you of "—here a burst of sobs supplied the missing name—"and you’d remind me. I’ll go home. I'm‘ more grateful than words can say {or all your goodness; but, oh, I hate myself so for being ill. I never, never shall forgive myself~never." 80 Martha went back to Davenant in her mistress's train, and there parted with her to return to the parental roof, which was not very far off. It was not so with Melanie. She only clung to her mistress more devotedly after the loss of the baby. If her dear lady would but let her remain with her as her own maid, she would be beyond .measure happy. Was not hair- dressing the art in which she most delighted, and milli- nery the natural bent of her mind? Gilbert said the girl had acted nobly, and ought to be retained in his wife’s service; so Constance, whose Abigail had lately left her to better herself by marriage with an aspiring butler, consented to keep Melanie as her personal attend- ant. She did this, behevin with Gilbert that the girl deserved recompense; but elanie’s presence was full of painful associations, and kept the bitter memory of her lost child continually before her. Constance went back to Davenaut, and life flowed on in its slow and sullen course somehow without Baby Christabel. ‘ The two rooms that had been nurseries—— two ,of the prettiest rooms in the big old house, with French window and a wide balcony, with 9. iii ht of steps leading down to the quaintest old arden, s ut in from the rest of the grounds by ahol y hedge—now became temples dedicated to the lost. In these rooms Constance spent all the time she could call her own. But the business of life still went on, and there was a great deal of time she could not call her own. Gilbert, having dismissed the memory of his lost child to the limbo of unpleasant rec- ollections, resented his wife’s brooding grief, as a personal inj ury. and was determined to give that sul— lcn sorrow no indulgence. When the hunting season was at its best,'and pheasant-shooting made one of the attractions of Davensut, Mr. Sinclair determined to fill his house with his own particular setmhorsy men—i men who gave their minds to guns and dogs, and rarely opened‘thcir mouths for speech except to relate some anecdote about an accomplished setter, or “ that liver- colored pointer of mine, you know,” or to dilate upon the noble behavior of “ that central" fire Lancaster of mine " in yesterday's battue—men who devoted their nights and days to billiards, and whose conversation was of breaks and dukes, pockets and cannons. “ You'd better ask some women, Constance,” said Gil- bert, one Sunday mornin in November, as they sat at their teta—a-tete breakfast, t e wife reading her budget of letters, the husband with the Field propped up in front of his codes-cup, and the Sporting Gazette at his elbow. “ I’ve got a lot of than coming next week, and you might feel yourself as 1mg in a masculine party." ' “ Have you aske people, Gilbert, so soon ’3" said Con- stance, rcproachfully. " I don’t know what you call soon. The pheasants are as wild as they can be, and Lord Highover’s hounds have been out nearly a month. You'd better .ask some nice young women-the right sort, you know; no non- sense about them.” “ I thought we shouldhave spent this winter quietly, Gilbert,” saidConatance, in a low voice, looking down at her black dress with its deep folds of crepe ; "just this one winter.” “ That’s sheer sentimentality," exclaimed Gilbert, giving the Field an impatient twist as be folded it to get at his favorite column. a pair of superannuated owls ? Would it bring back the poor little thing we've lost, or make her happier in paradise ? No, Constance. She’s happy. ' Nothing can touch her more). as Milton, or somebody, says. Egad, I think the poor little darling is to be envied for having escaped. all the troubles and worries of life; for life at best is a bad book : you can't hedge everything. Don't cry, Cbnstance. That long face of yours is enough to send a fellow into an untimely grave. Let us get a lot of pleasant people round us, and make the most of this place while it’s ours. We mayn‘t have it always." This sinister remark fell uplon an ' unheediug' ear. Constance Sinclair’s thoughts ad wandered far away from that oak-paneled breaMastr-oom. They had gone back to the sunny hillside, the grassy rampart, the swift and fatal river, the bright landscape which had stamped itself upon her memory indelibly. in the one agonized moment in which she had divined her darl- ln 's fate. ' v ‘g‘Gilbert, Ireallyam not fit to receive people," she said, after a silence of some minutes, during which Mr. “ What good would it do on r or me to shut ourselves up in this dismal old house ike ’ Sinclair had amused himseli by sundry adventurous dips of his fork. like an old Jewish priest’s dive into the sacred seething-pot, into the crockery case of a Per-igord pie. ‘j If you have set your heart upon hav- ing your friends this winter you had better let me go * away, to Hastings or somewhere. It would'be pleasvv anter for you to be free from the sight (.1 my unhap- pmess.” “ Yes, and for you to find consolation elsewhere, no doubt. You would pretty soon find a consolerif I gave you your liberty.” “ Gilbert 1" ' “Oh, don t think to frighten me with your indig- nant looks. I have not forgotten the scene in this room when you heard oi'yourold lover‘s supposeddeath. Sir Cyprian Davenant is in London, in high feather too, I understand: for some ancient relation of his has been obliging enough to die and leave him another fortune. A pity you didn’t waits little longer, isn’t it? A pity your father should have been in sueha hurry to make his last matrimonial bargain.” . “Gilbert!” cried Constance, passionately, “what navel ever done that you should dare to talk to me like this ? How have I ever failed in my duty to you i" " Shall I tell you? I won't say that, hav' accepted; me for your husband, you ought to have "‘ That would be asking too much. The ethics of t , nineteenth century don’t soar so high as that. I you might have pretended to care for me just a littl It would have been only civil, and it would have made the wheels of life go smoother for both ofus.” “ I am not capable of pretending, Gilbert," an- swered Constance, gravely. "If you would onlybe a little more considerate, and give me credit for being what I am, your true and dutiful wife, I might give you as much affection as the most exacting husband could do- sire. I would, Gilbert," she cried in a voice, choked by sobs, " for the sake of our dead child." “ Don’t humbug," said Gilbert, sulkily. “ We ought to understand each other by this time. As for run— ning away from this house, or any other house chains, to mops in solitude, or to find consolation among old friends, please comprehend that'if you leave my house once you leave it forever. I shall expect to see you at the head of my table. I shall as acct you to surround yourself with pretty women. I s all expect you to be audio that a fellow may be proud oi." “ I shall do my best to oblige you, Gilbert; but per- haps I might have been a better wife if you had let me take life my own way." From that time Constance Sinclair put aside all outward token of her grief. She wrote to the gay est and most (Pleasure-loving of her ac uaintances— oung marrie women, whose chief del ght was to ess more expensiver than their dearest friends and to be seen at three parties on the same evening, and a few who were still spinsters, trom no fault or foolishness of their own, since they had neg-‘8 lected neither pains nor art in the endeavor to secure an eligible ‘partner for the dance of life. To these Constance‘wrote her letters of invitation, and the first sentence in each letter was suilicient to insure an air ' ceptance. ' ‘ “ Dunner 1m,—-My husband is filling the house men for the hunting season. Do come, and save his from being bored to death by their sporting talk. sure you bring your hunting-habit. Gilbert can you a good mount," etc., etc. W . Whereupon dearest Ida, twisting about the littl note, meditatively remarked to her last bosom~friend and confidant, “Odd that they should ask people so soon after the death of Mrs. Sinclair's baby—«drowned too-it was in all the papers. Davenant is a sweet house to stay at, quite liberty hall. Yes, I think I shall go, and if there are plenty of people I can finish. out my ball dresses in the evenings." Before another Sunday came Davenant was fullot people, the attics noisy with strange lady's~maids, the stables and harness rooms full of life and bustle, not an empty stall or an unoccupied loose box in the long range of buildings, the billiard-room and smoking.- room resonant with masculine laughter, unknown dogs. pervading the out—buildings, and chained up in ever-Ii. available corner. w . Constance Sinclair had put away her somber rob“, of crepe and cashmere, and met her friends with comingsmiles, radiant in black silk and lace, her ful figure set off by the latest Parisian fashion, whic ’ " being the newest. was, of course, infinitely the best. ’ “ I thought she would have been in deeper mourn- ing," said one of Mrs. Sinclair's dearest friends to another during a whispered chat in a dusky earner at afternoon tea. “ The men Were so noisy with their hawmaw talk, one could say what one liked.” remarked, Mrs. Millamount afterward to Lady Loveall. - :5 a". “ Looks rather heartless, doesn’s it l~an only of, too. She might at least wear paramatta instead of 4 black silk-not even‘a mourning silk. I suppose a _ black net trimmed with jet she wore last night from Worth.” _’ if “ My dear, you couldn't have looked at it prop Worth wouldn’t have made her such a thing it“. had gone down on her knees to him. The sleeve‘ win positively antediluvian. Nice house, isn't it l—overy thing good style. What matches all these Clanyardea have made 1" fl , _ . . “ If: it true that she Was engaged to Sir Cyprian Dar- enan ." “ They say so. How sorry she must be! He has just. come into quite a heap of money. Some old m ‘down in the Linconshire fens left it himqu 8. chars actor, I believe. Never spent anythin except on black letter books, and those have been sol for a fox-tune n Sotheby’s. Ah, Mr. Wyatt, how d’ye do i" as the suite itor, newly arrived that afternoon, threaded his who toward the quietooruer ; “ do come and sit here. You always know everything, Is it true that en- Gym-M Davensnt has come into a fortune P" \ oved :5 3i «i * e r .» .,,, v ‘ can be more true, unless it is that Mrs. 'mmoun looks younger and lovelier every “soon.” .33.". lion horrid flatterer. You are worse thanflali‘rench thinner. And is it true that Mrs. Sinclair and Sir were engaged? But no, it would be hardly Cyprian 1 fair to ask you about that. You are a friend of the family.” “Al a friend of the family I am bound to inform you that, rumor is false on that point. There was no en- gagement.” u " Really, now 7' ' “ But Sir Cyprian was madly in love with Miss Clan- yes-ea. ‘ . llAnd "m "I was. not in the lady’s confidence; but I believe thatit was only my friend's poverty which prevented their marriage." . " How horridly mercenary i" cried Mrs. Minamount, who came of an ancient Irish family, proud as Lucifer and poor as Lazarus, and had been sacrificed in the blossom of her days. like Iphigenia, to raise the wind— not to Diane. but to a rich stock-broker. Perhaps as that was a long time ago she may have forgotten how much more Plutus had had to do with her marriage than Cupid. CHAPTER x11. m SHACK“. OF AN OLD LOVE BTBAI‘I'ENED BIN. Cvrsns Davsiusr had inherited a fortune. Com- mon rumor had not greatly exaggerateed the amount of wealth, though there was the usual dis osition to expatiate Upon the truth. Needy men 100 ed at him withenvy as he Went in an _ out of his club, or sat in a quiet corner reading the est Quarterly or Edinburgh, and almost wondered that he was so well able to con- tain his spirits, and was not tempted to perform a savage dance of the Choctaw character, or’ to give expression to hi rapture in a war-whoop. “ Hang it all, you know," remarked an impecunious younger son, " it aggravates a fellow to see Davenant take things. so quietly. He doesn't invite the confi- dence _of his necessitous friends. Such a knight of the rueful countenance would hardly standapony. And he won’t play whist, or touch a billiard cue—quite an unapproachable beast." A'inan cannot be lucky in all things. Sir Cyprian had set his life upon a cast, and the fortune of the game had been against him. The inheritance of this unex- pected Wealth seemed to him almost a useless and trivial stroke of fate. What could it avail him now? It could not ve him Constance Clanyarde, or even re- store the goo ,old house in which his father andmother had lived and died. Time had set a gulf between him and happiness, and the fortune that came too late seemed rather the stroke of some mocking and ironical ,Fate than the gift of a benevolent destiny. He came . , mi 1 k from Africa like a man who lives a charmed life, <1, V ‘égffls ‘ F» . «gaping all manner of perils, from the gripe oi marsh r 6 .3“. ver to the jaws'of crocodiles; while men who had valued existence a rent deal more than he had done had succumbed and sit their bones to bleach upon the lends of the Gold Coast, or to rot in a stagnant swamp. Cyprian Davenant had returned to find the girl he loved .6 wife of the man he most disliked. He heard of her age more in sorrow. than in anger. He had not expected to find her free. His knowledge of Lord Clan- , e's character had assured him that his lordship‘s utiful daughter would be made to marry well. No {sir CircaeIian, reared by admiring and expectant rela- tfi‘ss in the seclusion of her Caucasian home, fattened upon milk and almonds to the standard of Oriental beau- ty, and in due course to be carried to the slave-market, had ever been brought up with a more specific intention than that which had ruled Lord Clanyards in the edu- cation of his daughters. They had all done well. Be Very little of his time at Marchbrook nowadays, , mu having died shortly after Constance's marriage, but dawdled away life agreeably at his daughters' win- ter houses out of-the season, at his clubs in the season, and felt that his mission had been accomplished. No father had ever done more for his children, and they had cost him very little. What a comfort to have been blast with lovely msrriageable daughters, instead of . bberly sons, squatting on a father’s shoulders like . a clonal: of the mountain, thought Lord Clanyarde, Vrhen he had leisure to reflect upon his lot. After that one visit in Park Lane, Sir Cyprian Dave- nant had studiously avoided Mrs. Sinclair. He had very little inclination for society, and although his friends were ready to makes fashionable lieu of him upon the a. a strength of his African explorations, he had strength of mind enough to refuse al manner of flattering invita- ns, and innumerable introductions to people who , ‘ dying to know him. _ e took a set of chambers in one of the streets be- ‘ can the Strand and: the river, surrounded himself V th the books he loved, and set about writin the his- 91‘ his travels. He had no desire to sch are time by k-making, but amen must do something with his life. Sir Cyprian felt himself too old or too unambitious to enter one ofthe learned professions ; and he felt him- self without motive for sustained industry. He had an income that sumced for all his desires. He would write his book, tell the world the wonders he had seen, and than go back to Africa and see more wonders, ;. and erhaps leave his bones along the road, as some of How-travelers lied done. He heard of Constance Sinclair-heard of her as one ofthe lights in fashiou’s sidereal system—holding her own a list all competitors. He saw her once or twice, een five and sites a June afternoon, when the earring)“ were creeping slowly alon the Ladies’ Kilenndst chi h-mettled horses champ n their bits and tugging at t eirbearing reins in sheer esperatfon at being conipeiled to this snail’s dpace. He saw her looking her loveliest, and conclu ed that she was happy. She had all things that were reckoned good in be" I We .-" in ‘ and ateenth century," said Sir Crp ,3‘ Wu was AND ' her world. Why should he suppose there was any- thing Wsntlng to her content? The lawyer’s letter which told him of old Colonel Gryfin's death, and the will which bequeathed to him the bulk of the old man's fortune. found Sir Cyprian in his quiet chambers near the river, smoking the cigar ofpeace over the last new treatise on metaplgsics b a German philoso her. Lady Davenaut had 11 a bass Gryfin, and e favorite niece of this ancient Anglo-Indian Colonel Grymn, who had lived and died a bachelor. Sir Cy rian had a faint recollection of seeing a testy old ent email with a yellow complexion at Davenant in life nursery days, and having been told to call the old entleman " uncle,” whereupon he had revolted open 3‘, and had declined to confer that honor upon such a wizened and tawny-complexioned atomy as the little old gentleman in question. “My uncles are big," he said. "You’re too little for an uncle." Econ afterward the queer old figure had melted out of the home picture. Colonel Grymu had gone back to the Lincolnshire fans, and his ancient missals and incunabula, and had lived so remote an existence that the chief feeling caused by his death was astonishment at the discovery that he had been so long alive. Messrs. Dott and Gowunn, a respectable firm of family solicitors in Lincoln 's lun, begged to inform Sir Cyprian Davenant that his great-uncle, on the maternal side, Colonel Gryfiin, of Hobart Hall, near Hammerfleld, Lincoln-hire, had appointed him residusry legatee sole executor to his will. Sir Cyprian was quite unmoved by the announcement. Besiduary legatee might mean a great deal, or it might mean very little. He had a misty recollection of being told that Colonel Gryffln was rich, and was supposed to squander untold sums upon Gutenberg Bibles, and other amiable ecoentricities of a bookish man. He had never been taught to expect any inheritance from this ancient bachelor, and he supposed him for many years laid at rest under the dasies of his parish churchyard. The residuary legateeship turned out to mean a very handsome fortune. The misssls and Bibles and an- tique Books of Hours, the Decameron, and the fine old Shakespeare, were put up to auction—by desire of the testators—and were sold for twice and three times the sums the old Colonel had paid for them. In a word, Sir Cyprian Davenant, who had esteemed himself pass- ing rich upon four hundred a year, stood possessed of a hundred and twenty thousand pounds. It came too late to buy him the desire of his heart, and, not being able to win for him this one blessing, it seemed almost useless. James Wyatt was one of the first to congratulate 811' Cyprian upon this change of fortune. “ A pity the old gentleman did not die before you went to Africa,” he said sympathetically. “ It would have squared things for you and Miss Clanysrde." “ Miss Clanyarde made a very good marriage." an- swered Cyprian, too proud to bare his old wound even to friendly James Wyatt. " She is happy." Mr. Wyatt shrug ed his shoulders dubiously. “Who knows ?" c said. “ We see our friends’ lives from the outside, and,1ike a show at a fair, the outside is always the best art of the performance." This happened w ile Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair were at Schenesthal. Soon came the tidings of Baby Christa- bel's fate, briefly told in a newspaper paragraph, and Cyprian Davcnant’s heart bled for the woman he had once loved. He was not a little. surprised when James Wyatt called upon him one day in November and told him he was going down to Davensnt, where there was to be a housef‘ul of company. ” So soon after the little girl's death I " exclaimed Sir Cyprian. ” Yes, it is rather soon, no doubt. But they would be moped to death at Davenant without people. Sack- cloth and ashes are quite out of fashion, you see. Peo- ple don’t go in for intense mourning nowadays/f '- People have hearts, I sup ose, even in the nine- sn, somewhat bitterly. “I should have thought In. Sinclair would have felt the loss of her little irl very doe ly.“ “ We don'tknow w at the may eel," returned Wyatt. “ Gilbertlfbes his own way." " You don't mean to say that he ill-uses his wife 2” asked Bir Cyprian-lama . "Ill-u eisabig word. We don't employ it nowao days,” rep ied Mr. Wyatt, with his imperturbsble smile. " Gilbert Sinclair is my client, and an excellent one, as you know. It would ill-become me to disparage him, but I must admit that he and Hrs. Sinclair are not the happiest couple whose domestic hearth Ihave ever sat by. She had some secret grief even before the death of her child, and made up for being very brilliant in society by being exceedi ly dull at home. I don't expect to And her very liv y new that she has lost the only be. ing she really cared for. , She absolutely worshiped that child." , conversation gave Sir Cyprian Darenant material for much sad thought. To know that Constance was unhap y seemed to bring her nearer to him. It brought back t e thought'oi‘ the old days when those innocent eyes had looked into his, eloquent with unconscious love. when Constance Clanyarde had given him her heart without thought for to-morrow, happy in the knowledge that she was loved, believi her lover strong to conquer Fate and Fortune. (1 he had brou lit the chilly light of worldly wisdom to bear on this ream of Arcsdy. He had been strong, self-deny- ing. and had renounced his own happiness in the hope ofsecuring here. And new Fate laughed him to scorn with this gift of vain riches; and he found that his worldly wisdom had been supreme folly. “ What a self-comment fool,. what an idiot I have been l" he said to himself. in an agony of remorse. “And now when atonement can I make to her for my follydL can I defend her from the purse-proud snob she has been sold to? can I save her wounded heart one pang? can I be near her in her hour of misery. 01‘ ofl‘er _‘ M \I";” e 1““ '2 i3," one drop ofcomfort from ssosl overflowing with tender-r nessan I??? Noggin t nigh her is to do}: a wrong. u canw as tance,psrh . may. use other e es. ‘Ky money may be of some :2: in buy- ing her fai f‘ul service from others. God bless her! 1 consecrate my days to her service; distant or use I will be her friend and her defender." Two days later Sir Cyprian met Lord Clan arde at that nobleman’s favorite club. It was a club w ich Gym prian Davenant rarely used, although he had boa s member ever since his majority, and it may be that he went out of his beaten track in the hope of encounten- in Constance Sinclair’s father. at and rd Clanyarue was very cor al complimentary» upon his friend's altered fortunes. “ You must feel sorry for having parted with Danna ant." he said, " when you might soeaaily have kept it." “ Davenant is rather too big for a confirmed bachelor." “ True, it would have been a white elephant, I dare say. Sinclair has improved the place considerably. You ought to come down and haves look at it. I'm goo ing to Marohbrook to shoot next week. Come and stay with me," added Lord (.‘lanyardc, with heartiless, not at all prepared to be taken at his word. ~ ' . " I shall be charmed,” said Sir Cyprian, to his lord» ship’s infinite astonishment. ' People generall took his invitations for what they were worth, and eclined lhem. But here was a mun. fresh from the center of Africa, who. hardly understod. the language of polite society. ' , CHAPTER XIII. " ar MERLIN’S rssr run wrmr vrvnx ur." ALL went merrily at Davenant during the brief bleak days of November and December, though the master of the house was not without his burden of secret cork and care. That magnificent iron and coal producing estate in the north had not been yieldin quite so much hard cash as its owner expected from itgately. Strikes; and trade-unionism had told upon Mr. Sinclair's laconic. The coal market had fluctuated , awkwardly. Belgium had been tapping the demand for iron. There was plenty of money coming in, of course, from Gilbert’s arge possessions; but unfortunately there was. alsoa, great deal going out. The Newmarket stables had cost a small fortune, the Newmarket horses had been lus- lucky, aud Gilbert‘s book for the last three or four seasons had been a decided failure. ’ " The fact is, Wyatt,” he remarked to that confiden- tial adviser one dull afternoon over a idea-late game at billiards, “ I'm spending too much money." " Have you only just found that out ?” asked the solic- itor, with a calm sneer. " The purchase of this confounded place took too much of my capital, and these strikes and lockouts coming on the top of it"—-— “ Not to mention your vicious habit of plunging," re- marked Mr. Wyatt, parenthetically, taking acarei‘lil aim at the distant red. “ Have very nearly stumped me.”-—- . ' " Why not sell Davensnt? You don’t wantsuch a bi barrack of a (place, and—Mrs. Sinclair isn't happy here. ’ “ No,” sai Gilbert, with asmcthered oath; '9 the ab sociations are too tender.” " I could get you spur-chaser to-morrow." “Yes, at a dead loss, no doubt. You fellows live by bu ng and selling, and you don't care how much your c ient loses bya transaction that brings grist to your mill." “ I can get you the money you gave for Davenant. timber and all." "Who's your purchaser ?" “ I'd rather not mention his name yet awhile. He is a quiet party, and wouldn't like to be talked about." " I understand. Some city cad who has made his money in the 20010 ical line." “How zoological ” " B and bearing. Well, if those beastly collie“ hold out much longer. he may have Davenant and wel- come. But he must take my new furniture ata valu- ation. I've paid no end of money for it.” “What did you do with the old Jacobean Oils 7” "Oh, the old sticks are put away somewhere, Ibo lieve, in lofts and lumber-rooms and servants' bed,- rooms." - Some of Mr. Sinclair's other guests dropped into the billiard-room at this juncture, and them was no more said about the sale of Davena‘nt. Nobody—not even his worst enemy, and no doubt monglhis numerous friends he had several foes-conld deny r. Wyatt’s merits as a guest in a country~house. He was just the kind of man to-keep things oi 4 fit master in all social accomplishments—snan clair graciously allowed him to take the burden of amusing everybody upon his shoulders, while the master of the ones went his own way, and hunted or shot at his own pleasure. Mr. Sinclair liked to fill his house with people, but he had no idea of sacrificing his own inclination to their entertainment; he thought he did guite enough for them in giving them what he elegau y called “ the run of their teeth," and the iron use of his second-rate hunters. 0n Mr, Wyatt, therefore, devolved the duty of keep.~ lug things going—devising the day’s amusements, protecting the ladies of the party from theselnshneas of neglectful and, unappreciative mankind, arranging picnic luncheons in keepers' lodges, at which the fair sex mi ht assist. finding safe mounts for those aspiring dame who wanted to ride hounds, lensing rivate thestricals..and stimulating the mu cal mean rs of the society to the performance of part songs in a bust,- ness-like and creditable manner. I... He had done all these things last winter and winter before. but on those occasions he had been sid- ed in his task; Constance Sinclair had, given him he: hearty co-operation. She had played her part of hog- tees with grace and spirit—had allowed no cloud of ‘ v . clslr’s sense of duty could now compel. ' the heart to see her silent grie mind." thoughts: mom .toobsonro the brightness of the present moment. had given her-oi! up, heart and soul.” the duties of her position, and her friends had believed her to be the happiest, of women. on well as the most fortunate. To seem thus had cost her many an eflort; but she had deemed this one 01‘ her obliga- tionsss Gilbert Sinclair's wife. . Row all was changed. Her husband had been obey- ed; but that obedience was sllywhich Constancesm- Bh'e sat like a beautiful status at the head of her husband's table, she moved about among her guests with as little art in their pleasures and amusements as if she n a picture on the wall—courteous to all, but famuisr with none, she seemed to live apart from her surroundings ——s strange and silent life, whose veil of shadow even sympathy tailed to penetrate. Mrs. Mlllamount, not unkindly, despite her hivolity, had tried to get Con- stance to talk of her bereavement, but the wounded heart was gelled by the gentlest touch. “ It’s very kind of you." she said, divining her friend's motive, “but I’d rather not talk of her. Nothingcan ever linen my grief, and I like best to keep it quite to mysel ” - " How you must hate us all for bein here 1” said Hrs. Killsmount, moved with compunct on at the in- oo ty between that houseful of company and the m e'r's desolate heart. “ It seems quite abominable for us to be thinking of nothing but pleasure while you beat your burden alone." “Nobody could divide it with me," answered Con- stance, gently. “Pray do not trouble yourself about my sorrows. If I could hide them better. I would. Gilbert likes to be surrounded with pleasant faces, and I am very glad that he should be pleased.” "She's $38 too good to live,” remarked the spright- ly Hrs. llamount to her friend Lady Loveall, that evening. “ But do you know I‘m ail-aid there’s some- thin as little wrong here," and Flora Millamount ton ed her lyery forehead suggestiver with the tip of her Wetteau fan. , James Wyatt was not a sportsman. He was an ex- cellent judge of a horse, rode well, and knew as much about bus as the men‘ who Were continually handling them, ut he neither shot nor hunted, and he had never been known to speculate upon the turf. These things were for his clients—4i very pretty way of run- ning throu h handsome fortunes and brinvin their owners to t claws—mot for him. He conic is 9 his amusement ent of other men’s follies and remain wise himself. Life to him was an agreeable and instructive spectacle, which he assisted at as comfortably as he heard Don Giovanni from his stall in the third row ; and when the foul fiend of insolvency whisked off one of his dearest friends to the internal regions where bankv rupts and outlaws inhabit, he felt what a nice thing it was to be only a. spectator of the great drama. Not being a sportsman, Mr. Wyatt had a good deal of time to himself at Davenant despite his general use- fulness. There were rainy mornings when the men were out shooting, and the 'bus had not yet started for the point of rendezvous with the Indies and the lunch- eon. These leisure hours Mr. Wyatt improved by strolling about the corridors, lookinv at the old ic- tures, for the most part in that meditative moo in which a man sees very little of the picture he seems to contemplate; and occasionally by a quiet flirtation with, Melanie Duport. That young person had plenty of leisure for pcrambulating the corridors between breakfast and dinner. Mrs. Sinclair was b no means an exacting mistress. and Melanie’s lie at Davenant was one of comparative idleness. Her superiority or mind showed itself in a calm con- tempt for her fellow-servants, and she was rarely to e found in the servants’ rooms. , She pre- ferred the retirement of her own bed-chamber, and. a French novel lent her by that good~natured Mr. Wyatt. who had always I. supply of the newest and worst Parisian literature in his port- msntesu: On this dull December morning, a. day of grey clouds and frequent showers, Mr. Wyatt stood be- ore a doubtful Vandyck, smoking meditatively, and apparently absorbed in a critical examination of Prince Rupert’s slouched beaver and ostrich plume, when Ms lanie’s light, quick stop and tripping French walk at the other end of the gallery caught his ear. He turned slowly round to meet her, pulling lazily at . cigar. “‘ Eh, la belle,” he exclaimed, " even an .Englieh Dec oember does not dim the luster of those southern “It! “I was born in the Quartier Latin, and my parents were all that there is of the most Parisian,” answered Islanie, scornfully. ' “Then you must have stolen those eyes of yours from one of the Murillos in 'the Louvre. What naive, little one ?" i “ Only that, I: find myself more and more weary of this reatrbarrsckcj , ““ e now, Melanie, you must confess you have a good time of it here.” “Oh, so for that, perhslps I ought not to complain. Ky mistress is very gent e, too gentle; it gnsws me to . That preys upon my Bore Helsine squeezed out a tear, which she removed from her pearl-powered cheek-At very ssllow cheek under the sti toned handkerchief. “You are too compassionate, little one," said Mr. Wyatt, putting his srm round her waist consolingly. rheps he had gene a little too for with these leisure alt hours 9! flirtation. life had chides that the girl 3' g to be troublesome. Tears engined mil» "Glut dorsmsge," murmured Melanie: 'V‘ there the hurt too tender.” "Don't fret, my angel. See here, pretty one, I have i s wder—daintily with the corner on. hem-g WE ‘3 AND we”. brought you another novel.“ taking a paper-covered book iron: his pocket. . _ “ Belot '1" . - ."lio.Zols." , ‘ u _ - f I , “I don't want it. I won’t read it. Your novels are full of lies. They describe men who will make any sacrifice for the women they lovm who will take a peasant girl iron: her hovel or a grisette from her gar- ret. and make her a queen. There ere no suchmen. I don’t believe in: them,” cried the girl. passionately, her eyes dashing lire. ~ , . ~ _ ' ‘.‘ Don't be angry, Melanie Novels would be dull if they told only the truth.” * " They would be very amusing if they described men of your pattern," retorted Melanie. " Men who say sweetthings without meanin them, who flatter every every woman they talk to, w 0 turn a foolish girl’s head with their pretty speeches and caressing ways, and then laugh at her lolly. Yes, as you are laughing at me,“ cried Melanie, exasperated by Mr. Wyatt's placid smile. ~ “ No, my sweet, I. am only admiring you,"he replied, calmly. " What have I done to raise this tempest?” " What have you done i” cried Melanie, and then burst into tears, real tears this time, which seriously dams ed the pearl-powder. “I am sure I don’t know why should care so much for you. You are not hand- some. You are not even young.” “ Perhapsnot, but I am very agreeable," said James Wyatt, complacently. “Don’t cry, ma belle; only be patient and reasonable, and perhaps I shall be able to prove to you some daythat there are men, real, living men, who are capable of any sacrifice for the womsn they love." r . Melanie allowed herself to be appeased by this rather vague speech, but she was only half convinced. " Tell me only one thing," she said. “ Who is that lady ,I saw at schonesthal? and why were you so anxious to ‘please’her ?" i ' ‘ ‘ ~ : James Wyatt’s smooth {ace clouded at this question. " She is related to me; and I knew she had been badly used. Hush, my dear, walls. have ears. There are things we musu’t lalk about here." “ What is the lady’s real name ‘2” . a ‘ " Madame Chose. She comes of the oldest branch of the family—altogether grande dame, I assure you.” “ I wish she would take me into her service." “ Why, you are better of! here than with her.” ’" Idon’t think so. I should see more 01' you if I lived with that lady." ‘ “ There you are wrong. I see Madame Chose ver rarely." ‘ l " I don't believe you." " Melanie, that’s extremely rude." “ I believe that you are pastionately in love with that lady, and that is why "—-—- I ' ' “ Not another word,” exclaimed James Wyeth" there’s the luncheon bell, and I must be off. You'd better take Zola. You’ll find him more amusing than the talk in the servants’ hall.” - Melanie took the volume sullenly. and walked away without a word. , " What a little spitfire l” mused Mr. Wyatt, as he went slowly down the wide oak staircase. “ She has taken my pretty speeches seriously, and means to make her- self obnoxious. This senses of puttsng one’e self in the power of the inferior sex. If I had trusted a man—us I trusted that girl—it would have been a simple matter of business. He would have been extortionate perhaps, and there an end. But Mademoiselle Duport makesn: an affair of the heart, and I dare say will worry my life out before I have done with her." ._——.- CHAPTER XIV. sis cream on an sosrroxoss. Bin Creams Dunner had not forgotten that dinner at BtchmOhd given by Gilbert Sinclair s little while be- tore his departure for Africa, at which he had met the handsome widow to whom Mr. Sinclair was then sup- posed to be engaged. The fact was brou ht more vividly back to his mind by a circumstance t at came under his notice the even 113‘ after he had accepted Lord Clanys'rde's invitation to Marchbrook. He had been dining at his club with an old college friend, and had consented, somewhat unwillingly, to an adjournment to one of the theaters near the Strand, at which a popular burles us was being played for the three hundred and sixty-hi h time. Sir Cyprian enter- taincdacordisl deteststion of this kind of entertain- ment, in Which the low comedian of the company enactsa distressed damsel in'short petticoats and a. listen wig, while pretty actresses swagger in costumes of the cavalier period. and ape the manners of the musio~hall swell. But it was ten o’clock. The friends had recalled all the old Oxford follies in the days when they were undergraduates together in Tom Quad. They had exhausted these reminiscences and a magnum or Lafitte, and thought Sir Cyprian would have gladly gone'back to his chambers and his books, Jack Dun: ster, his friend, was of s livelier temperament, and wanted to finish the evening. s _ V. " Let's go and see Hercules and amphale at the Kaleid- oscope," he said. “It’s no end of fun. Jeemson plays, Omphals in a red wig. and Minnie stssour looks aw- fully fascinating in pink satin boots and a lionekin. We shall be just in time for the breakdown." , Sir Cyprian assented With a yawn. He had seen filly such burlesques as Hercules and e in the days when such things had their charm for him, too, when he could be. pleased with a pretty irl in pink satin Hes- sians, or be moved to laughter ereemson’s painted nose and falsetto scream. The tool: shansoxn and drove to the Kaleidoscope. abandybox of. a theater Screwed into snawkward corner of the T narrowest streets in boneless-a. street at which well-bred carriage-horses accustomed to the broad thoroughfares of Belgravia shied furiously. . , it. It was and there was no one worth l ‘ i l “aging at, a emptDy atolls in s draughty corner ioriiir (3pr “54:353. ing lot“!!! town; but thonl crowded», nbtwith . There were gusts The breakdown was. first on, the {little Ker- cnlss nourishing his club, and exmbtfig a white round arm with a diamond bracelet shove the elbow. Omphele was showing her ankles. to the delight of the groundings, the violins were racing one anthem-ad the flute squesking its shrillest in avnlgsr nigger mel- ody. accentuated by rhythmical bangs on the big drum. 5s. The audience were in ruptures, an rewarded the ex— 2 4e. ertions of band and dancers with a double recall. sly: ' l(iyprian stifled another yawn and looked round the cues. ~ .' Among the vscuous countenanees, all intent on the spectacle. there was one face which was out of the common, and which expressed a supreme weariness. A lady sitting alone in a stage-box with one rsundedsnn resting indolently on the velvet cushion—ooh am “In. might have been carved in marble, bare to the elbow, its warm human ivory relieved by the yellow hue'of an old Spanish point ruflie. Where had Cyprian Doves nant seen that tacebel‘ore? ' v . ‘ The lady had passed the first bloom of youth, but hot. beauty was of the “character that does not fade with youth. She was of the Pauline Borghese type. awomsn worthy to be modeled by a new Csnova. ‘ “ I remember," said Sir Cyprian to himself. “ It was at that Richmond dinner I met her. She is the lady. Gilbert Sinclair was to have married." » He felt a curious interest in this woman whose name even he had forgotten. Why had not Sinclair married her? She was strikingly handsome, with s. bolder, grander beauty than Constance Clanyarde’s fragile and poetic loveliness—a woman whom such amen as Sin- clair mi rht have naturally chosen. J not as such a. man would c oose a high-stepping chestnut horse, without being too nice as to finances and delicacy of line. ,, “And I think from the little that I saw the lady was attached to him," muecd Sir Cyprian. ' v ’ ‘ He glanced at the stage-box several times before the end of the performance. The lady was (finite alone, and sat in the same attitude, fanning hersel lsnguidl, , and hardly looking at the stage. Just as the curt it fell Sir Cyprian heard the click of the box door. and look. ing up, saw that u‘gentleman had entered, The lady rose, and he came a. little forward to assist in the arrsl‘n’gc. ment of her ermine-lined mantle The gentleman was Gilbert Sinclair.. ' ‘ “ What did you think slit i" asked Jack Dunstsr, a! they went out into the windy lobby, where people were crowded together waiting for their carriages. " Abominable," murmured Sir Cyprian. " Why, Minnie Va‘vasour is the prettiest actress in London, and Jeemson’s almost equal to Tools.” " I beg your pardon. I was not thinking of thebur- lesquc," encircled Sir Cyprian hastily. , t'hGilbert and his companion were just. in front ed: em. “' “Shall I go and look for your carriage i” asked Mr. Sinclair. ' ‘ »" w " If you like. But as you left me to sit out this dreary rubbish by myself all the evening, you might just as Well have let me find my way to my carriage." “Don’t be angry with me for breaking my engage- ment. I was obliged to go out shooting with some fellows, and I didn’t leave Maidstone till nine o’clock. I think} paid you a considerable compliment in travel- 7, ins thirty miles to hand you to your carriage. No other woman could expectso much iron: me.” , _ ' “You are not going back to Davenant to-night ?" “ No ; there is a supper on at the Albion. Lord Co sterdale’s trainer is to be there, and I expect to get if ' s. wrinkle or tivo from him; A simple matter of bueiJi‘ ness, I assure you.’ 3 "Mrs. Wulsingum’s carriage! "roared thewategz , man. - f squeezed into a corner with his Mend, walled up by opersrcioaked shoulders“ and within earshot or Mr: Sinclair. " Yes, that’s her name.” ' “ That saves you all trouble,” said Mrs. Walsinghsm: , “ Can I set you down any where i "' ' “ No. thanks; the Albion’s close by." « Str Cyprian struggled out of his corner just in that * to see Gilbert shut the brougham door and well: 03 through the December drizzle. » ’ “ So that acquaintance is not s dropped one,” he thought. " It sngurs ill for Constance." “Mrs.’Walsingha.m,” thought Sir Cyprian, wt.) Three days later he was riding out Bar-net way. in s7 t, quiet country lane, as rural and remote in aspect as an accommodation road in the shires, when he'pused s brougham with I. lady in it-Mrs. Welsinghsm again,- snd sin alone. ,, , “ ’f‘gis looks like fatality,” he thought. He had been riding Londonwsrd, but turned his horse; 7 and followed the carriage. This solitary drive. on i, dull, graywinter day, so far horn- London, struck him; as curious. There mightbe nothing really suspiclo ,' ,7 in the tact. Mrs. Walsingham might have i’riends" this‘northern district. But after what he had seen at the Kaleidoscope, Sincmrian was inclined to suspect Mrs. Walsinghnm. thanks still cared for Sinai!!! ho. was assured. He had‘seen her face light up when Gil‘ bert entered the box; he, had seen‘ that suppressed anger which is thesnrest sign or ayealons, exacting, love. Whether Gilbert still cared for be: was one \ i , L her at the‘vthestei‘mlghthlvfifl- , ‘ question, His meetin _ been a concession tofu angerous woman rather then s spontaneous act of devotion. ' _ , g " Sir-Cyprian followed the broughsm into the seques— tered Village of 'I‘ottcridge, where it’drew u before thy ngate of a neat, out _ withogkreen b waned I. - tallies doors-arcet‘age w fish 61 ed liketlr’ssbods of aspinster annuitant. ' ‘ ' . ;, Here Mrs. Walsingham slighted and went in, opening ' .- it» the halfglass door with the air of a person accustomed to enter.» , . .. , .. as rode a little way further, and then walked his ' rse gently back" The brougham was still standing before the garden gate, and Mrs. Walsingham was walk- ing up and down a gravel ath by the side of the house with awoman and a chil «child in ascarlet hood. inst able to 1th along the path sustained on each side by a supporting ban . . ,. e " Some poor relation’s child, perhaps," thought Oygrlan. “ A friendly visit on the ady'e part." a had ridden further than he intended, and stopped at the little in to give his horse a feed of corn and an hour's rest, while he strolled through the village and _ lookedat the old-fashioned churchyard. The retired _. ' was not without its interest. Yonder was Coppet l, the place Lord Melbourne once occupied, and which had ater passed into the hands of the author of that splendid eeriea of brilliant and various novels, which reflect as in a magic mirror all the varieties of life from the age of Pliny to the eve of the France- wsr. , g“ Who lives in that small house with the n blinds? " asked Sir Cyprian, as he mounted his orse to ride home. “It’s been took furnished; air, by a lady from Lon- . ' don" for her nurse and baby." r "Do you know the lady's name 'I " . “ I can't say that I do. sir. They has their beer from the brewer, and pays ready money for every think. But less the lady's brougham go by not above ’alf an hour ago." ‘° Curious," thought Sir Cyprian. “ Mrs. Walsingham t not rising in my opinion." " CHAPTER XV. "m! ma roo nose wno mrrnuss 0mm." Is acccpltin Lord Clanyarde's invitation Cyprian Davenant ad ut one thought, one motive—to be near Constanm. Not to see her. Dear asshe still was to him, he had no desire to see her. He knew that such a meeting could bring with it only bitterness for both. . But he wanted to be near her, to ascertain at once and forever the whole unvarnished truth as to her domestic life, the extent of her unhappiness, if she was un- happy. Rumor might exaggerate. Even the practical solicitor James Wyatt might represent the state of affairs as worse than it was. The human mind leans to vivid coloring and bold dramatic effect. An ill-used wife and a tyrannical husband present one of those owerful pictures which society contemplates with in- forest. Society—represented generally by Lord Dun- drearfl—likes to pity just as it likes to wonder. ‘ At archbrook Sir Cyprian was likely to learn the a, truth, and to Marchbrook he went, affecting an interest in pheasants and in Lord Clanyarde's conversation, ,,which was like a rambling and unrevised edition of i" ., stile Grem'lle Memoirs, varied with turf reminiscences. Q" "‘ There was wonderfully fine weather in that second "'..."week of December—clear autumnal days, blue skies, and sunny mornings. The pheasants were shy, and after 9* the first da Sir Cyprian left them to th 1‘ roll: have gene‘s Monte d! thing. m, and I thugs]: u... shoal halite . I am. 2! up, 0 sue. ’ a were M other then Sinclair in gues- " t. Ido,,not feel myself bound to , stand upon P c ‘ ' ‘ How long is it ’I on with“ him‘f' “Pnuctillo, man l There's no punctilio to stand upon. Sinclair sold the estate tome unconditionally, and I have an indisputable right to sell it to you.” CHAPTER xx‘r. mem‘.‘. 813 Cm Damn-r had ridden to Totteridgchew oral times after his discovery 0t Mrs. Waleingham's connection with the village as tenant of that small and unpretending house with the green shutters, glass door, and square plot of garden. It wu‘his habit to put up his horse at the inn, and go for a rustic stroll while the animal rested after his mid-day feed, and in these rambles he, had made the acquaintance of the. nurse and baby at the green-shuttered house. The nurse was a German girl, int-hired, good- natured and unintelligent. Sir c 'prisn won her heart at the outset byaddreuing her in or native language, which she had not heard since she came to England, and in the confidencetiuepired by his kind manners and excellent German she-freely imported her affairs to the stranger. Mrs. Walsingham had hired her in Brussels, and brought her home as nurse to the ltttlo girl,.whose previous nurse had been dismissed for bad conduct in that city. w » ‘j Mrs. Walsingham’s: little girl ?" inquired Sir Cy- prian. , . No. The darling was an orphan, the daughter of a poor cousin oi Mrs. Walsingham who had died in Vienna, and the kind'lady hadbrought the little one home, and was going to bring her up as her own child. ,. ' Sir Cyprian heard and was doubtful. He had his own theory about this baby, but. a theory which he would not for worlds have imparted to any one. He got on quite familiar terms with the little one by-and~ by. She was 25 chubby rosy intent of about fifteen months old, with brown eyes and fair .complexion, and . hair that {made golden-brown rings upon her ivory fore- head. 'She made frantic efforts to talk, but at present only succeeded in being loquacious in a language other own. — > She was quite ready to attach herself to the wander- ing stranger-{fascinated by his watch-chain and seals. “ What is her name '1’” asked. Bir Cyprian. “ Clara, but we always call her baby.” " Clara ‘1 That's only her Christian name. She has surname, I suppose ?” i The nurse-maid supposed as much also, but had never heard my surname, nor the profession of her little dear’s father, nor any details of the death of father and mother. Mrs. Walsinghem wash lady who talked very little, but she seemed extremely fond of Baby. She came to see her twice a week, and sometimes staid all day, playing with her. and superintending her dinner, and carrying her about the garden. 0n the'morning alter that interview with James Wyatt Sir Cyprian rode .to Totteridge and put up his horse, as usual, at the little inn. The nurse had told him that Mrs. Walsingham was to be It the cottage to- day, and he had special reasons for wishing to see that lady. He might have called upon her in Half-Moon Street, of course, but he preferred to see her at Baby’s establishment, if possible. It was noon when he welkedup and down the path- way before the cottage. waiting for Mrs. Walsingham's arrival, a bright winter day, with a blue sky and e west wind. He had exchanged'greeting with Baby already, that young lady saluting him irom her nursery window with vivacious flourishes of her pink arms. The church clock had not long struck twelve I when Mrs. Welsingham’s neat broughsm drove up. She opened the door and let herself out, and had scarcely stepped on' to the pathway when she recognized Sir Cyprian. She turned very pale, and made alittle movement, as if she would have gone back to her carriage, but Sir Cyprian advanced, hat in hand, to greet her. h "Ypu have not forgotten no.1 hope, Mrs.~Welsing- ‘m I, ’ " Sir Cyprian Dnvenat, I think I" "Yes: I had the pleasure of meetingyou more than three years Igo at the Star and Garter." “ I remember perfectly. You have been in Africa since then. I have reed some notices of your adven- tures there. I am glad to see you so little the worse for them. And now I must bid you good-morning. I have to see some people here. You can wait at the inn. Holmes," to the coechmeu. “Will you give me half an hour—a quarter of an hour's conversation, Mrs. Waleinghem ?" asked Sir Cyprian. She looked at him uneasily, evidently puzzled. " Upon whet subject 9" "Upon a matter of life and death." '"You alarm me. Hove you come here on purpose to weylay me 7 I thought our meetin wu Iceldental." " Weyluy is a disagreeable wo ; but I certainly came here this morning on‘purpuse to see you. I am going to make an appeal to your heart, Mrs. Waking- hsm. I want you to do a noble action." , « “lam afraid you have come to the wrong quarter for that commodity," she answered, with a bitter smile, but she seemed somewhat reassured by this mode of address. — I l » “ Shell we walk 1" she asked, moving away tram the garden gate.- _ , ' The wide high—road lay before them, destitute. of. my sign of human life. the leafless limes and chestnuts standing up out the winter sky, thafuuofl‘ hills purple in the c oer bright air. They would be as much alone here as within any four-wells, and Mrs. Waking- ham was evidently disinclined to admit Bit Cyprian into Ivy Cottage. as the house with thegreenohutterl wee celled. ~ ~ « l a ,“ Have you friends here I Do you otters come?" med Kn. stinghem. carelessly. , ~,, ~ . z r “I tlkevni‘y morning: ride here occasionally. when other day, while resting my horse. I made the acquaint- ‘ her that her child is at once of your German nurse and her charge. “ Baby’s: most fascinating little thing, and! take the virulence). terest in her.” , ' ', “ What a ‘ity my small niece is not old, enoughth appreciate he honor i" sneere‘d Mrs. Welhiirgham. sir Cyprian ignored the sneer. ‘ f " ‘ ‘ “ My interest in that sweet little thing has given risé to a strange idea—a wild one, you will say, perhaps— when I have explained myself. But I must begin at the beginning. I told you that I was going to make an appeal to your heart. I come here to ask you to lend. your aid in saving the life and reason of one whom you may have deemed in some wise your rival. Mrs. Sin-- Clair is dying." ' ' Mrs. Walsingham Was silent. h “ You have heard as much from some one else, per» am I,, J . . , .. “I heard that she was seriously ill.” "And mentally afilicted?” ' ' V ' "L ’ " Yes. You donot expect me to be greatly shocked or grieved, I hope. I never saw the lady, except in he? box at the opera. " ‘ ‘f Tint tan.” ‘ “ And being a‘ stranger you cannot pity her; is not i'ollowi‘ the example of the good , ‘f It I feund er on the road-sided should try to sucr- cor her, I dare say," answered Mrs. Walsingham: "but 88 her distresses do not come in my, pathvi'ay,and all :I have plenty of “ or demands upon “my pity, can hardly be expected to make myself miserable on lire. Sinclair’s account. No doubt she has plenty of I pathy—a husband who adores’flier—and the chivnlmim devotion of old admireré,.li}§iourse1f.” ‘ ‘ _, " Spare her your sneers,‘ rs. Walsingham. At no moment of her marriedliie has she been a woman, she a, envied. In her present ccpdition to remse her‘pity e , would he to beless than human. Constance Sinclair-“vi” a is dying ‘ofabroken heart." ' ‘ ’ ,, ‘ * . I ' “ Very sad,” sigh Md Mrs. Walsingham; V ‘ f’That is what you would say if one of your friend. 1; related the untimely death of a favorite lap-dog. Have jug ' you ever thought what that phrase means, Mrs. Wal- “ singham? People useit lightly enough. ’A broken heart, the slow agony of a grief that kills—a broken heart, not broken by ome sudden blow‘ that , shatters ‘joy. and life together—happy those 'whom sorrow slays with such merciiul violence+but the slow Wearing ,away, the dull, hopeless days, the sleepless nights; the despair that eats into the soul, yet is so slow to kill-)— these are the agonies which we sum up 11' htl , in our conventional phraseology, when we talk a ut broken hearts." ‘ “ Is it the loss of her baby,yvhich Mrs. Sinclair feels so deeply '2” asked Mrs. Walsingham, who had listened _ thoughtfull to Sir Cyprian’s appeal. She no longer afl‘ected a lone indifference to her rival’s grief. v "Yes. That is ibegriei which is killing her. She, ,y , has never been really happy with her husband, though; ' a“, she has been a good and dutiful wife. The chill: 2 ' ', brought her happiness. She gave it all her love. She ‘1 may have erred, perha s, in concentrating all her afle'c— tion upon this baby, ut tho:baby represented her world of love. When that was taken from her—sud- denly—without a moment's warning, she gave herself up to despair. I have talked to a faithful servant who was with her in that bitter time, who knew her mess- ureless love for the child. I have seen her in her grief, seen her the wreck of 'the_joyous girl I knew three years ago." . Mrs. Welsingham was mov: d. No softening tear veiled a the hard brightness of her dark eyes, but her lower lip worked nervously, and her increasing pallortold of a mind deeply troubled. “ If her husband had by any act of his brought her to this condition, I should call him somethin worse , than a murderer," said Sir Cyprian; " but begly u I ., \ think of Gilbert Sinclair, I cannot blame him here. It - is destiny that has been cmel—m.inscmtable Provl- a: dence which has chosen to inflict this hopeless misery i on the gentlest and most innocent of victims. It in '~ 3 very hard to understand why this should be." a "Mrs. Sinclair is not the first," said Mrs. Waking- bun, struggling against some urging feeling. "Other women have lost children they in -——only children—«- the idols of their hearts.” - p " other women have had kinder husbands, perhaps, to sympathize with and comfort them. Other women lingo had sources oi consolation which Hrs. Bilich not." ' ‘ I ‘ “She has her piety. her church. he! preyenboo . J should have thought so pure and perfect a. women would and consolation tram those. I do not profess to be religious, or to have treasures laid up in hesveumfid the loss of what I love most on earth might bring up to meatless. *But Mrs. Sinclair's : placid psi-teeth: should be above such human passionstf _ ,, V , ." he ill-human enough and weak enough to brick her heart for the loss of her child." answered Sir Cyprian, growing angry. " But you seem to be incapec bio of pity. and I iear I have been. mistaken in eppeelin to you. Yet I thought that your love for that child yonder might inspire some feeling of sympathy with In amicted mother." , "My motion for my poor little orphan commd weir thrown on my hands by misfortune—is not :- ebeorbing sentiment,“-enewered Mrs.Welsinghun, Id languidscorn.” « ‘ Cyprian.“ ’ r . A... 3': “So much the better," cried Sir "for in that case you will the sealer fall in vd. my plan for saving Mrs. Sinclair's life and reason.” , .. , “You heveepienforseving her?” ., . , ., . a " Yes, a plan recommended by her physicians, Ind ' which her huebendand Mixer have given their In comm which nothin but hope could use her; ." . she heirloom told to 1101pr “t ha been even’hinted‘to' . hill”. :Welslnghun started :35? looked at and wonder- ‘g’, M ,‘ » creel deception you: thishbutihe mew» desperate, remember. This false hope has ahead: :r'g. was; ‘l g\‘ ‘ - - “It, 32 WEAVERS AND WEFT. done something. I have heard this morning that there has been a faint rally—4 sicker of returning intelligence. (the remembers that she has been told to h A—remembera and looks forward to the realisation of he promise that has been made. If we fail her now, despair will sin take possession of her—more bitter because of th ray of ii ht. The plan formed by those who love her best is to ve her a child to love—a child whom she will believe at first to be her own, saved them the German river, but about which, in time to come,when reason and stren th have returned, she may be told the truth. She will ave given the little one her love by that time, and the adopted child will fill the place of the lost one." " A most romantic scheme. assuredly, Sir Cyprian. And pray what part do you expect me to play in this domestic drama 7 Why choose me for your confidante ?" “ The little girl you have ado ted is about the age of hire. Sinclair's baby. You ad t that she is not very dear to you—4 charge which on have taken 3011 yours “11' out of charity. Let G bert Sinclair opt that child. He shall provide handsomely for her future. or, if you prefer trusting me, I will settle a sum of money , which you shall approve, in trust for your little cousin, you yourself chaos ng the trustees. Give me that clear . g«.lwg*‘..hfld, Mrs. Walsin ham, and you will be the means of . it, .5».- 3 “have in the world to love. ' ' once loved me. Why do you prate to me of Mrs.8in- M's-via Constance clatr's life.” ‘" at child i" cried Mrs. Walsingham, lookin at him with wid eyes. "I give you that child to Con- stance Sin atr's solace and consolation-etc win Gil- bert's wife back to 1m and happiness l I surrender that child! You must be mad to ask it.” 3 “lbs answered Mrs. Walsingham, mnemeutly. "I have grown to lovo her. She is all I she reminds me of one who clair's loneliness? She. cannot be lonelier than Lam. What is there but emptiness in my heart ?——yet I do not complain of a broken heart. I do not abandon myself to madness or imbecility. I bear m burden. Let her ‘bcar here. [live you that child, in cedl That is ask- ing too much." " Pardon me, Mrs. Walsingham ; I thought I was talk- lng to a woman with a noble nature. whose higher in- stincts only needed to be appealed to." “ It is so lon since people have left od appealing to my hi her inst note that they have somewhat lost their use. you think, Sir Cyprian Davenant, that I have cause to love’ or pity or sacrifice myself for Constance Sinclair? You should know better than that, unless .igu have lived all these years in this world without , owing what kind of clay your fellow men and women nre made of. I have the strongest reason to detest Mrs. at: .2 Sinclair, and I do detest her frankly. She has done me no wrong, you will say. She has done me the greatest I wrong—robbed me of the man I love, of Wealth, status. name, and pines in the world. Do you think it matters ' tome that she was unconscious of that wrong? She "its?" ” '4 ed rival has done it, and I hate her for it, and shall so hate her till my dying day." " Your hatred will not reach her in her grave or fol- low her beyond it," answered Sir Cyprian. “ Your pity might save her life.” “ Find some hospital brat to palm of! on this distract- Qd mother-«some baby-farmer's protegec." " I will and some respectably borzr. child, be sure, . Waleingham. It was only a fancy, erhaps, which ' ed me to propose takingl your little inswoman. I oounted_too much upon t e generosity of a disappoint- And with this home-thrust, Sir Cyprian bowed, and walked away, leaving the lady to her own reflections. A’ woman of this kind, a being swayed by passion, is often a mass or inconsistency and contradiction, new hot, new cold. At a late hour that evening Sir Cyprian received a letter, delivered by a man-servant. It was tom Mrs. Walsingham. “ I am the most wretched of women "—she wrote— “ utterly weary of life. Mrs. Sinclair may have the child. She would grow up a wretch if she grew up under my influence. for every day makes me more mis- erable and more bitter. What shall I be as an old wo- man 7 Send some trustworthy person to fetch the little girl tomorrow. I ve her up to you entirely, but “a nicondltion that .Sinclair shall never know to 1! one she owes heradopted child. May the adoption prosper! But as I hear that Mr. Sinclair is in a fair way to ruin, I do not think you are giving my young tinswoman a very brilliant start in life. Be this as it may, I wash my hands of her. She has not brou ht me happiness: and perhaps if I were to let her wind creel! round my heart,it might prove by-sndaby that I had taught a serpent to coil there. I have not too good an opinion .of herblood. Yours truly. ‘ - - “Cum Wm“. “minor Srnsr, Wednesday Night." nun—nu CHAPTER XXII. max. on em. Its. drum was told by Lord manysrde of the plan firemen had been devised by the German ph sician for daughter's cure. and. after a lengthy uasion, gave his sullen consent to the imposturc. 5-, ,p ,3, ' v. y , (lonstance-bao . " ldon’t like your German doctor—us thorou h-paced charlatan. I'll. warrant,” he said; " and I don't his palm- in}? [mg off an imposter upon my poor wife. But if you see any chance of goodfrom this experiment. letit be tried. known I Would give my heart's blood tomorrow to ' to health and reason." I was said withan' unmistakable earnestness. and Les-d Clanysrde believed it. He did not know what bitter reason Gilbert'flnelair had for deairi his wife’s W11! tbs-guilt . consciousness that brutality was the chief cause 0 her illness. - I , “hammeringmmm bastiato my house. I hope i" said Gilbert, with the pride of a man, whose grandfather had worked in the mines, and whose father had died worth a million. ~ " No; we shall find a gentleman's child—some orphan of about Christabel's age—40 adopt.” Gilbert shru‘ggcd his shoulders and said no more. The visit 0 the German physician had certainly wrought a change in Constance Sinclair's condition, and Dr. Webb declared that the change was for the better. She seemed to have awakened from that dull apathy, that utter inertness of mind and body, which both the London physician and the faithful country watch-dog had taken to be the precursor of death. She was rest- less—fluttered by some expectation which kept her senses curiously on the alert—wistful, watchful, listen- ing—staring at every opening of a door, at every com- ing footiall. 0n the morning after Dr. Hollendorf's visit, she asked for her Bible. and began to read David's psalms of thanksgiving and rejoicing aloud, like one who gave thanks fora great joy. later in the same day she went to the piano and sang—sang as she had never done since the When illness—can; like one who pours forth t e gl of her heart in melody. When Dr. Webb came that afternoon, he found his patient sitting in an arm-chair b the window, propped up with pillows, much to the isgust of Melanie Du- port, who was on duty at this time. " I know she isn't strong enough to sit up,” said Melanie to the doctor, " but she would do it. She seems to be watching for something or some one." The long window, opening upon the balcony, com- mandbd a distant curve of the drive leading up to the house, and it was on this point that Constance Sin- clair's eyes were used. '- What are you waiting for, dear lady ?" asked Dr. Webb, in his bland voice. that caressing tone in which medical men address feminhc and in antine patients. In Dr. Webb’s case. the blandness meant more than it usually does, for he really loved his patient. " I am watching for my child. They will bring her today, perhaps. The strange doctor told me she was not drowned. It was true, wasn’t it? He wouldn't deceive me. There was somethin in his voice that made me trust him-something the went to my heart. My darling was saved, and she is coming back to me. You won't deceive me, I know. She is coming—soon —-soon-—-soon. Dear, dearest, Dr. Webb, is it true i" " Dear Mrs. Sinclair, you must not agitate yourself in this way," cried the doctor, flattered by this address. “Yes, es, Lord Clanyarde is going to bring you the little g rl, and you'll be very fond of her, I hope, and feel quite happy again.” " Happy i" cried Constance; "Iahall be in heaven. Ask papa to bring her soon." She was restless throughout that day—sleepless all night. Sometimes her mind wandered, but at other times she spoke clearly and reasonably of God’s good- ness to her in saving her child. 0n the following day the same idea was still paramount, but she was some- what weakened by her eacitement and restlessness, and was no longer able to sit up at her post of observation by the window. As the day wore on the old dull apathy seemed to be creeping over her again. She lay on her couch by the fire, silent, exhausted, noticing nothing that occurred around her; her pulse was alarmingly weak, her eyes vacant and hesv . " If they don’t bring the chi d soon, it will be too late for their experiment," thought Dr. Webb ; " and if they do bring it, the excitement may be fatal. God guide us aright i” It was dusk when Lord Clanyarde's brougham drove up to the mporch. and his lordship slighted, carrying a child mu ed up in soft woolen shawls, and fast asleep. Gilbert Sinclair had not yet returned from his daily ride. The house was dark and empty. Lord Clanyardc wont straight to his daughter's room, where Dr. Webb was sitting, too anxious to leave his patient till the crisis which the intended experiment might produce had passed safely. Dr. Webb was not particularly hopeful about the strange doctor’s plan. “ Such good news. my darling," said Lord Clanyarde, with elaborate cheerfulnesa ; " pray don’t agitate your- self. my dear Constance.” She, had started up from her sofa already, and tattered toward him with outstretched arms. "Lhavebrought you your baby. The little pet was not drowned, after all, and some good people in Ger- many took care of her. , You will find her changed, of course—three or four months makes such a din'erence in a baby." , Constance neither heeded nor heard. She was sitting on the floor with the newly awakened child in her lap, hugging it to her breast, weeping sweetest tears over the soft, curly head, breathing forth her rapture in low. inarticulate exclamation. The lire-light shone on the picture of mother and child clinging together thus—the little one submitting ,uncqmplainingly to those vehement caresses. I -" Thank God i” simulated ’Lord Clsnyards within . " She doesn’t ask a question, poor child. lShe hasn’t the faintest suspicion that we're deceiving or.ll \ “ He had chosen this hour for the introduction of the infant impostor so that Constance’s first scrutiny of the baby features should take place in a doubtful light. 11am impressions were but favorable, doubts would hardly arise afterward in that enfeebled mind. Only when reason was fully restored would Constance begin to ask/awkward questions. This evening she did not even scrutinize the baby 300; she only covered it with tears and kisses, and laid D rby ainst her bosom, and was he py. she accepted this by stranger at once as her oat Christabel. Dr. Webb was delighted. Those tears. those caresses. those gushes of happy love—what medicines could work such cure for a mind astray l " pen my word-I believe you have done the right thing, aadtliat your German'dootoris not such a W uack as I thought him.” whispered the little man to rd Clanyards. He had still better reason to say this three or four hours later, when Constance was sleeping tranquilly— a sound and healthy slumber such as she had not known f0; many weary weeks—with the baby nestling at her si e. Mr. Sinclair heard of the success that had attended the experiment, and seemed glad, or as lad as a man could be who had pressing cause for tron le. CHAPTER XXIII. " new names! mu ores 'rnn mruna.” Ir Fortune in a general way is a capricious and un- certain divinity, assuredly thatpa'rticular goddess who presides over the affairs of racing men is most given to tlricka and starts, to sudden frowns and unexpected smi es. Gilbert Sinclair's new stables had, up tothe begin‘ ning of this present year, brought him nothing but ill luck. So u-nvarying had been his reverses thathhis trainer and grooms gave full scope to their supe Itio tion, and opined that the stables were unlucky, and that no good would ever come out of them. "There had been a murder committed, maybe, somewherea about," suggested one man. " or the ground had been wrongfully come by ; who could tell ?” With the Craven meeting, however, the tide turned. and the Sinclair stables scored three pal able hits. But this was not all. Mr. Sinclair had t a colt at York two years before, with all his hults and all his engagements—the engagements par- ticularly heavy and the limits including one which the veterinary authorities behaved in ght be fatal to the animal's career as a racer. The colt was of renowned lineage on both sides, and had a genealogg that went back to his great-grandsire and bristlod wit famous names—a colt in whose future some magnate of the turf would doubtless have speculated two or three thousand, but for that unlucky splinter. Gilbert Sinclair bought the colt for two hundred and fifty, under the advice of his trainer, a shrewd York- shire man, who loved a bargain better than the beat purchase made in a regular way. . “He's got the Touchstone and the Spectre blood in him," said Mr. Jackson, the trainer. " He's bound to come out a flyer if we can cure that off fore-leg." “ But suppose we don't, Jackson," said Gilbert, doubt- fully. "Two hundred and fifty's a lot of money for a lame horse, and his engagements will come to a good bit more." “ You may as well lose your money on him as on any thing else, mayn't you i” argued Mr. Jackson, who had no exalted opinion of his employer's judgment, and did not trouble himself to proton a greater respect than he felt. The best of men is but small in the eyes of his trainer. “ You let me have that there colt to nuss, and say no more about it. It‘ll be a fad for me. I ought to have my fancy sometimes. You have yours, and a fat lot comes of it.” Thus urged, Gilbert bought the colt, and John Jack- son took him under his wing, and made him his pet and darling, shutting him up in impenetrable loose boxes, and exercising him secretly in the morning gray in se- questered paddocks far from the eyes of touts. Mr. Jackson had children—children who climbed his knees and called him father in childhood's lisping syllables, but there was a pride in John Jackson's eye and a ten- derness in his voice when he spoke of Goblin, the bay colt, which his children had never been able to evoke. “ I want to win the Derby before I die," he said, with a touch of sentiment, like Moses signing for the land of Canaan, "it isn't much to ask for, after having done my duty by a blessed lot of screws.” Nobody—not even Mr. Sinclair himself~could ever penetrate the veil of mystery with which Jackson sur- rounded his favorite. Whether Goblin was doing well or ill was a secret which Jackson kept locked within his own breast. When Jackson looked gloomy, the underlings of the stable concluded that Goblin was " on his feed,” or that Goblin was " up to nought." .When it came to the contest of a trial, Mr. Jackson shrank from the contest, and when compelled to run his protege against the best horse in the stable, secretly weighted Goblin in such summer as to insure his being ignominiously beaten. Goblin kept none of his two-year-old engagements though Mr. Jackson went so far as to admit by this time that the colt was no more lame than he was, “But I ain't going to let him ikitter away his strength in two— year-old races," said Hr. Jackson, decisively; “I ain’t forgotten Bonnie Dundee." Gilbert Sinclair submitted unwillingly, being at this , time very low down in hisluck as aracingman. and anxious for any success which might in some wise re- deem his position. Now came sp ~violets and rimroses; woodlands white with chestnut bloom an hawthorn; nightin- gales warbling their vesper love «nag: and—much more important to gentlemen of Kr. clair's class—- the Two Thousand Guineas. And new Goblin came forward to perform his first im ortant en . ment as a three-year—old, and Gilbert Bin :- was ric y rewarded for his patience. Goblin—a horse entirely unknown to the racing pub- lic—came in an easy winner, and Gilbert. who had taken his trainer's advice. and had backed his horse to the utmost of his capacity, won a small fortune, as well as feeling pretty sure about his expectations for the s It was the first t success Gilbert Sinclairhad ever had u on the in . and he leftNewmsrket that ni ht al- most ght-headed with excitement. Things h been flung much better with him. since January. The men d gone back to their work in the my north. In- dian steamers were usifi Mr. Sinol r‘s coal as fast as he could produce it. a golden tide was flowing in . ,..‘..MW‘ mm; . .. f . acorn the notion of snrreuderin ' in due course. \s WEA VERS AND ,WEFT. n his exchequer again, and his banker’s book no 10 or presented a dismal blank upon its left-hand pages. e success at Newmarket was the crowuing mercy. 'He hit himself a rich man once more, and laughed to Davenant atmidsum- mar. Wyatt had bought and pa for the estate, but of course would be glad to sell it again at a profit. ' The scheme for Constance Sinclair's restoration had prospered wonderfully. Health 'and strength had re- turned, and with these the clear light of reason. She had never doubted the identity oi the little girl Lord Olanysrde brought her that winter evening with the child she had lost. She had readil accepted the story—~a somewhat lame one—of the chil 's rescue by some kind German peas- ants who had brought it over to England. where. by a curious chain of circumstances, Lord Clanyarde had come to know 0! its existence. The little girl was known to the whole household as Mr and Mrs. Sin- clair's own child. There would be time enough by- lndvb to reveal the impostnrs. Even Martha Briggs —litt e Christabel's devoted nurse—had never suspected the trick that had been played upon her mistress. The only member of the household that had shown any par- ticular curiosity or desire to know the ins and outs of this business was Melanie Duport. That young wo~ man had asked as many questions as she could venture to put. and had appeared somewhat mystified by the course of events. So there had beenpeace at Davenant during the early :pring. Constance had been quietly happy in the little rl s society. and in those Joys which the con- valescent feels when a world that has been darkened to the wandering mind reappears in all its light and beauty. Never ad the woods and fields, the blue April sky and shini river. seemed so lovely in the eyes of Constance Sine air as the appeared this year. Her love of music, of art, of all right things, seemed inten- sified by that awiul season of darkness, in which these delights had been blotted from her mind. Her husband was tolera 1y kind to her. but spent much of his time away um Davenant, and did not trouble her repose by iilling the house with his rackety companions. . Wyatt came now and then for a day or two, but a; was the only guest during this tranquil spring- e. Thus stood matters early in May. when Goblin won the Two Thousand Guineas, and, in the trainer’s phra- seologz, brought his owner a pot of money. Gil rt went up to London an hour alter the race with his pot of money, or, at any rate, some portion of it, in his pocket. The rest would be paid up at Tattersall’s He had eaten nothing that day, having been too anxious about the result of the race to eat any breakfast, and too much elated by his triumph to eat any dinner. He had therefore been compelled to sustain na- ture upon brandy and soda, which is not exactly a sedative for a man of hot temper. He talked about Goblin and his own cleverness in gettingihold of Goblin all the way up to London, and arrived at Shoreditch with his pulse galloping and his blood at fever heat. I " I'm not going to let that beggar have Davenant now," he said to himself. “ This race brings me in something like twenty thou', and I shall pot as much more over the Derby." He called a hansom, and told the man to drive to Bloomsbury Square, intending to honor Mr. Wyatt, otherwise “ that beggar," with a call. The cab rattled through the grimy city streets, all shiningin the setting sun, which was fading redly on the westwardfacin windows of the grave old square when Gilbert alighte at Mr. Wyatt's door. ' It was a line old house which the solicitor occupied, one of the oldest and largest in the square, and there had been no attempt to disfigure a house in which Steele and his companions may have hobnobed over the mid- night bottle with such modern improvements as stucco without and gas within. » - o A respectable-looking man-servant, out of livery, ad- mitted Mr. Sinclair into a square hall, oak-paneled and paved with black and white marble. The doors were oak, deeply set in the solid old walls, the srchitraves handsome enou h for a modern palace. An old-fashioned oil lamp had ust been lighted, and shed a sickly ieflow light on some of the panels, while others re- acted the crimson glow in the west, as inhey had been. splashed with blood. “ Your master at home i" asked Gilbert. “Yes, air. He has just dined. Shall I show you into the dining-room i" ‘ “Yes; and you can bring me something to eat, Staples," replied Gilbert, who was quite at home in his solicitor's house. He went into the dining-room without giving the man time to announce him. James Wyatt sat in a lounging attitude facing the western sun, with a claret Jug and an untouched dessert before him on the small «oval table. Ehat sn‘pg oval 1iéible let pollazd with had duperseded t e pon erous 0 ma ogany wen y- we fleet by six, at which Mr. Wyatt's lather and grandfather been wont to entertain their friends. James Wyatt wanted no twenty-two foot table, for he never ve large parties. Cozy quartettes, or even confiden- ‘ al tale-Mm banquets, were more to «his liking. and he use elaborate and careful a dinner to a man who Sued with him alone as other men provide for a gath- ering that includes all the magnates of their circle. Were poilard oak» gifted with speech,that snu oval board could have told many a thrilling tale of hirty r cent. which had been made. in the nitiative stage. 0 seem only seven; of clients in the city who had money to lend, and were so good-natured about lend- ingit, on a safe mort e another-wise; and of that awful hour in which some good. «shying clients assumed quite another character, and were deterniined ' foreclose. or to get their money back}? any means. t happil for the maintenance of the scencies, Mr. ’s table was not loqaacioss. and. the grave old *yatt t * room, with a few fine pictures on the oak paneling, and some valuable bronses on the tall chimney-piece, looked respectable enough to inspire confidence in the most suspicious mind lithe pictures had been daubs, or the furniture gaudy, the edect would have been diflereut. But the pictures looked like heir-looms and the fumi- ture told of a chastened taste and a refinement that implied virtue and honor in the possessor thereof. “ Back already i" exclaimed. Mr. Wyatt. "How did Goblin go 7 Got a place 7" " Won in a center,” answered Gilbert, flinging him- self into a chair, and wiping his damp forehead. " Never saw such a horse. There’s nothing to beat him. I was right about him. you see." . "Jackson was right about him, you mean. Have some dinner?" said Mr. Wyatt, ringing the bell. " Thanks, I've ordered some. i don't stand upon punctilio with you, you see." “ I should be very sorry if you did. Well, you've made a heap of money, I suppose." “Yes, it's a pretty good haul. Jackson raved like a lunatic about the horse. I was to put on every six- pence i had. I told the fallsva should be ruined it Goblin lost. 'He won‘t lose.’ raved Jackson, dancing about like a maniac. 'You don’t know what that hoes can do. I tried him last Hes-ch against Lord Wildair's Cowcumber, and put a butts seven pound on him, and Cowcu'mber was nowhere. I felt sorry I hadn’t made it fourteen pound when I saw that blessed Cowcumber regular umped.‘ I was bound to believe in the horse after tha , wasn't I?" " Yes, if on could believe in the trainer." " ell, he result has shown that he told me the truth. Oh, here comes the dinner." Gilbert made a weak attempt to eat some iish, and a still weaker attempt at a plate of lamb, but failed in both ed‘orts. "I've no a petite," he said. "You'd better give me abrandy-an -soda." “ How many brandies and sodas have you had to- day 7" asde Wyatt, with an air of friendly anxiety, that tone of an easy-going mentor which long use had made natural to him. If James Wyatt's clients went to the dogs, their ruin could never be laid at his door. He gave them such good advice upon the way, and parted with them with ai‘riendly shake hands at the last, just before the dogs eat them. - " Do you suppose I counted them ?" demanded Gil- bert, with a laugh. “The sun was hot, and I was ex- cited about Goblin. I had a pocket full of liver and it’s all one, and I don't think I’ve paid for anything 1exttiept randy and soda. That's a rough way of calcu- ‘ ng'll “ You've been drinking too much brandy, Gilbert." " That’s my lookout.” " Trysome of that claret." " I'll have brandy or nothing.” ' 1dr. Wyatt sighed and rang the bell, and then tilled a large, cool-looking glass with the Lafitte, which he sipped in a calmly appreciative manner, with the air of a man who had never been thirsty in his life. " Yes, Jim," be an Gilbert, barking back, " I've made a tidy haul to- ay, and I expect a bigger haul on Wednesday fortnight. And now, old fellow, I want you to do me a favor." . “Find a ood investment for your winnings? With pleasure. can get you a safe seven per cent.” “ Thanks, that’s not the favor I mean. Ah, here‘s the stuff," as the man brought in a spirit stand and a supply of soda-water. " I want you to let ~me have Davsnant back, Jim,” pouring brandy intoasmall tum~ bier, without looking at the quantity. “ You can’t want the place for yourself, you know." ",,Why not ?" “ Well,~my dear boy," replied Mr. Sinclair, with the amiable candor which is sometimes induced by alcohol, “ you're not the sort of a man to play the country gen- tleman. You wouldn't find it pay. You may stop, you may shut up the shop if on will, but the odor of sixty per cent. will hang roun you still. You understand, old fellow. The country people wouldn’t associate with you—they come to me, you know, for my wife’s sake: that’s a did‘erent thing. They wouldn’t cotton to you. They're very fond of bofiowing money, but they don’t like money-lenders. You 'd find country society a dead letter, dear boy, and it would be folly to keep up such a placeas Davenant for the reception of a pack of young high! from London. You can pluck such pigeons any- w ere;" ’ “lilow kind of youto be so interested in my busi- ness , “tNothiug like candor between friends," said Gil- “ And you want me to sell Davenant ? That's curious. You were red-hot to sell a few months ago." “ I was down in my luck just then. Things have changed for the better. And I ilnd that Icare more for the place than I thought I did. And I shouldn’t par- ticularly like my neighbors to crow over me. It would go); as ifI were ruined ifl parted with such a place as I ‘DI " What acorn leto change of tone! I suppose your iwife’s recovery as caused this alteration in your feel. ngs." Gilbert winced. It always stung him when James Wyatt spoke of his wife. The man's tone im lied some occult knowledge. Speak as courteoust as e might. there was always alurking sneer in his speech. "Come, Jim, I'll give you a handsome profit on your bargain. What more can you want i Name your own terms. I know you only bought the place In In “Mama”; an d that th “ u pose .sn es ulationhalw ed. 833w then ‘2" ’ - “You mean that you have sold it again W “ Within {ascendstwenty hours of my urcbase." " By Jot:21 that‘s sharp work i" cried Gilbertbflkfl "But perhaps the man who Wt t , take a profit on his purchase." » g , “ Not much chance of that. The man who bought it would have given me almost any money for the place, if I had been inclined to take advantage ofhis eagerness to get it.back sin.” ' " Back again ” cried Gilbert, starting u with a ve- hemenoe that sent the sodaowater bot spinning across the table.»" to get it back again 1 Then you've sold it to Sir Cyprian Davenant l" ' " That's the man.” answered Wyatt. opening lei! ci» gar-case and atl'ecting an extreme deliberation in the choice of a cigar. “ Jim Wyatt, you’re a soonndrel l” roared Sinclair. " That's strong. and actionable into the bargain. Don’t be a fool, Sinclair. You want to turn your estate into money. I give you the money you want, and take my property to the best market. Where is the wrong?" j' Where is the wrong ? You duped, you hood- wmked me. You know how I hate that man. You know that I would rather cut my throat than give him any advantage. You know, or you ought toknow, that my chief motive in buying Davemnt was to humiliate him. to ve my wife the place he might have given hon to s ow her which was the better man of the two. to set my heel upon Sir Cyprian Devenant. And you swindle me out of my reve 9; you put the winning card into my enemy’s hand. on, my in , ‘ you. who have made thousands out of me i" "I grant the thousands," answered James Wyatfififi V looking up, and facing his accuser with e sparkle of as: ’ hence in his pals gray eyes. “ People who want dirty work done must pay a good price for it. But as for friendship, please remember that I have never made any rofessions on that score. When have you ever treated he a Mend, Gilbert Sinclair, or like an equal 1 I'll have you descended from the lofty standpoint of y ' coal-pits and your smelting-works to my level 1' Hot n , And you think because you have made a social mat of menbecsuse you have let me fetch and . t and honored me with yam-confidence when you wanted to air your evsnces, or get out oi‘edifliculty—-becan in one wo , I have been useful, you think am to you my Mead, and sacrifice my own interests to any amount in order to gratify your spite. You wanted to get rid of Davenant; I took it oii‘ your hands. and made a profit by the transaction. You don't suppose I would speculate five-andthirty thousand to oblige you i" " Judas !" cried Gilbert Sinclair, seizinghis quondom friend by the throat, mad with passion. The soberer and calmer man had the better of more brute force. James Wyatt shook off his assailant as easily as if he had been the athlete, and Gilbert the thinker and plotter. “ Fool l" he exclaimed, contemptuously; “ don't waste your breath in upbraiding me with treachery. Look at home. Look to your own house, and your pretty wife, who recovered her senses so quickly under the luau-- once of her German physician. Have you had many visits from that German physician, Mr. Sinclair? Per- haps be times his visits so as to avoid meeting you. You spend a good deal of your life away from Davenant, you see.” “ What do you mean ?" gasped the other. "What I say. Look at home ior treachery. I gave you a hint the night our German friend first came to your house, but you were too dull to take it." Gilbert started, and looked at him intently. "I remember what you said-—‘ Watch your wife. I did watch her. What than i" we: “ You saw how he—the strange doctor—could arrows. ‘ intelligence which no one else could rouse. You set! C . . n I c.‘ .I‘ n». how she sang at his bidding—how tears flowed—fan him. A case of electro-biology, one would sup ." " Wyatt, I shall strangle you if you don't put your meaning into the very lainest words i" “ And perhaps strung e me if I do. I must risk that, I suppose," said Mr. Wyatt. with a laugh. "Plainly, then, you should have made better use of your eyes that night, and seen through the disguise of a pair of smoke-colored spectacles and a gray wig board. The man who came to your house with LordClanysa'de was Sir Cyprian Davenant." " It's a lie i" cried Gilbert Sinclair. ' “ It's as true as that your wife’s recovery dates tom the hour of his visit." " You knew this—-you-—-my legal adviser—«friend—end you sold my estate to that maxim-knowing this i” cried 8inclair,almoet inarticulats with ‘on. , “ Again I must repeat that 1 never professed to be your lend. As your legal adviser, Ihad no night to interfere in your domestic stairs. As to thank of the property. I cannot see how that ail'ects your position with Sir Cyprian " - ' IfGilbert could have down at the men’s throat again and strangled him. there might have been some satis- faction in that act of sav ery. To cellhim badnemes. and to see his sardonic n as he heard them, was a floor relief. but all that civilization allowed. Gilbert urled someof the hardest epithets in the vocabulary of abuse at that smiling traitor, and than dung himself out of the room and out of the house. . The haneom was waiting for him—meekly as your most spirited hansem will wait on a balmy evening for a safe customer. The young May moon was up in the soft opal sky. I “ Chafing Cross Station-double fare,” cried Hr. Sinclair; and the cab-horse enlivened the shades of quietBloomsbury by the clatter of his poor chirped boots in e hand-gallop. ' I t‘vfi' e s s e s a It * "‘23: - We ‘ James Wyatt paced his room in the donuts poison , shadows, deep in thought. He had sent a bath to the heart or the man he hated. and he was glad. There was not apetty slight of ds it gone by. not a? smell insolenoe. for which he ‘ W Nd 11111189“ handsomely by to-night's work; but it was not to avenge the millionaire‘s t flights and steal! inso- leases, not to uplift the cm «his and!“ esteem, viper-ii e, that he had strong hum. its it... .3» v ‘ “* ma ~M»..._. ,. .aa _ 24 WEA VERS AND weir. hatred of Gilbert Sinclair had a deeper root than wounded ride. Disappointed love was its Source. But for Gil ert Sinclair he might have been loved by the . one woman whose regard be valued. Clara Walsingham's constancytoher old lover was the of- fense that made Gilbert loathsome to his quondam kind, and it was to gratify his own jealousy that he had aroused the demon of jealously in. his rival’s breast. r " He shall know the flavor of the anguish he has gamed me," thought ' Wyatt, ‘ if his coarse soul can annex as I have suffered for a woman’s sake. Whether his wife is guilty or innocent, matters nothing to; me. who pain will be his. If he were man enough to blow his brains out, now, there might be a chance for me .withGlara. So long as he lives she will cling to the hope of winning him back. Where is she hiding, I wonder, and what is her scheme oflife, while I am wean mg my me out for her sake '2" I Mr. Wyatt had not seen Mrs.Walsingham since that interview in which she had refused to keep faith with him, flinging her promise to the winds. He had gone. to Half~Moon Street on the following Saturday evening, 3 ,, determined to make peace with her at_ any sacrifice of , at?ng owngdignitygwith the slavish pertinacity of a man ‘ “Wth passionately loves. He had driven up to the door, expecting to see the lighted windows shining out ‘ . you the, wintry street, to hear Herr Klavierschlager . , pounding the Erard, and the bum and twitter of many voices. as he went up the narrow flowemntsd stair- case ; but to his surprise the windows were-ll (lat, ‘ r and a sleepy little maid:servant cameto the door with ‘, a glittering tallow candle, and informed him that Mrs. W ‘ ‘- ,igalsinglram had gone abroad, the maid-servant knew , whither. , ‘ ‘ ".Wasthereno direction left for forwarding letters ?" ,‘ked m. Wyatt. . , , y , 1' No, Sirynot as I knows of. The hsgent, p’r'apsh got has the lettin’ of the ’ousc might know.” x‘Mr.‘Wyatt hunted out the house-agent on Monday morning, but. that useful member of society had re- ceived noiuformstion about Mrs. Walsinghsm's destinar tion, whether she meant to travel or to be stationary. He was to let her house to a good tenant, and to com. r , municate with her through her solicitor. I = Mr. Wyatt went to the solicitor, who politely refused to give his client’s address. ‘ “Perhaps she has gone into a convent," thought James Wyatt, at his wits" end ; and this disappointment added not a little to the bitterness of his feelings toward that profitable client. of his, Gilbert Sinclair. « a: * is * ’k ’l‘ 3% r Staples, the butler, came in with the lamps, shut the solid old oak shutters, cleared the tables, and brought - his master a cup of coffee, all in an orderly and respect- :‘7 able manner that was well worth his sixty pounds a E year. Mr. Wyatt was a man who would not have kept a bad servant a week, and never parted with a good i one. ‘ r ”’ The postman's knock sounded on the ponderous r door while Mr. Wyatt was sipping his coffee. and Staples came in with several letters on a silver waiter. :3 James Wyatt spread them out before him thoughb fully, as if this; were cards and he were csloulatln their value. andsome creamy envelopes, thick an aristocratic. with armorial bearings on the seals ; others blue and business-like, and unpretendlngly in- ,Wssive. wild shiny. This was the first he opened. ’ The letter it contained was written in a small scratch- ing hand, unmistakably foreign, little curly tails to all the d’s, a general scragginees in the y's, apaucity of capitals. I "Why do you not let me see you, orwrito to me? Is it not-that it is cruel, after so much of romlses ? You leave me to languish, without hope. earn you that I shall content to be servant for always, after what you have promised ? But do not believe it. I have too much spirit. It must that I tell: to you of all that at leisure, the eyes in the eyes, that I may see. if you are true, if you have good r intentions to my regard. Write me, and very quickly, my friend, it must that I have of your news. Always your - " Manama," " This comes of an innocent flirtation-wpour user le temps—in a stupid‘vcountry-house," said Mr. ystt, cramp in; the letter savagely. " This girl will worry any me out. I was a fool to amuse myself with such a dangerous little vi or. And if I'were to be frank with her, and tell her ogo about her business, she might make matters unpleasant for me. The law comes down rather heavily on anything in the shape of conspiracy, and that little arbor at Schonesthal might be made to assume 'thpt complexion. And the law never comes down so heavily as when it, gets its boot on a man who has plenty to lose. Your British jury, too, has no liking ‘ for amen who turns his superfluous capital to good ac- count by landing: it to tools. No, I must keep that ‘sbhmfisthal business out of the, law courts at any 00““ '* Melanie must be pensioned,’ and sent back to her n‘m3W9yaor' her native slum-forl should think such sofas-t 1 young person must have been born in- come featuring city alley, rather than among vineyards or orchardst ~ V , . Mr. Wyatt went to his writinzrtsble and answered Mademoiselle anort’s letter without delay—briefly ' ‘and cautiously. ' V CHAPTER XXIV. ' ‘ M i. [GILBERT sens s Won. - In W manysrde had been within easy reach. minim-r would'hsve gone straightwsy to ‘ we with hisltrescho" "in imaging ito Davenant disguised an in; a false name; but Lord One narrow little envelope. thin, 'green” Clanyarde, finding blinsell at fifty years. of age on- tirely unfettered by domestic encumbrances, was indulging his natural frivolity among a more agreeable people than his. serious and business-like fellow- countrymen. Lordclanyarde was eating ices and play- ing dominoes under the ,colounades ,of Venice, with thoughts of moving to Tyrolean mountains when the weathergrew tocrwarm in the fair sea;girt city. So Gilbert, not being able to get at Lord Clsnyarde, nursed his wrath to keep ,it warm, and went straight home to Davenant Park, where Constance was leading her calm and happy life, seeing hardly anything of what the world calls ” society,” but surrounded by the people she had. known since her childhood~the good old rector, who had christened her; the devoted little doctor, who had watched her so patiently when her dull eyes had hardly recognised his families has; the sohoolmistress, the old pupils, the yr. old gardeners and the sunburned gamekeepers; tho and goodies who had been old when she was a v ,, and seemed hardly any older for the twenty years that had passed over their heads since then. Cheeks a little more shriveled, perhaps, brows more deeply wrinkled, shoul- ders a trifle more bent, but exactly the some apprecia- tion of tea and. tobacco, half-crowns and new nooker~ chiefs, the Psalms and therector’s sermons. ‘ Never had spring seemed to her so beautiful as it second this year,,when she lad her little girl through the woods and showed h the newly awakened flowers, and told her the names of the birds that poured out such gushing songs, of glsdness in the warm bright noon. The childfs l, boson to shape isolated words—— mam, menu, and b fowers for flowers—Divine lan- m to the mother's ear. Never was child happier or more fondly loved. Mirth. Briggs, hothing doubting, hugged this little Wait to her) honest heart, and even Melanie, who had,a curious inward revulsion from the child, had to pretend a meet enthusiastic devotion and deepest gratitude to Providence for the little one’s res- toration. Once, inspired by some familiar spirit of evil, she could not resist dropping a little'polson into her mistre‘ss’s cup ofioy. , " Do you feel quite sure there has been no mistake, ma'sm’ 1’" she asked. “ I sometimes fancy our darling could not have been saved. I saw her carried away by the current, carried past me like astrnw, and it has never been quite explained how she was rescued." , Constance looked at her with eyes on fire with indig- nation. " Am I sure that this is my child 7" she cried, clasping the baby to her breast. “Am I sure of my own name, of my life? If all the rest of life were a dream or a shadow,1should know that Christabel was real and ‘ true. Who’csn deceive a mother 7” , “ You were so ill when the little girl was brought home," euggutcd Melanie, with an air of conscientious oubt. “ Not too ill to remember my Christabel. We knew each other, did we not, darling? Our lip-clung to— gether as if we had never been arted. Not know my own child, indeed! Never dare 0 make such a sugges- tion again, Melanie.” ’ After this Mademoiselle Duport was discreetly silent on the subject of this present Christsbel’s identity with the Ohristabel of the past; but the time was to come when Constance Sinclair’s faith was to receive a rudersbock. ‘ Gilbert went home that evening after theTwo Thou- sand,'savage,with his mind full of scorpions. .Goblin‘s success was as nothing to him. He hardly remembered that one of his horses had won a great race for the first the since he had kept horses.- He. had. counted on tunes Wyatt’s fidelity just so he had counted on his horse or his dog, a creature bought with his monsry, M and housed by him. Wyatt bad profited by him ; Wyatt was bound to stand by him ; and as to those various all his which he had put upon his confidential adviser at lvers times, almost unconsciously. it had never occurred to him that there could be any gelling wound left by such small stings, the venom whereof was to react upon himself. If he had has (1 favors upon the man, if he lied been the most nine and devoted of friends. he could not have felt James Wyatt’s, treachery more keenly. He was with himself for having been soeasy s dupe, for hm: given any man power to get the better of him. I, . _ " The whole thing is a planned revenge," he thought. “ Wyatt know how it would gall me to see Bir Cyprian back at Davenant." And Wyatt had flung s ilro-brsnduinto that revelation about the pretended German doctor; Could it be, Gil- bert asked himself, or was it a malicious invention of Wyatt's? Would Lord Clsnyarde have lent himself to such a deception? , Even Lord Clsnyarde might have been hoodwinksd by his daughter‘s lover. , " I won't accuse her, not yet awhile,” he sold to him- self. “ It will be better to keep quiet and watch. I have been too often away. I have iven her too much license. That innocent face of are would deceive Satan himself. ‘ And, I. have allowed myself to think that there was no gulls in her ; that although she has _ never loved me, she has never wronged me. Hard to find. after all. that I havejudgsd her tooleniontly." It was ’after‘midni ht when Mr. Sinclair arrived at Davenant. and he had 0 ring up One of the servants to let him in, his return being altogether. unlocked for. He did not Constance until thenext day. and by this time BWgalned the mastery of himself. The position i affairs between husbandsnd wife since Mrs. Sinclair's recovery had been a kindof armed neutrality. Gilbert had neverallnded to that awful day on which he had raised his hand against his wife, nor had Con- stance. Doubtful whether she reinembered that un- happy occurrence. and use ly ashamed ofthe brutality into ‘ while}:i Earlene in him, Hr. «wioely. op r ownicounoe . o apologise; be to make a revelation.» mu remorse whom it-. self by increased civility toms-wife, and a new* defer~ to me." once to her, feelings, for which she was duly, stei’ul- Gentle, submissive always, she gave her husand no cause of ofi‘cnse, save that one rankliug core which had begun to gall him directly the triumphant sense of‘ possession had lost its power to satisfy-Allie conscienc- ness that he had never won her heart This smouldeh fling fire needed but a spar-Poi jealousy to raise a fatal ame.‘ _, A Constance expressed herself much pleased at Goblin's success, when Gilbert announced the fact, with very little elation, on the day after the race. They were dining together tote-a-tetc in the spacious paneled room, which seemed so much too big for them. These cere- monious late dinners were Constance’s aversionp In her husband's absence she dined early with Christsbsi, and spent the long afternoons walking or driving, and came home at twilight tea social tea party with Martha. Briggs and baby. . r - - ' l“I didn’t think you cared about race-horses,” said Gilbert, as if doubting the sincerity Of his wife‘s con-- gratulations. I ~ . - “ Not in the abstract ; they are such far-off creatures. One never gets on intimate terms with them. They are like the strange animals which the Emperor Com» modus brought to Rome—articles of luxury. But I am vsry glad your horse haswon, Gilbert, on your ac- coun ."’ ' 1 ~ . “Yes, it’s a great triumph for me. If I can win the- Derby I shall be satisfied. Racing is confoundedly ex- pensive, and I’ve had quite enough of it. I think» I shall sell Goblin and the wholo'stud after Epsom and the new stables into the bargain, and then I shall'im- prove that great barrack of aplace in the north and set: tie down. I’m sick of this part ofathe world. It’s too d~d civilized,” added Mr. Sinclair, forcibly, '- “Do you mean that you would leave Davenant i”? asked Constance, with astonishment. " - "Yes. I ought to have told you, by-the-way»-Dave-' nant ceases to be mine after Midsummer-day. ' I’ve sold it ” v ' “ Sold Davenant !" r ‘ " . "Yes. I have never really cared for the place, and I had a good offer for it while you were ill. Thin s were not looking very well in the north just then, an I was in want of money. I dare say you’ll be pleased when you hear who is the purchaser,” added Gilbert, With an uncomfortable smile. ‘ Constance seemed hardly to “hear the latter part of his speech. V " To think that you should have sold Davcnant—tho dear old place I” ' " I thought you did not care for it." " Not jost at first, perhaps. It seemed to big for me. I liked shabby old Marohbrook better. But I have been so happy here lately, and it is so nice to live among people one has known all one’s life.” , “Yes, old associations are sweetest," sneered Gilbert, the demon Jealousy getting the upper hand. ' “ But, after all, the place itself matters very little,” said Constance, anxious to avoid anything that might seem like upbraldlng—no wife so conscientious in the discharge of her duty as a good woman who does not love her husband. ‘9 I should be just as happy in any cottage in the neighborhood." i I " Especially if you had an old friend settled here," said Gilbert. " You haven’t asked me the name of my successor : but perhaps you know." " How should know? ', 1" You might have means of obtaining informs. t on." " Who is the person, Gilbert '1’” “ Sir Cyprian Devenant.” He watched her closely. Was the announcement a surprise, or did she know all about it, and was that look of grave astonishment a touch of social comedy! ' .r , She looked at him earnestly for a minute, and grew somewhat paler, he thought, u if the very sound of his rivsl’s name were a shock to her. "Indeed! He has bought the old place again 1" she said, ul'etly. “ That seems only right. But I thought he Vh (one back to Africa." - " Did you really ?" with a somewhat lrcnical eleve- tlon of his eyebrows. “ Well, I then ht so too. I'But it seemes he is: still in En land. on, yvtheby, do you remember that German ootor who came to see you when you wsrorill l” - . There was a purpose in the abruptnoss of this ques— tion. He wanted to take her off her guard: if possible to startle her in“ betraying herself. If there were any truth in Wyatt’s assertion, this question must be a startling one. x i " Her calm look told him nothing. She was either militias“ of all tulle or the most consummate hyp- 00 o. . 4 “ Yes. I can faintly remember. I can just recall that night, like '1 dream.‘ Pops and you coming into my room, and a curiousdooking old man, with a kind voice --a vdicethat went to my heart, somehow." Gilbert started and frowned. ._ ‘ “ Yes, I remember. It seems like a picture as I look back ; your anxious looks, the fire—light shinincon your faces. He asked me to sing. did he not i Yes, and the song made me cry. Oh, such blessed tears-Ahoy took it load ofl‘ my mind. It was like the loosening of a bend of iron round my head. And he spoke to me about Christa‘bel, and told me to hope. Dear old man, I have reason to remember him." i _ . ' “ Has he never been since 2" r . “ Never. How should he come, unless you or-pspa brought him ’1’" I ' . _ . ‘ “No, tobe sure. And you have no curiosity about him—«no desire to see him again 1’“ .4 a, e v “Why should Ibo curious or anxious? He did not deceive me with false hope. Ky darling was restored. “ And _ l the trees yonder, and still there was no movement in ’ ' i the garden. Gilbert stood motionless, his watch divi- ' " ded between the old Dutch garden, with its geometri- cal flower beds and stone sun-dial, and the windowa of the balcony room. As the sound of the church clock dwindled slowly into silence, a light appeared in the center window, a candle held a woman’s hand, 3 and raised above her head. Gilber could but faintly 3 distinguish the dark figure in the feeble glimmer of that single candle before figure and light vanished. Asignal, evidently, for a minute later a man's fig- ure appeared from the angle of the hedge, where it had been hidden in shadow. A man—tall, strongly built—yes, just the figure that patient watcher ex- : pected—steppod lightly across the garden, carefully _ i keeping to the narrow (gravel paths, leaving nq tell-tale ’ " foot-print on flower be or box border. He reached the 33 iron stair, mounted it swiftly, had his foot on‘ the bal- ‘ cony, when Gilbert Sinclair fired with the unerring o. aim ofapracfised sportsman, and the firm hand of a man who has made up his mind for the worst. The figure reeled, swayed for a moment on the top- most step, and then rolled backward down the light iron stair, shaking it with the force. of the fall. andsank , in a heap onthe gravel path below. ' . o 4 Gilbert waited, expecting to be thrilled by a woman’s ‘ piercing shriek, the despairing cry of a guilty soul; but no such cry came. All was darkness in the bal- cony room. He fancied he saw a figure approach the window and look out, but whatever that shape was it . vanished before he could verify his doubts. ’ He went over to the chimney-piece and put awa his gun as coolly as if ‘the purpose for which he had, just used it were the most ordinary business of daily life; but this mechanical tranquillity had very little signifl- . a canoe. It was rather the stolidity of a sleep-walker than the calmness of amind that realizes the weight and measure of its acts. He went back to thewindow. There lay the figure, huddled in a formless heap as it. , had fallen, hideously foreshorteneld from Gilbert's point of sight. The open hands clutched the loose gravel. No sound, no light yet in the balcony room. a “ She does no know ‘what has happened," said Gil: bert, grimly. “I had better go and tell her.” , ; He unlocked the door and went out in the corridor. Bis wife's bedroom opened out of the balcony room. The child slept in a smaller room adjoining that. He went into the balcony room and found it em ty, then ,. opened the bedroom door and paused on the timhold. looking in. , . -. Impossible to imagine a more peaceful picture than that which met the husband’s eyes. A nightJamp ' shed a faint light over the white-curtained bed, an open book and an extinguished candle on alittle table by; : the bedside showed that Constance had read her-oath .7 sleep. The (1001‘ of the inner om stood halfo‘pon. and \ Gilbert could see the little whi e crib, and the . 3 child. The mother‘s face was hardly less placid in its repose than the child's. - , ‘ Gilbert Sinclair teltas if this world and this life were , one inextricable confusion. The anonymous latter had . told him where and when to watch—4nd the writer of that latter had kept faith with him so for, since he had not watched in vain—but this spectacle of innocent 1'.- ose, the mother sleepin near the child, was hardly in ' gaping. Gilbert pans irresolute, and then went to is wife's bedside. and roused her roughly with ht shfigmd £11901: her arm.“ a . a e . ueeyeso an denl and ookod was. thermal-‘1... " ‘ " “ r k tc~nig . I didn't ax « " " Why 31;) you look at me like that l my I pone ” -‘ , . r“ Can’t you guess ll You didn’t ex 1; me, an had made your plans accordingly. Youphefd mansion op. pointment with your lover.” , “ Gilbert, are you mad ?” > “ He has not disappointed youwhe is here. Get up and cpme and see hum Quick. He is . "Gilbert, what have you been doing? where have you been ? Calm yourself, for Heaven’s sake." She had risen and put on her all pm and dressing. own, new by her husband's ice and the wax-dunes nowins whether to think him mad or drunk—mn- ing with a shudder that other scene in the alumni" I house, and excepting some new violence. He would or.“ a new 1“ station-master i kill her, perhaps. ‘ She trembled a little, believing herself in the power of a madman, but tried to be "Come," he said, graspi her wrist, “I am too much - a gentleman to let your over wait v yonderu-on the threshold of his own house, too. Strange that he should try to sneak in like a burglar, when he will be master here in a few days.” He dragged her into the next room, and to the bal- cony. , , ~ "Pray don’t be so violent, Gilbert. 1 will come any- where you please," she said, gravely. Pmm the balcony she saw t at prostrate figure at the foot of the stairs, and gave a faint cry of horror. ” Gilbert, what have you done ?” , _ “:My duty as a man. I should loathe myself if I had MI done less." . i“ She followed him down the steps, trembling in every ». limb, and clung to him as he knelt by the motionless and turned the face upward to the faint light of I n moon. I A. very familiar face, but not the one Gilbert Sinclair expected to see; The face of his ally, James Wyatt, a? 5 9 , is. gray with the dull {gray of death, but not distorted. A ,, i mean, false face in is or death; but death brought out the dominant expression a little more forcibly than life had done. H A " Gilbert, what have you done ?” repeated Constance, » sobbing hysterically. ‘ urder,” answered her husband, with a stolid des- pair. “'I hated this fellow badly enough, but I didn’t mean to kill him. I meant to kill Sir Cyprian Dave- cent, with whom you had made an appointment to- night, counting on my absence.” , “ Gilbert, what have I ever done that you should think me the vilest of women ? I have never wronged you by one thought about Cyprian Davenant which you might not know, I have never spoken a word to him which you Im ht not hear—«you and all the world. Your jeal- ously 0 him has been madness from first to last, and now it has ended in murder.” “1 have been trapped somehow. Some enemy has set a snare for me." “ What are you to do? Oh, Gilbert, is he dead '1” “ Yes ; the swan shot finished him. I aimed under his shoulder, where I knew it would be fatal. What am I to do ?—-cut and run, I suppose.” “Yes, go, go; it is your only chance. yet. Go, for God’s sake, this moment.” “ And leave you with, a corpse en the premises ‘9— rather cowardly that.” ' “Don’t think of me——it is life or death for you. You must go, Gilbert. There is no help. Go, or you will betaken and tried and hanged,” clinging to the iron rail, trembling, very cold, the ground reeling under her feet. “Yes, that's the natural sequence. Fool, fool, fool ! An anonymous scribbler. What can have brought him No one knows 'lere. and to the windows of your room? Constance, {that ?does it mean? Do you know why this man ame ), But Constance could not answer him. She had fallen, fainting, on the iron stair. 1 Gilbert carried her back to her room, and laid her on her bed. She would come to her senses soon enough, ' » , no doubt, poor wretch, he thought, hopelessly. He hurried back to his victim, intent upon finding some clew to Wyatt‘s presence in that place to-night. He ' r ransacked the dead man’s pockets, took out a bundle of /, letters, at them in his breast pocket. and left the gar- ‘ den by 0 little gate in the holly hedge. The church clock chimedthe half hour as he entered the park. It seemed to him as if that last quarter of an hour had been half a lifetime. Now for the first time he drew breath, and began to think what he ought to do. Cut and run ; ‘yes, as his wife said, that was about his only chance. He stopped for a minute among the shadows of the tall old elms, gaunt, ragged old trunks from which wintry blasts and summer storms had swept many a limb, stopped to “pull himself together,” in his own phmeology. and settle what he should do. There was an up train—the last~due at the little station yonder at ten minutes before eleven. If he could catch that and sleep athis old hotel—«the place where he was known-and his rooms taken for tonight ? He would have to run for it, but it might be done ; and was an alibi established at once, provided no one saw him at the station. Ila reached the rough. little by-road leading to the stption breathless, as the bell rang. He did not go into the station; where the rters might have recognized him, but scrambled up t e embankment upon which the _ grewhis potatoes and strawberry plants, and was on the platform, at the end furthest from the waitin m and ticket office, as the train came in. It who in of market people, soldiers or militia, noisy ex- cursionists. He Opened a crowded third-class carriage withhis key and got in among the rabble. A ser cant linen advanced state of beer was inclined to resen the intrusion, a woman with a baby seconded the sergeant. The atmosphere was cloudy with the reek ofbad tobao~ co; Rot much chance 0 recognition here. He had his season ticket, but did not care to show it. The train had only come from Maidstone. He thought it'safer to pay his fare through at the station where the. tickets were examined. ' It was not quite midnight when Mr. Sinclair drove up toliis hatch—a small house ln;St.James’s, chiefly affect- ed by men about town. - ‘ “ Room ready. James ? Yes, of. course it is. You got, my telegram yesterday. Been dining with some fellows. Sign can bring me a Mahayana-soda up. stairs. That’s I! 'zksorrythe horse lost, a _ ," said the man, with re— spectful s pathy. ‘ - "What {glue i" asked Gilbert, with a vacant look.‘ «7“ , your pardon, sir—«Goblin, sir. ' Thought he was eta win the Gun. Tool: the liberty to make my a was was AND WEFT. little venture on him. You bein’ a old customer, you see, air, and all of us feelln' interested in him on that account” “ That was a good fellow. The for him—goes better inthe dirt." He went up to his bedroom after this brief scum, ground was too hard leaving the head waiter under the impression the. Sinclair had been dining rather more ireer than usual. “Didn’t seen to understand me when I spoke to him about his own 'oss," said the waiter to his friends in council; " stared at me reg'lar mazed." “ Ah, pore teller, he’s ’it pretty 'ard to-day, you may depend.” Mr. Sinclair’s last order to the waiter who carried the brandy-andsoda to his bedroomwas to be called at half— past six next mornin . “ You’ll have a ca at the door at a quarter past seven,” he said; “ I want to catch the seven-thirty train into Kent. I ought to have got home to-night if I could have done it." "Yes, sir—haltzpast seven, sir. Anything particular you would, like for breakfast?” “ Oh, anything." “ A bit of fish, sir, and a patcheock, or a devil ?” sug- gested the waiter, pertinaciously. Nothing can subdue hat solicitude to obtain an order which is the writer’s ruling passion. “ Fish—flesh—anything,” cried Gilbert, kicking oil his boots. " A salmon outlet, sir, with Dutch soss ?” " An elephant, if you like. Get me the cab at a quarter-past seven. A hansom, with a good horse.” “Yes, sir, an ’ansom and a fast ’oss. Yes, sir. Tea or coffee, sir ?" Mr. Sinclair banged his door in the waiter’s face. “ The Baron Osy starts at eight to—morrow,” said Gil- bert, referring to his Bradshaw, the only literature he carried about him constantly. " I shall be in Antwerp on Saturdry.” Then, after a pause, he asked himself: “ Might it not be wiser to hold my ground and trust to the chapter of accidents? Who is. to bring that traitor’s death home to me? I sleep here to-night. No one saw me at Davenant.” Again, after another interval of thought: “How can I be sure that no one saw me yonder? These things are always brought home to a man seine- how. A child—a dog—an idiot—the halt—dumb—blind -some unexpected witness rises up against him, and puts the rope round his neck. My best chance is to put the seas between me and a coroner’s jury. First, Antwerp, and then a steamer for South America—Car- thagena, or some lawless place where a man might laugh at extradition treaties. Besides, I’m sick of it all at home—too sick to stand to my guns and outface suspicion—and live in this country with that dead man’s face staring at me. No, I'll try some strange, wild land, a new life that will be fiery enough to burn out the memory of the old one.” He went to the mantel-piece, where a pair of wax candles were burning with that air of elegant luxury by which your skilled hotel-keeper seeks to reconcile his customers to the extravagance of his charges, and took James Wyatt’s lettersout of his breast pocket. ‘ The first three or four he looked at were business letters, chiefly entreaties to “ renew ” or carry over, or provide for some little hill just falling due, “ like the best of cod fellows.” These Gilbert laid aside after a glance; ut there was one at which he started as if he had touched a snake. It was in the same hand as the anonymous letter that had made him a murderer. This, in plain words, was the gist of the letter—be spelled, with a foreigner’s uncouth orthography; curiously worded, with a mixture of foreign idioms and illiterate English. " You tell me that all your promises amount to noth~ ing—that you never meant to marry me. Rather hard to discover this after having nursed my delusion so long. I was to be alady. I was to take my place in the world. Bah 1 all liesl Lies, like your pretended love—your pretended admiration. You ask me to go back to my country, and promise if I consent to this I shall be provided ior—handsomel ~with fifty pounds a year for life—whether I rem n single or marry —-an independence for a girl like me, you say. Soft. But who is to secure to me this independence ? It may be paid me for a year—two years, per- haps—and then cease. It must that I see you, Mr. Wyatt. It must I hear of your own lips what on mean. Your soft tongue is too strong for me. on could persuade me to do anything, to go anywhere, to serve and obey you as your slave ; but I cannot obey to your letters. I do not understand. I want to see thin s clearly—do have your views explained to me. “ on say that I am assionate~vindictive~and that when last we met—an , ah! how kind it Was of you to come here at my request inmy violence almost fright— ened you. Believe me, I will not so offend again. Come but once more-only come and assure me with your own lips that this miserable pittance shall be paid to me honorably year by year—give me but your word for that, and I will go back to my friends in the south of France—«ah—commc as can: windows“, 7mm amt—«and you shall hear of me never again. " You tell me that you are no longer friends with Mr. Sinclair, and that you cannot come to his house, and that if I want to seegou it must that I come to you. That'i bt possible without throwing up my place al- togeth ’ , for the housekeeper here is of the megs ty. rannical, and gives no servant leave to absent herself, and I will not give up this service until I am assured of my future. Give me, then,a proot of your good, faith by. comin here. Give me my ittance a year in advance, and s ow me how it late a afterward paid me, and I will trouble you no more. ' " It willbe very easy for you to come on the evening of the 18th. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair are going to Ascot on the 15th ; the: Will be absent some days. You know " t \ , so L A: 5332' e. TV‘ your way to the balcony-room. I shall be waiting for you there between ten and eleven on Thu y eve- ning, and I will show al ht in the center window as asignalthatthecoastiscear ‘ "Come if you wish me to trust you. Come if you do not wish me to betray you. - “ Yours, as you treat me, « " mm Duran.“ This letter showed Gilbert Sinclair the diabolical trap that had been set for James Wyatt and for himself. He had been made the instrument of the Frenchwo‘ man’s revenge. In the lace of this revelation what was he todo? Car-- ry out his intention ; go to South America, and leave his wife in the power of this fiend? Gilbert Sinclair was not bad enough for that. I “I’ll risk it, and go back to Davenant," he said. “ How do I know what this wretch mi ht do? She: might lay her lover’s death at my wife’s oor, drag my wife’s name in the gutter. No; at any hazard to my» self I must be there, and, if necessary, this letter must. be shown at the inquest.” CHAPTER XXVII. onowxnn’s QUEs'r. Ir was between six and seven o’clock in the morning when one of the gardeners at Davenant, going with a- barrowful of bedding-out plants to the old Dutch gar- dener, found James Wyatt lying dead at the bottom of the iron staircase. He rushed nto the house for aid, and brought out the newly risen men-servants, who had not yet fortified exhausted nature with an Eliza- bethan breakfast of beef and beer. All was hubbub and confusion ; one messenger ran for the doctor, an- other i‘or the police. The dead man was carried into a great disused brew-house at the back oi‘the stables, as a place where he would not hurt any one’s feelings, as the butler remarked, considerately. “ What a horful thing i ” said one housemaid, and “ Who could have done it ? ” ejaculated another, as the news of the catastrophe spread through the house. Who was to tell Mrs. Sinclair? Martha Briggs took that office upon herself. She had just filled Miss Christabel’s bath, but the darling was not awake yet, and Mrs. Sinclair was most likely still asleep. “ I’ll tell her when I take her her cup of tea at half past seven,” said Martha, looking pale and scared. " Where’s Melanie ? " asked the upper housemaid. " She asked leave to go to London early this morning, to get herself some things. as if Maidstone wasn’t tgood enough for her. She wanted to glo by the first tra n to have a long day of it, she said. ‘he first train goes at six. She must have left this house at half past live." "That’s queer,” said the housemaid; " but I never had much. opinion of foreigners." " What could have brought Mr. Wyatt here last night, and to the bottom of those steps ? ” speculated Martha Briggs. " Why didn't he go to the hall door as usual? It seems so strange l " g " It seems stranger that there should be anyone i ,_ there to shoot him,” remarked the housemaid. Mrs. Sinclair heard of the morning’s discovery with a calmness which astonished her hand-maiden. " I must telegraph for my husband," she said; and a telegram was dispatched without delay, addressed to Gilbert at his hotel in St. James’s. The police were on, the alert by this time, examinin the scene of the murder. The coroner apps nto three o’clock in the afternoon for his inquiry, hich was to be held in the hall at Davenant. This would give time for summoning the jury. Constance was sitting at breakfast, very pale but quite self-possessed, when Gilbert Sinclair walked in from the lawn. “ Gilbert," she cried, “what folly! I thought you were miles away—across the channel by this time." “ No, Constance, I am not such a poltroon. We have not” been a very happy couple, on and. I, and God , knows I am heartily tired of my ife in this scan , but I am not base enough to leave you in the lure . Who can tell what scandal might arise a ainst you? No, my dear, I shall stop, even if the en shall be a rope. , “ Gilbert, for mercy’s sake 1 Oh, Gilbert !” she cried. aflng‘igng her hands, “ how could you do this dreadful in .. . , W, _ “ ow could I? I thought I was doin my duty as a man. I was told that a man was to here—your secret visitor. The man was here at the very hour I had been told to s set him. I saw him entering your room by stealth. at could I think but the worst 2 And thinikng as I did, I had a right to kill him." "No, Gilbert, no. God has given no man the right. to shed his brother’s blood." " Except Jack Ketch, I suppose. God has given men the instinct oi" honor, and honor teaches every honest man to kill the seducer of his wife or daughter. ' It * II It 1' III The inquest was held at three. Gilbert and several of his household, notably the ardener who found the body, were examined. Dr. We b ‘ve his evidence as to the nature of the wound, an the hour at which death must, in all probability have occurred. - " Did you sleep at Davenant last night, Mr. Sinclair?" ism? thf colroner. fr t " c; on y came up om co yesterda evening, and s nt t?he night in London.” y A “ ere " ’ '“ At Hildred's Hotel, Jermyn Street.’ " Did you dine at the hotel I” ‘5 No; I dined at Francatelli’s." This was a venture. Francstelll'e would, doubtl have been crowded on the night after Ascot, and? 1% his: "£73 ' _ the mode and manner of the act. Subsequent investi- No new evidence was elicited to make the case stronger. WM 7238’ AND ’WEFT. would be difloult for the waiters to assert that Mr. \ ' had not dined there. "You dined at Franoatolli's. Where is that ?” asked one of the jury, with rural innocence. “ It is a hotel and restaurant in Piccadilly." " How long were you at Erancatelli's asked the coroner. " I really cannot tell. My horse had been running at Ascot, and losing. I was somewhat excited. I may have gone into Francatelli’s at eight, and gone out again between nine and ten." “ And from Francatelli’s you went to your hotel 7 " No," said Gilbert, feeling that there was a hiatus of a couple of hours here. “ I went into the Haymarket Theater for an hour or two." " If this fellow asks me what I saw there. I’m done for," he thought; but happily the coroner was not so much on the alert as to put that question. '-' Have you any idea what brought the deceased to your house last night, when you were known to be ab- sent ?“ . " I have a very clear idea." " Be kind enough to tell us all you can." “Coming from the station this morning by a foot- path through the park, the way by which the deceased always came to my house when he did not drive from the station. I found a letter which it seems to me that he must have dropped there last night." " You found aletter dropped by the deceased in Da- venant Rrk l” “ I found this letter addressed to Mr. Wyatt, which I conclude mint have been dropped by him last night." Gilbert handed the coroner Melanie's letter, which had now assumed a crumpled and dilapidated appear- arms, as ofa letter that had lain all night in the dew and dirt of the foot-path under the trees. The coroner puzzled through the letter, reading it aloud, with various mistakes and pullings up and ry- ings back, thejury listenin open-mouthed. " This clearly indicates t at Mr. Wyatt came here by appointment,” remarked the coroner, sagely. " Who is this Melanie Duport '2” “ My wife’s maid." " Why has she not been called ?” It was explained to the coroner that Melanie Duport w? missing. fter this, the jury having duly viewed the body, or, at any rate. made believe to view it, the inquest was adjournedto give the local police time to make their investigations, though what they were to investigate seemed a somewhat puzzling uestion. “ They'll bring some Lon on detectives who will look into my room. see these guns, and then put two and two together,” thought Gilbert. " I don’t suppose my alibi would hold water at the as‘sizes. A Jury would want some independentevidence to sustain in account of my time between seven o'clock and mi - night yesterday.” I 3i t * * I I The inguest was adjourned from Friday, the day after the mur er, until the following Monday. When that day came Gilbert Sinclair was missing. London detec- tives had come to the aid of the local constabulary, but too late to keep an eye upon the movements of Mr. Sinclair. That gentleman contrived to leave Liverpool on Saturday morning, in a steamer bound for Rio. His disappearance gave a new aspect to the case, and aroused suspicions of his guilt. His household knew not of his whereabouts. He had told Mrs. Sin- clair and hisbody-servant that he was going to New- market. and would be back in time for the in uiry on Monday; but on an inquiry being telegraphe to his Newmarket establishment. the reply was to the eflect that Mr. Sinclair had not been seen there. , The police had occupied the interval between Friday and Monday in the endeavor to and Mademoiselle Du- port. but up to noon on Monday that young lady had not been heard of, nor did any new fact arise at t e in- 'uest. q Enlightened by Gilbert Sinclair’s disappearance, the police took a bolder night. They discovered that the oriel-window in Mr. Sinclair’s study afforded an excel- lent int of aim for the iron stair-case at the foot of whic the murdered man had been found. They also opined that the handsome collection of guns in that apartment suggested a ready way of accounting for ation showed that the deervstalker’a rifle in that col- action carried abullet exactlzodcorresponding in size and shape to the bullet extrac from James Wyatt's death-wound. Professional acu en led the investiga- tors further to perceive that r. Sinclair's‘ own ac- count of his time on the evening of the murder was not so ported by any other evidence, and that it was passibfe for him to have come back to Davenant, and to have entered and left his house unseen by any of the household. ’ , These suspicions were in some measure confirmed by the statement of the waiter at Hildred’s Hotel, who described Mr. Sinclair's arrival at that house close upon midnight, and a certain strangeness in his look and manner which had struck him at the time, and which he had spoken about to his fellowvservants afterw ' o , Suspicion thus aroused, the next step was to ursue the suspected man; but Gilbert Sinclair been lucky enou h to get away from England without leav- gig an trai beh nd him. It had been a particularly u e on the Liverpool quay that June 'morning— hal a dozen big steamers starting for different parts of the globe, commerce at her best on the Mersey. and the trade with South America thriving. The business- like-lookingm man, with a single portmanteau, had . rth and all on board the (Jiltme without attractin speci notice from any one; and for once in a way Scogl‘and Yard was at fault. The coroner's inquest dragged its slow length along. ,ef' .‘s‘i‘ . a againstailbert Sinclair. The fact of his departure re mained the one damning fact against him. ' There was also the fact of Kolanie Duport’s diasp- pearanoe on the morning of the murder, and oginiona were divided as to which of these two was gn ty, or whether both had not been concerned in the act. The newspapers made much capital out of an event which soon became known as The Davenant Mystery, and Constance Sinclair had the horror of knowing that she was the o ject of a morbid interest, in the mind of the nation at e. She left Davenant almost imme diately after her usband, and took u her abode at Marchbrook, with martha Briggs and t little irl for her only companions, until the arrival of Lo Clan- yarde from the Continent. The iln‘ficniry before the coroner ended at last in an open ve t. The deceased had been shot by some per- son or persons unknown. Davenant was formally taken possessionpf upon Mid- summer-day, not by Sir Cyprian Davenant, but by his lawyer, who installed some of the old family servants as care-takers. Sir Cyprian had left England,aiew days before James Wyatt's death, on his long-talked-of African expedition. The year were round, and the horror of James Wyatt's unexplained death faded out of the national mind, as all such horrors do fade when the newspapers leave 03‘ writing about them. Constance lived her quiet life at Marchbrook as she had lived at Davenant, happy with her child, yet mindful, with a shuddering pity, of that friendless wanderer doomed to bear the brand of Cain. Christmas came and passed, and for nearlya year she had remained in ignorance of her husband’s fate. Then (Sidm? a letter, in a strange hand, but signed by Gilbert lllc air: - " DEAR Consumer—I am down with a malignant fever common to this part of the world, and generally fatal. Before I die I should like to ask you to forgive me all the pain my jealousy gave you in days gone by, and to tell you that I now believe that,jealousy to have been causeless. It was what the thieves call a puhup ’ business, and Wyatt was the Iago. He set a trap for me, and got snared himself in the end. " I want to tell you something else which may per- haps distress you, but that is no fault of mine. The child you are so fond of is not your own. Poor little Christabcl was really drowned, and the little girl brou ht to Davenant while you were ill is a child adop ed for the purpose of bringing about your recovo ery. This plan was suggested to me by your father. He knows all about it. “Ihave made my will, and sent it to my London lawyers. Ileave-you everything. 80, if matters go well in the north, you will be a very rich woman. I wasted a good deal of money on the Newmarket stable; but, with your quiet life, you will soon recover lost nnd. Of course you will marry C. D. Well, I can't he pthat. I ought never to have thrust myself between you and your. first love. Nothing but misery has come of our mam e. “ G bless you, and give you a happier life than you would ever have spent with me. , g “ Your dying husband, “ Gunner SINCLAIR. "P. S.—If I go, the man who writes this, Thomas Grace, tobacco grower, will send you certificate of death, and all necessary evidence. If I live, you shall hear from me again.” ..——— CHAPTER XXVIII. ennui. \xxxnrxnss. Tsar letter from her dying husband was a bitter blow to Constance Sinclair. There was the keen sense of loss, the knowledge that her lovely child had verily sunk beneath the German river, never to rise again, save as a spirit amidst the choir of angels. 'l' era was the deep humiliation of knowing that she had been duped. They had taken advantage of her amic- tion and consoled her with alie. She had been fooled, deceived, and deluded, as a child is deluded, for her good. Her soul rose up against this mocking of conso- lation in bitterest anger. Her very thanksgivings to Heaven—those outpourings of I mother’s grateful heart overflowing with its wealth of Joy—had been offered up in’ vain. She had no reason to be thankful. Heaven and earth had canopired in ill-treating her. God had taken wa her reason, and manhad imposed upon her folly. cm upon earth could she ever trust again, when even her father had so deceived her? . With her husband’s letter came the certificate of his death. The same post brought her a letter from Gil- bert’s lawyers to inform her of their receipt of his will; exgguted on his ted m m x ewassorry or ewes e, e one] death in a strange land; and Gilbert Sinclair was mouyrned with more honest tears than are always shed fora husband’s loss, even when the journey at Wedded life has begun in the, rosy light of a romantic love. After these tears you to the untimel dead. her thoughts were full 0 anger. She could no: forgive the deception that had been practised, even though it had been done to save her life. “ Better a thousand times to have died in that dim dream Shah to awake tosuch a disappointment as this," she sai . , And then she thought of the river in the fair German valley, and that agon ng day which she had learned to look back upon as «nomore than a painful and pro- longed dream. She know now that, .1: had been no dream, but a hideous reality. ' While she sat with Gilbert's letter open before her, abandoned to a tearlees dos , the little one’s voice sounded in the corridor. an ,she heard the light swift footsteps which always made her heartthrill. To-day an ill . a “ No, I won’t see her—little im ving lie—to have stolen my love, and my child looking down upon me from heaven all the while—looking down to see her place filled by a stranger—loud in heaven. perhaps, for want of a mother’s love, seeing her mother’s heart given to another." The light-tripping steps came nearer. “ Mammal mammal " called the glad young voice. Constance locked the door. “ Go away,” she cried. hoarsely; “ I don't want you." There was a pause—complete silde then a; burst of sobbin . The strangeness of fliat tone chilled the chil 's heart. Lips that had hitherto o 4;. breathed love. to-day spoke with the accents of ;‘ Instinct told the child the greatness of the change. 1 The little feet retreated slowly down the corridor—l, not so light of step this time—the sobs died away in the distance. , “I will never see her face again,” cried Constance. " Some wretched child—perhaps the offspring of sin- base at heart as she is fair of face—and so like my lost, _ one—so like—so like i No, I will send her away—as a sum of money—provide handsomely for her—— child, it is not her crime—but never see herag Yet, 0 God! I love her. A haps. Tho loving little heart will break.” She had been pacing the room distractedly. This . last thought was too much to bear. She ran to the door, unlocked it, and went out into the corridor, call- ing, "Belle, darling Belle, come back. I amwaiting for you yet." She went to the little one's nurse lying with her face buried in the so piteously. To-day's harsh tones w her first expeb ience of unkindness. Constance t w herself on the sofa, and caught the child in her arms, drew the little gambling form to her breast, and kissed and cried over , and found her pillow, sobbing " My pet, I love you. I shall love you to my dying day," she cried, passionately. "Hearts cannoti be played with like this. Love cannot be given and taken away.” The child hugged herrand was comforted, under standing the love, if not the words that told it. “ Belle hasn’t been naughty, has she, momma l” she. asked. with innocent wonder. “No, pet, but momma has been very unhappy. Mamma has had a sad letter. 0h, here comes Martha," as that devoted nurse entered from the night nursery. “ Do you know, Martha I think Christabel wants change ofair. You must take her to Hastings foralittle while." “Lor, mum, that would be nice. But you’ll come £00, of course. You wouldn’t like to be parted from er." * might come afterward, perhaps. I have some very sad business to attend to." Constance told Martha of Mr. Sinclair's death, but not a word of that imposture which had Just been vealed to her. Martha had been as completely‘deceivbli as she had, no doubt, Constance argued, for she knew it , was not in the girl's honest nature to assist in a decoy» 3:31. The likeness of the lost child had deluded them “ I suppose all children of the same age and com. plexion are alike." thought Constance ; “ and yet 1 gnoied my baby was different from all other chili ren." She wished to send the child away, in order, ,if it were possible. to cure herself of the habit of loving a child that had no claim on her—to love whom was a. kind of treason against the beloved dead. The preparations for the journey were hurried over ; Eartha was delighted to pack and be oil. The child was pleased to go, but cried at partin from "momma." At two o’clock in the afternoon t e carriage drove Martha and her charge to the station, with the steady old Marchbrook butler for their escort. He was to take lodgings for them, and make all things easy. for them, and see them comfortably settled before he came back to Marchbrook. Constance breathed more freely when the child wait out of the house, and there was no chance of ii that light footstep. that clear, swaet. childish voice. Ye how dreary the big old house seemed in its solitude. how gloomy the room, without that fluttering. mam soul angdaallllthethbusy life she gods around — a family o —- e e wooll ani- mals, all afflicted with the saqunnatnral fin internal noise never heard to issue iron: any sum. that ever lived in the realm of zoology. ‘ n I: would have broken in heart tokeep her me," thought Constance, "an Ifeelas itit must in heart to lose her.” . . 3 way of solace, or to sustain her in the ‘ t pri ewhioh revolted at this spurious she tried to‘ think of tabel in heaven. But her tho hts wandered back to the livin child,and she foun herself wond whether he d her c s were afthe end 0 theirjourney, andtllonging {2rd e telegram that was to annomicethelrfl-fie tr- v . ~ “ What folly 1" she thought, angrily. "A s '8: child—a creature that is no more to me than any 0 the. children at the infant school, and yet I cannot tear her from my h . , She sent it Dr. Webb. He, was in the plot, doubt- less. It was at his advice, perhaps, that this heartless deception had been practised upon her. If it were so. she felt that she must hate him all her life. The little village surgeonofcame briskly enough or . ting to and a mildcase maul oracmeother fiantile ailment, in the Harchbrooku’nuraery. What was his astonishment when he found Constance pacing 373‘: r ' . ,a “l, .. > ‘ . , "is wait And she is. crying now, p " ’ "I don’t know thatI could come, quite at first. 1 ' iii: .1 is: i v p everybody slee’s affection." 7' , brook ?, However, I suppose I must . ,_: sqhelples’s. She never caredmuch for im, oorchlld, , fore in hislife." 28 thereby-- “murdeaers. Sinclair, .avhat iii-the matter 3," .3, ,, l, lumen-wiring," cried f'My boar husband, is dead, and on his death-bed wrote me a letter, tel-.A ing’ metha- cruel'mthr?‘ Your wicked plot._,has been menstrual... Yes, :‘wlokedrfor alhlies are wicked. , ; .Xou cannot~db evil: that'ng may; come ofit. You saved my life, perha lavished my ave. upon: an inspector; that when I, . thanked God upon my knees for. His bounteous mer- cies, I had receivedmo gracious gift: He hadshewn no pity forxmynsarraws ; but you-«you and my father had played at Providence, and. had pretended to perform a 'miraclefor mysake; It ‘washcruel. infamous de- caption.” .. r. - - v , . "3341 was-designed? to save your life, and, what is even iner rpreciousi than life, yourireas'onff replied Dr. weep, wounded by the harshnessof this attack» “ But whatever. blame may attach to the stratagem, you may- ‘spare me your censure. I had nothing to do with it. The German physician, whom your father brought here,‘ -, was the adviser from whom the suggestion came. Her and yourfather'carrlod it out between them. I had nethingto do but look on, and watch the effect. of the shock upon'you. That was most happy.” 3»? The German doctor," said Constance, Wonderingly. “ e s, I remember him faintly, as if it were a dream—— , , winter night. He made me sing, did he not? is voice had a mesmerical effect upon me. I obeyed him involuntarily. His gresence seemed to give me comfort; stranger though e was. It was very curious. And then he. bent over me and whispered hope, and from that instant I felt happier. And it was all a mockery after all ; it was a trick. Tell me who and what that child is, Dr. Webb.” ‘“ I know. nothing of her origin. Lord Clanyarde brought her to Davenant. That is all I can tell' , cu." v a col! fool! fool i" cried Constance, with passionate self-reproach, “to take an impostor to my heart so blindly, to ask no questions, to believe without proof or witness that Heaven had performed a miracle for my happiness. What right had I to- suppose that Provi- dence would care so much for me i" . -" You have great cause to be thankful for the res- toration of life and reason, Mrs. Sinclair," said the doctor, reproach fully. . “ Not if lire is barren and hopeless ; not if reason tells me that I am childless." “,You have learned to love this strange child. Can you not take consolation from that affection.” *" No ; I loved her because I believed shewas my own. It would be treason against my dead child to love this impostor.” _ “ And you will turn her out of doors, I suppose, and send her to the work-house '2" v V " I am not so heartless as that. Her future shall be firevided for, but I shall never see her again. I have sent her to Hastings with her nurse, who adores her.” “ That’s fortunate, since she is to be deprived of ‘ w are was‘a spice of acidity in the doctor’s tone. He has "attended the child in various small illnesses, had met her .lmost daily riding her tiny Shetland pony in the lanes; and entertained a warm regard for the pretty little winning creature who used to puree up her lips into a rosebud for him to kiss, and had evidently not the least idea that he was old and ugly. . gowns you can tell me nothing, I shall send for my tether," said Constance : “ he must know to whom the child belon s." '~’"I shoul imagine so," replied the doctor, glad to feel himself‘abeolved of all blame. It was a painful position, certainly,lhe thought. He ' had anticipated. this difficulty from the beginning of filings. He was very glad to take his leave of his patient,- ' tar haaardlng apletitude or two by way or consol. awards .was in Paris enjoying the gayeties of theoheer , season before Lent, and making himself. extremely comfortable in his bachelor room at the Ho~ tel Bristol. Hehad married all his daughters advan- . V tageously, and buried his wife, and felt that his ' ;; mission had been accomplished, and that he was free to “g , om) January to arch he found his aged steps traveled ‘ ' last over tne‘asphelt of Paris, and as 1 poor Constance “gimme pathwafito the grave as pleasant as he could. "was happy With: her adopted child, he‘ felt no scruples 'tagafnet'leaving‘her to enjoy life inher own way. informing him of her hus- him to go to Marchbrook, temper. » - " i1‘7‘1’oor Sinclair l“ he muttered, with more n-etfulness alien regret. “Pity he couldn't have died atamore convenient time". I hate orossin the Channel in an equinoctial gale. .And what goo can I do at March- Women are " Mrs.Slnbluir's ’tele ‘ . handsome, and’eut [tin disturbed the placidity ofh mothers? Davensnt stlll‘unmarried and _ voted to her. In excellent‘match, too, since he came into old Grymrl's atone Providence orders all things'for the best. '1 shall‘have a fine night for-crossing." V ‘ He was’withowstance early on the following day, having lostalo time in obeying her summons, but he , as unprepared for the accusation she brought against "' “Upon my life. Constance, I was only a passiveinstru- me‘n‘tin the whole affair. test like little Webb. It was put to me, that this thing must be. done to save your lie. and recounted." r «' l i": ‘i ~ ' " You let a stranger take my de‘stlnyinto his hands ?" pried Constance, indignantly. ' “He was not astral: r. - no loved you dearly—was so anxious for your we fare as even Lyour Miner." ,"tl‘heGerman sicien. the white—haired old man who. told me to , eery drawing-room, pale,- with two-{hm ; spots'owhercheeksneyes bright withidever. M , ,, , x. » 5,, ,butwhat alifol .To find that I have l g 5 whom she had believed in as the soul of honor was the . of this mortal life or read the family Bi ? Why, he had never .seen me be-~ , fiv—~———_-T—_.. £7 1 ‘ WWW 4ND lists-1 . t; igThemanwho told you tohope, who persuaded Line 0 German doctor.“ He‘w’as neither old' nor' White-haired, fiand‘lie‘had-rlowed you ‘ devotedly‘ \foryearl. : ' He heard you were dyin of a» broken heart, and. came to- you in disguise in o " er tp'see if lave could devise some means of zaving you. 'The‘Ge'rman doctor was: Cyprian Devon- an ;!1 I: '} " r.:__;, i > i~ . gr. ,. A This was another blow for Constance. The? man originator of th‘e-sehe'me ,she‘had denounced as wicked and cruel, and yet she couldfind'no words of blame for him, She remembered the gentle voice which had pen- etrated her ear and mind « through the thick fillet of madness, remembered the tones that touched her with a. wondering sense of something familiar and dear. He , had come to harm her‘apathy and despair, and from the moment of his coming her life had brightened and grown happy, It Was but a delusive happiness, a false peace; and now she must go back to the old agony of desolation and incurable reg'ret.’ ’ “ You can at least tell me who and'what that child is, papa," she said, after 'a long pause. ‘ “Indeed, my love, I know nothing, except that Da- -venant told me she belonged to decently born people, and would never be claimed‘by-any one. And the poor little thing looked so thoroughly clean and respectable -—of course at that age one can hardly tell—the fez» tures are so undeveloped—~the nose more like a morsel of putty thananything human—but I really did think that the child had a thorough-bred look; and I am sure when I saw her last Christmas she looked as complete a lady as ever came out of ‘our Marchbrook nursery.” " She is a lovely child," said Constance, “ and I have loved her passionately.” “ Then, my dearest girl, why not go on loving her ?” pleaded Lord. Clanyarde. “ Call her your adopted child, if you like, andkeep her about you as your pet and companion till you are married again, and have chil- dren of your own. You can then relegate her to her natural position, and by-and-by get her respectably married, or portion her off in some way.” “No,” said Constance, resolutely, “ I will never see her again.” , And all the while she was longing to take the after- noon train to Hastings, and rejoin her darling. After this there was no more for Constance Sinclair to do but to submit to fate, and consider herself once more a childless mother. Sir Cyprian was away, no one knew where, and even had he been in England Con- stance felt that there Would be littlc use in knowing more than she knew already. The knowledge of the strange child’s parentage could be but of the smallest importance to her, since she meant to banish the lit- tle one from her heart and home. , ' Lord *Clanyarde and the lawyers did all that was was necessary to secure Mrs. Sinclair's position as in- heritor of her husband’s estates. The Newmarket sta- bles and stud were sold, and realized a considerable sum, as the training stable was supposed to be the most perfect establishment of its kind—built on hygienic principles, with all modern improvements—and was warmly competed for by numerous foolish young no- blemen and gentlemen who were just setting out on that broad road along which Gilbert Sinclair had trav- eled atso swift a rate. Things in the north had been gradually improving~the men were growing wiser, and arbitration between, master and men was taking the place of trade-union tyranny. , i ‘ Constance Sinclair found herself in a fair way to be- come a very rich woman, carin about as much for the money her husband had left or as for the withered leaves that fell from the Marchbrook aims in the dull, hopeless autumn days. What was the use of wealth to a childless widow, who could: have been content to live in a. lodging of three rooms, with one faithful servant? a.“ anr'rss XXIX. AFTE: MANY DAYS. Aoonmos specific for a broken heart when the patient happens to be a person of handsome fortune—for your pan er, hard work is your only cure—As foreign travel. Lo Clanysrde, who hated Marchbrook, now suggested this remedy to his daughter. He felt that it was his duty to afford her the benefit a! , his protection and society during the first period of her widowhood ; and it struck him thstrit would be more agreeable for both of them to leads nomadic life than to sit opposite each other on the family hearth and brood 11%“ the sorrows “ It would be quite the right season for. Rome, love, if we were to start at once," said LordClanyarde,sooth~ in ly‘. ‘ , I e knew ' several pretty women in Romemmostly Americans—and it was just possible the hunting in the Campagne’ might not be over. And there were those Bohemian artists—-F‘rench and German—With theirlong hair and velvet coats, and free and easy painting rooms, and wild musing talk. Lord Clanyal‘de had just sulfi- cient love of art to enjoy that kind of somety. Alto- other he felt that Rome was the place for Constance. he would see St. Peter’s at Eatenand the Colosseum by moonlight, and so on, and the aching vord in her heart wouldnhe filled. . , ~ 1 r , Co yielded to her father’s. suggestion with. a. graceful ubmlssionvthat charmed him. V little whither she Went. The little girl was still at Hastings: withshonest Martha. She cried sometimes for momma. but was happy. upon the whole, Martha wrote; wondering very much why she and her charge remained so long away. Martha knew nothing of the change that had taken place in her darlings position. , “Very woll.~dear,‘?setd~LordJClenyarde. "You have only to gettyour boxes packed; and,byethe-way, on had better write to your banker for circular notes. ve hundred will do to start with.” agree“ to‘th'e'inti'od‘uctlém or a spurious pend, ' weenie he cared very ' peopled withaugust shadows: but: her heart was tor: tured by separation from mockingbird" it'wasi'only a resolute pride ,whicl! ilbl" "i‘rém owning the truths-that the little one she had belie‘ved her «mi was as'dear toher'as the baby she" had lost. ‘ ’* ‘ ’ Eastericame withall its religious splendors, its pomps and processions, and the Eternal City was crowded with strangers. Lord Clanyarde insisted th'at,his daughter should see everything worth seein , so the pale fair lace. gin widow’s weeds was an object of interest and admire.- tion for many among the spectators. ' ‘ l _ , :LordClanyarde and his daughter were driving on the Corso one sunny afternoon in the: Easter week, when the gentleman’s attention Was attracted by, a lady who fantastical fashion with silver bells on their harness. The lady wasth her first youth, but was still remark~ of color and a daring disregard of the fashion of the day —dressed, in a word, to look like an old picture, and not like a modern fashion plate. . “ Who can she be ?” exclaimed Lord Clanyardc. '" Her ,face seems familiar to me, yet I haven’t the faintest idea where I’ve seen her.” ‘A few yards further on he encountered an adquaint- ance oilthe London clubs, and pulled up his herses on purpose to interrogate him about ‘the unknovm in the‘ Spanish hat. , “ Don’t you know her '9” asked Captain Flitter, with a surprised air. ' " Yes, she's handsome, but passes ; sur la retour.” ‘ ' p " A ‘ “ Who is she ?" repeated Lord Clanyarde. Captain Flitter looked curiously at Mrs. Sinclair before he answered. I " Her name is Walsinghnm—widow of a Colonel Wal- si‘ngham—colonel in the Spanish contingent—rather a bad egg; of course I mean the gentleman.” A light dawned on Lord Clanyarde’s’ memory. Yes, this was the Mrs. Walsingham whom people had talked ,about years ago, before Sinclair’s marriage, and it was Sinclair’s money she was Spending now, in all proba- bility, on that fantastical turn-out with its jinglin bells. Lord Clanyarde felt himself personally aggrieve by the lady, and yet he thought he would like to see more of her. , “Does she stay long in Rome ?" he asked the club loun er. “ enever stays long anywhere, I believe; very erra- tic; likes artists and musical people, and that sort of thing; has reception every Saturday evening. Ialways go. One meets people one doesn’t see elsewhere—not the regulation tred-inill, you know." Lord Clanyarde asked no more. He would be sure to meet Flitter at one of the artists’ rooms, and could ask himlas many questions about Mrs. Walsingham as he 1 cc . > The two men met that very evenin , and the re sult of their conversation was Lor Clanyarde’s presentation to Mrs. Walsingham at her Saturday reception. _ She was very gracious to him, and made room for him on the ottoman where she was seated, the center of a circle of enthusiastic Americans, who thought her the nicest Englishwoman they had ever met. ~ ‘ . Under the gentle light of the wax candles Lord Clan- yarde saw the face that had so charmed him in» the Spanish hat. Seeing Mrs. Walsingham closer, he dis- covered that her beauty was a tradition rather than a. fact; but she could at least command res eat in that she had not invoked the aid of art to ‘sguise the: ravages of time and care. There was something noble in the faded beauty of her face, the finely cut “features had lost nothing, but the wan cheeks and sunken eyes, the dull and‘joyless look when the face ‘was in repose, told of a desolate home/and a weary ll‘l’e. ' “Who was that lady in‘ deep mourning you were driving with yesterday '9” Mrs. Walsing am asked presently. . ' “ My youngest daughter, Mrs. Sinaiair.’ You knew goal husband, I think, some years ago. He is lately e '1, I! v . a , . “ es, Isaw his death in the Times, in that dismal column where we shall all appear in due council suppose." \ ’ ’ Lord Clan srde looked at the speaker thoughtfully. It occurred to, in: thatit might not be long she too before assed into that shadowy procession which is always 1 ravelin through the columns 'of our favorite news- paper, he subject of a~ few careless exclamations. “ Dear me, who would have thought it? It only, the other day We saw her. I wonder“’who gets her’ money” ‘ _ "Yes, he died in South America; You jlieard: the star . I suppose; A most unfortunate businesses—his con dential solicitor shot in Sinclair’s own garden by a little French girl he had been foolish enoug to get en- tangled with. The jealous little viper contrived to give the police the slip. lhid Sinclair saw himself in danger “of being brought unpleantly into the business“ so he wisely left the‘country.” . , ‘ _ ' ' “ You believe that it was Melanie Duport Who. shot Mr. Wyatt '2” Mrs. Walsingham exclaimed, eagerly. " What, you remember the girl’s name? _Yes, there can hardly be a doubt as to her guilt. Who else had any motive for killing him? The creature’s letter luring him to the spot was found in the park, and she disap- peared on the morning of the murder. Thosetwo facts are convincing, I shouldthiuk," concluded Lord Glan- ysrde, somewhat warmly. ‘ . , , , , , a He wanted to assoilzie his own race from the contam- ination ofhaving intermarrled with a murderer. For the, name of Sinclair, innocent or , ty, he cared very little; but a man whose ' dchi dren were grow- ing bi enough forEton and ow had reason 0, he cal-em, ofthe family repute. " Yes, she'was a wicked creature," said Mrs. walslng~ i ‘1 Esther and daughter , went toltaly, and, Constance Ltried to'tlnd‘ comfort in these classic scenes which are " drove aphaeton with a. pair of. cobs ceparisoned ins, . ably handsome, and was dressed with an artistic sense , i i" . to. iguana, but some’wnat ._,,,“ , IVEA VERS; AND‘ WEFT. .. . X! ham,” thoughi‘ullyé’k“ she had a natural bent, toward 0 a" V , ' 1' "‘ “" Yen speak as if you had knewnler.” ' Mrs. Walsingham looked confused. ’ N “ I read the account of that dreadful business in the newspapers,” she said. “ I hope Mrsfiinolair has quite’ recovered from the'shock such an awful event must have caused her.” , ~ ~ , “ Well, yes; I think she has recOvered from that. Her husband’s death following so quickly was of course a blow, and since then she as had another trouble to: ear. ‘ " Indeed! I am sorry," said Mrs. Walsingham. with a thonghtfullook. _ I . t r . "Yes; we'did all for the best. She’ was dangerousl iii, you know, about a year and a half ago, and we—wal it Was foolish. perhaps, though the plan succeeded for the moment—we made her believe, that her little girl had been saved tron" drowning at Schonesthal, in the Black Forest. ’ You may“ have heard of the circum~ stance." ' r ' ' ' . v " Yes, yes." . '9 It was nits child We in need to her with, delight—~neverdoubted "its‘identit with her own baby-and all went on well tfii, poor nelair’s death; but on his death-bed he wrote her a letter telling her "——-— ' , , 7‘ That the child was not her own i " exclaimed Mrs. Walsin ham. "'I'hat must have hit her hard." " It (1. poor girl. She has not yet recovered the blow, ' and Hear never will. What I most dread is her sink- ing back into, the state in which she was the winter be orelastfl - ’ ‘ - ’“ Where is Sir'prrian Davenant ? ” asked me. Wale» tngham. somewhat irrelevantly. , l " At the other end of the world, I suppose. I believe umn.” ' ‘ ' he started for An'ica some ‘time last we ‘1‘ Was there not some kind oi‘early attachment be- tween him and Mrs. Sinclair? Pardonme for asking ancha question?” ,V _ V p “ Yes. I believe Davenant would have proposed for Constance if his circumstances had permitted him to hope for my'consent." r ' , "Poor fellow! And he carried his broken heart to Africa, and came back to find a fortune waiting for him, and your daughter married. Do you not think, if he were to return now, Mrs. Sinclair might be consoled for the loss of her child by reunion with the lover of her rlhood." . , y * . , , " doubt if anything Would reconcileher to the loss of the little girl. Her ail‘eetion for that child was an infatuation." - _ r . A pair of picturesque Italians began a duet by Verdi. . and the conversation between Mrs. Walsingham and Lord Clanyarde went no further. He did not make any oil'er of bringing Constance to the lady's receptions; for the manor of that'old alliance between Mrs. Wal- singham and ilbert Sinclair hung like a’ cloud over her reputation. No one had any specific charge to brin‘ against her, but it was remembered that Sinclair hedgeen her devoted slave for a long time, and had ended his slavery by marrying somebody else. “She's a charming woman, gou know," said Lord Cianyarde to the friend who he presented him to Mrs. Walsingham, " but I. feel a kind of awkwardness about asking her to call ugon my daughter. You see, I don't exactly understand er relations with poor Sinclair." Fortunately'Mrs.Walsingham made no Bug estion about calling on Mrs. Sinclair. She welcome Lord Clanyarde graciously whenever he chose to go to her Saturday evenin a. He had heard the best music, met the nicest poop e, eat Nee olitan ices in cool, dimly lighted rooms. and admire the fading beauties of the hostess. 'Bhe reminded him of an autumn afternoon. , Thesamo rich glow of color, the same prophecy of com‘ ing decay. ' ' As the weeks went round Constance showed ,no im- provement in health or spirits. Pride was making a sorry strug is in that broken heart. She would not go ‘ back to England and the spurious Christabel, thongh her heart yearned for that guilt’iess impoetor. a B e would not sufi‘er another woman’s child to hold the place at her lost darling; no, not even though that ' strange child had made itself dearer to her than life. Mrs. Sinclair‘s doctor informed Lord Clanysrde that ' Bom’ewas getting too” warm for his patient, whereupon that anxious, parent was thin to tear himself away from the pleasures of the seven-billed city andthose delight ful evenings at Mrs. Walsingham's. *' ' ’ ’ l " Our medical man threatens me with typhoid fever ' and all manner on lion-ore if I keep my daughter here; tiger," heasaid; 'fso we start for the Engardine , . . almost immediately. ‘You will not stay much lon'gerin any lo "Borne, I suppose ?’ “I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Walsingham.care- lessly; “ the place suits me better than any other.. 1‘ am tired to death of Le don and Paris. There is some ' lessons in life here; anéd ,I should like to be buried in the cemetery where Keats'lies.” ‘ s ‘ ‘ . “‘ Yes, it's a nice place“ to be buried in, if ._ V buried at all ; {but that's rather a gloomy consideration. [’I should strongly'advise you tospend the summer in a healthier climate. ansxleave the burialgquestion to ' enhance“ ’ s "N ,, yg"’get tire long in them; andi ’ ‘ monumental...“ s chd'w’eekfni‘hsre weregfever cases» ed 0 I _and all the Americas: touristslhadned. Lard (Kenya; 9 I dare eéé'flshall’soon get“tired’df some. I ’of laces before ‘I hays beénr‘ very "the artists go away, I: shall go , . my rig, Swiss, mountains; livin a life 6 rheti’e’sindplicity that” Was wondrouslybenefic a1 painful to Lord Clanyarde. begun reafef the! had flushed,“ th a; .g ‘ a 19m ii 9. 1 sin the shadow of) wh‘m] “a” goonsmgagstgdnegsmnstancerems if‘Ihe had ‘ r beydn'd‘th‘eregionof'ictutllifetnte-‘i state of £5”. wonderful. ' She received the strange" * quite gone- She, wastnll oryeagerness and e‘ we must bee. theend as, f alread‘ ." "o .2’ soft he'tras not getting awayaa hour too soon. They .. dew d about about amo repose. a“ kind "or painless purgatory: She had done“ with the “world and worldlyrinterests and affections. Even the little stranger's‘heart must have beenfweaned from her. by this time. f - ’ , .2 Lord'Clanyarde saw the gradual decay of‘ his daugh- ter’s strength, and trembled for the» issue- fine had grown dearer to him in this time 0: close companion- ship than she hadever beensince the far-ctr days when . she was little Connie, the youngest and loveliest of his daughters. 'He told'himseli‘ that unless somethin occurred to reuse her fromthis dull apathy, this placi calm which looked like the forerunner of death's frozen stillness; there was every reason for fear,'and but little ground for'hope. ' * r ' , Lord Clanyarde r prayed more earnestly than“ he had ever done before in his, self-indulgent life. and it seemed to him that Providence heard his cry for help. One morning there came aletterfrom home which ' startled father and daughter alike. .Itwa‘s from Mrs. Walsingham, written in, ,a tremulous hand, and»ad-. dressed so Lord Clanyarde. ~ , x ' ‘ “‘They tell me‘ I am dying.de the near of death has melted the ice about my heart. , have been‘ {I very wicked woman, and now conscience, urges me to “ make you what poor reparation I confer a most cruel and treacherous revenge—not upon the man who wronged me. but upon the innocent girl tor-whose sake Iwas deserted-i . I a » I, "I have deeply injured your daughter Lord ‘ Clan- arde, and I meant to carry the secret of that wrong! to he grave—to heave her desolate and childless‘to the end. But the long lonelynights. the pain and weariness, of decay,the dreary seclusion from the bus outer world-7 --—these have "done their work. Cons once, which had been deadened by anger and revenge. slowly awakened. and there came a. longing for :atonement. I can never undo what, I have done. I can never glaze your daughter back the » ears that have been ken'ed" by sorrow—her Waste tears, her vain regrets. But I may dosomething. Lather cometo nae-let her stand beside my death-bed, and I will whisper the story ' of myicrime into her ear. - I not write it. She must come uickly ifshe wishes to hear what I have to tell, for deat stares me in the face, and-this letter may be long reaching you. Every day drifts me lurther down he dark river. How swiftly it rushes, sometimes in the dreary ni lit—watches! I can fancy I hear the ripple of, the ti e and the hollow mean of the fist Ocean that lies before mes-the unknown sea. of th and eternity." > . ., Here came a broken sentence, which Lord Clanyarde could not decipher, and it seemed to him that the writer’s mind had wandered toward the close of the letter. There was no signature, but he knew the hand» writing, and Mrs. Walsingham’s address was engraved at the top of the paper. , _ The letter bed can more than a week on the road. and was re-wddressed from the hotel where Lord Clan- yarde and his daughter had stayed at the beginning of their tour. . " It's a curious business," said Lord Clanyar’de, doubt- fully, after he had iven Constance the letter. “I be- lieve her mind is a acted, poor soul; and I really don’t think you ought to go. Who can tell what she may say in her ravings, and not a vestige of truth in it. perhaps." He thought Mrs. Walsingham’s death-bed confession might concern her relations with Gilbert Sinclair, and that it would be better for Constance to hear nothing the unhappy lady could tell. , g "This etter bears the stamp of truth,” said Con- stance, firmly. “ I shall go, papa. Pray get a carriage, and let us startas quickly as possible." I ~ " But, my love, consider the unhealthiness of Items at this time of year. We might as well go and live in a fewer hospital. The Pontine Marshes; you know, steam- ing with malaria. We. should be digging, cure own graves.” " You need not go there unless you like, papa, but I shall “not lose an hour. She, has something to confess --so'me Wrong done inc—something about Christabel, perhaps.” cried Constance, trembling with excitement. “My deargirl.becalm.-.What can this lady know about Christabel '2." "I don’t know, but I must hear what she has to tell. ‘ Wasted tears—vain regrets.’ ' That must mean that I have grieved needlessly. 0 God, does it mean that my darling is still alivgk" , “If you go" on I: e‘thi‘s, Constance, you’ll be in a burningfever beforeiyou getto, Rome,” remonstrated Iiordiclanyarde. , V _ He saw that the only wise course'Was; to yield to his " daughter’s wishes, and lost no time in making ‘arren e- mante for the ' journey back to a home. The ‘apat 32‘ which had made him so anxious about, Constance wats , omen ,, and insisted on traveling as quickly as possib e‘, foregoo' ing all rest upon the journey; c" - » ’ r ' v They entered Rome in «hammer. sunset,% the city lookin beautifying. ,Ths atmoa re was cool send balmy, but.f Lordh‘Clanyarder longed with'a shudder at the silvery mists floating ‘overi‘ithe' valley; and thelmalaria slendgrinning at h i behindthatmspjhanous nu.“ . Constance" thought; oi’ but the purxga'eifor‘which She'th come; V 7 the man to eltfli‘gh‘t‘to MrbMalsingham’s. .papa,"vehs“said:-eagerly. ’ l, .3 a] .‘, “ But. my love. he‘bettervtake as; same hotel? we; ma earnings“; as ,om‘elet termite“. and a basket-bf peaches and aenpnruheeolate en the road. I’m thoroughly exhausted. We won: fix» for an elab- orates???“ A. outlet and a bottle will be 81-101" h. I L: i" ‘ ‘ ,‘j""t ‘5’1" " union n'r'. "“5‘Y§)u can leave meht‘MmaWalaingmtapand ; go on $0th howlitodiflfi-va‘ a”. ‘ a 2‘ 9 “ a 10Y¢.:".aaid1nbrd Clinyardo, res g hum ‘ ao-a‘nxioiis; we'll ifgoihwm yttrs‘wbut a death-bed ’0 f "*‘Wflmflrehtgm mm :iooafession.youz, ripper " ‘ " r A fills gave .the‘ direction to 'the driver, and themes: pulled up his tired horses before oneoi' the stately pal- aces 9f the past.” * ' ’ > i ‘ : a ' , . Constance and he'r'father aseendedto the first floor. The house was full of shadows at this tranquil evening- hour, and the stair ' was dimly :lightedwbya lamp burning before a s ethic of the Virgin. : - ' _ fisherman-servant admitted them :to an ante room lavishly decorated with pictures and bric-s-brac— a room inwhich Lord Clanyarde had eaten Neapolitan ices or sipged ccflee‘on those Saturday svenin Which Mrs. Wale gham had made so warble to im. he (had never seen the mom em ty ore to-night, and it had-a singularly desolate loo to his fancy in the flick- ering light‘of a ref wax candles that had burned down to the sec sis of the" Pompeian bronze candle- sticks on the velv‘et—drapedmantel-pm. , ‘ ,"lIow- is your mistress 7" Lord Clanyarde asked. rly. v ' _ . . , “fie Italian shrugged'hia shoulders. - i - : ’ “Alas, Excellency,~it goes always the some. Sheath! thatis all.” ‘ .' . r w . -, ~ “7 Tell her Mrs: Sinclair has: come from Switzerland in fluke hen'”' ‘- » ' - 55;. l 'f The talian summoned Mrs. Walsingham’IMMho requested Constance teem stones to. the-sickoroom. f’ehe was eipeeted, the woman : mid. . Bast she must prepare herself to be Ihoekedbyuruflaldngham’a appearance» Berendsoemedneanr ‘ A w -_ “You had better go to your hotel, papa,"?eaid Gon- stanee.‘ “I may! ve‘to‘atay here along time. You, can come back for me by-and-b ." , . _ ,On reflection Lo d Clanyarde considered this the best ‘ ‘ ’ t. {He reallyf his dinner. Indeed, hen never yet found any eri’sisinlife sosolemmas to obliter'atethatwant. ' « ' .: a r . , The servant led the way through a suit of__.neeept%n~ rooms to atoll door at‘the enlist-spacious saloon. This opened» into Mrs; Wallingham’s bedroom. which was the last room on this side of the house; a noble chamber, with windows loo two wuss-one toward the (hills, theother‘ over the s tely moment! temple: of the city. Both windows were wide operand there was nought in the room and the rosy w of sweet. The ibed was. in an alcove, voluminous y é‘with amber damask and Roman lace. Mrs. W am was in a‘sitting position, propped up with pillows, facing, the sun-glow beyond the purple hills. . There was a second: door opening on tothostaircsse, and as Censtanee entered, some one—1a man—leit the room by this door. She supposed that this person must be‘ one of Mrs. Walsingham‘s medical attendants. The doctors were hovering about her. no doubt, in these last hours. , ' ‘ " You have come.” gaspedzthe dying woman, " thank‘ God i You can go, Morris," to the maid ; " I will ring ii" I want you. Come here, Mrs. Sinclair. Sit down by my side. There is no time to lose. I My breath tails ma very oiten. You must excuse—«be patient.” " Pray do not distress yourself," said Constance, seats ing herself in the chair beside the bed ; ".I can stay at long as you like." ' _ " How gently you speak to me! but yonvdon’t know. You will look at me difi'erently presently—not those compassionate eyes. I am anawiul spectaclfivl I not ?-1iving death. Would you believe that I" as once a beauty? Sent painted my portrait when we- were both at our best "-~with abitter little laugh. “ I have not lost an hour in coming to you, said Constance. « "If you have done me a wrong that you can by any means atone for, pray do not less time." « “ Death is waitin at my door. Yes, I mustbe q I . But it ' is so horri is to talk of it, such mean. ' treachery. Not a great revenge; a pitiful, paltry” of spitefulness. Oh, if you knew how I loved Gi bet-t ,Binclair, how firmly I believed in his love—yes, and he was fond of. me, until the luckiess‘ day youcrossed his path and stole his heart from me.” I . "I never knew”-—-falte'red Constance. ' * *' " No, you wronged me ignorantly; but that did not make my loss lighter to bear; r I hated you for it. W: Yes, Imeasured my hatred for you by my love forbim. Life, was intolerable to me without him, and one ’day I vowed that I would meke‘your lii‘e intolerablcto‘nou. I was told that on were. making an idol of your child, that your happ noes was bennd'up’ in that baby's exist- ence. and! resalved'thEt'the child should be taken’irqm.‘ yOJIOD— . . , r 1, , » v I. .'_‘X y. ‘ " Wr‘etch l" czted‘floriatanee. starting tip-in snddah horror. ff You were there—st Schonesthal-g-you pushed her'down theoloth was not 'aecident'P—ssl' I ‘ ' "No, no. *I'wasnot’quite so-‘bad'as thatu—not'cnpablo of taking that Sweet young life; heri‘roni you, 'thatwas‘ enough. To make your days miserable—to make you drin the cup of tearsf'as‘I Milena—amuse ,ofyou. That was my end and aim“... mandala-filling Ecol ingour Frenchx'nursemkldpaiskfllfnl * utor in . yatt. : Everythinglwas well-planned. he girl “had learned to swim,’-'the year before. at Oktend, and wasnot ail-aid to rpm 6 into the: riverrwiisnwe saw someone comm .' :VTh I5 aveariook'of-‘reaii ago the. , ,, business. I met elanie apart at the ruins! Sop-1" tembesmommg; enamel: mushy heather; I ear-s dried ‘her'away. tinny om wists the plaeeawharem“ L r ~ mohwasvwaifingt‘orme; md'rdroyeastrm ktzi-n- . ‘ .. cannula: travelers“ (seamless hum $91M . keeping the baby in my own charge all Waddle.” ‘ "She was not; p , then. Thank God! “Wink, God 1’" cried Cons co, nkin on her knees the bed,_and liftin V g in praise and t ” ' , 11 her hear givin . or Mrs. alsingh'am’s guilt—of Ellie v3? set-1 to ., - n a mo- : i as no t re' s s e‘,‘ ‘my‘amffig, ‘ '1’ What have you done with her? Where have you hidden her all. this time?” ' . ’ ,7. , :l .‘ ‘° {gar} “bird”: ““8‘ know, that must be a . "'2 ' ~a,« I ... ., 1 v "We in" tran tu' as I x As 3‘ ‘**"r~r er .2- ~ v .. 1 ~ . ,,from you. and hearing 5 ve her back to you. 7 a} *7“ “ am glad to hear you say that. Sir Cyprian has re- ... conscience if I can be ,1. Constance spoke no a word. She stood before her pom lover blushing like a schoolgirl. ,2: lift her eyes to his face. ,Y “fist you the example," cried James. with a ., 3?} so even to ourselves.” she said. " I took your child awe on were dying broken-hearted; our old lover leaded strongly. " gave the little one into Sir Cyprian venant's keep- ing. I know no more.” " Then I was not deceived. My Christabel—it was my Christabel they brought back to me. The instinct of a mother's heart w as not a delusion and a snare." " Can you pity—pardon ?" faltered Mrs. Walsing- ham. " Yes, i forgive you for all—for months ofblank, h'ope- 10.8 grief—all—becsuse of what you have told me to- night. If you had taken this secret to the grave—ii I had never known-I should have gone on stealing my heart against my darling ; I should have thrust her n‘om ms.'left her motherless in this cruel world, and thought that I was doing my duty. Yes, I to ve. You have wronged me . cruelly ; and it was he see. treacherous, abominable, what you did at Schonesthal ; but I {giégive on all for the sake of this blessed moment. ' by G on and pity you, as I do i" “ You are an angel,” sighed Mrs. Walsingham, stretch- ing out a feeble hand, which Constance pressed tenderly in both her own. Death is 8 great healer of byvgone “0038. A " And will you forgive the friend who brought you your own child, believing that he was bringing upon .you a stranger, and who experimentalised wit your maternal love in the hope of winning you from the ,ll “You mean Sir Cyprian Davenant i" said Con- very angry with him when my father told me , what he had done ; but I am sure all he did was done 5'1. mch of aflection for an old friend. I have nothing to 10 V0." turned from Africa after a succele expedition. He “333°”an pal oh i: shadepal notance's s so grow 5 er. '1 Re is in Rome. and has paid me many visits in this sick-room. He has talked to me of your gentleness— our divine compassion. But for that I do not think l should ever have had the courage to send for o “as ' y “Itth you with all my heart," exclaimed Con- stance. “Let your lips thank him too," said Mrs. Wallsing- ham, touching the spring bell on the table by her side. ‘ ' She struck the bell three times, and at the third chime the door opened and Cyprian Davenaut came in. .It was he who had withdrawn quietly at Mrs. Sin- clair's entrance. and whom she had in staken for the doctor. “ She has forgiven all," said Mrs.Waldngham. " You were right when you called her an angel. And now let me do one good thing on my death-bed. Let me be sure that the rest of her life will be bright and happy, that there will be s strong arm and a true heart between her and sorrow. It will help to lift the burden lrum my ure of that." She dared not mp1)in there was little need of words. . Cyprian put his arm round the slender figure, in its dismal black dress, and drew the love of years to his breast. “ God has been very good to us, my darling," ,he said. "May he never part us any more! I th.nk . TI‘He meant us to live and die together." Constance did not question this assertion. Her heart .mutely echoed her lover‘s words. a a e e e e e In the early spring of the following year Davenant awoke like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. and the comfortable old servants, who had grown ist and sleek during their period of comparative idleness, rejciced and made merry at the coming home or their master. They had known him from his boyhood, and to them this raising up of the old family to more than its former prosperity was like a rsonal elevation. Even the neighboring villages h their share in the gladness, and there were more bonfires and triumphal arches he« tween the railway station and the park gates on the evenin of Sir Cyprian's return with his beautiful wife, Lord anyarde's daughter, than had ever been soon be- fore by the oldest inhabitant. Baby Christsbel was Waiting to welcome them on the threshold of the old oak-paneled hall ; and Martha Briggs, resplendent in a new silk gown, declared that this was the happiest day of her life—«an assertion which James. Gibson, the gemekeeper, resented as a col affront. "Ber one. Patty." he remonstrated. " Ishould think ‘10!!! 0“ woddln «lay ought to be still happier." “No, it won't, ' cried Martha, decidedly ; “and I think you ought to know. Jim. that I never would have ‘1’?! consent to get married if my min flaw. , _“ And a very good example it is. too. Bir pr h" 3 promised me the new lodge at the south gate—five _~ 'roomssndasc ' Hie bound." ullery. That’s the missus's doing. I'll [an Inn.) THE STRUGGLE. TWA! a strange scene! Adsrk, weird, le- Wed forest bordered by precipitous rocks,be- whlohmurmuredanamofthesee. e THE STRUGGLE. The moon was a beautiful crescent, and the ale, shadowy beams it threw o’er the scene ooked like the track of spirits. Amid the vast columns of rocks there was one that towered high above the rest; it was known as the Sybil’s Rock, from the legend that a sybil once dwelt there, and some said that her spirit even yet lingered; and many re- sorted hither, and whatever occurred, it was believed to foretell their future destiny. It was Hallowe’en, and if ever the supersti- tions of our forefathers visit us, ’tis then. Hallowe’enl the very name is associated with the wild revels of fairies, and we seem to hear their low, tinkling laugh. Eli's, hobgoblins, fays and witches, all pass before us in a supernatural chaos. We see pale, ghostly forms, and hear weird voices from the unseen. There is a strange amalgamation of the wild, vague, unreal. with the shadowy, mystical real. ' We seem to feel the touch of spirits from the past, and long trains of spectral recollections pass before us. Although awed by a feeling of the mystical and spiritual, combined with the highest venera- tion, still we feel we are on the borderland of ' terror. Such a night was this, and the weird, gray drapery of the invisible hung over two fer-ms, kneeling with clasped hands "and upturned faces, praying to the great Infinite. It was a grand scene, and when the two be- ings arose, such a light of inefi'able peace, adoration, and gratitude shone on their features, that one would have thought the angel had l‘rissed their brows and left an nureola of splen- or. And is it not our angel nature that loves? Does not the pure and entire love of two hearts emanate from the White Throne, and partake of the essence of that pure other land? Love is the only peerless gem! It alone re- mains unsullied, and cannot be otherwise than pure; it is only the assumed that is tainted by earth’s shadowings. It is grand, when the love of the beautiful, the sublime, the pure, is merged into one in- tense and mighty whole. A true affection for an earth-being changes the very existence of a radiant robe, which sparkles with pearls from the Unknown ; to them the real world is a vest and silent plain, filled with sleeping seraphs, who dream for eye on the golden shores. The border line of prac- ticalism cannot be seen from the enchanted ground; waves of ether drape the sublime amalgamation of the ideal with the actual, and life is a real and beautiful dream ; nor do they awake from ,it till they are wafted to the spirit land. Such was the devotion of Percy Devere and Edith Morris. Edith was beautiful! A face to look upon ’twould make the heart glad, and a. beauty of the soul which threw an exquisite andeur over her. She had a. strange, dreamy ook, as one who, at times, held communion with strange spirits. She knew no evil ; she believed in the exis- tence of it, but never dreamed of seeing it. Always living among the wild scenery of her home, it is not strange she possessed much of the sublime, and all of nature’s pure sim— plicity. She had never known what love for a being was. She worshiped trees. flowers, birds, and all that was beautiful ; her nature was in- trees tense ; and when she met Paul Devere, it was not strange she loved. He was gifted with Wealth, beauty of person, nobility of mind, and all else that makes man the grand being he should be. He had wan- dered over the world, seen every type of been- ty, drinking in all that a. poet's soul can. At last he had strayed to the secluded vale where Edith dWelt. No wonder he was startled, when, seated by the seaside. he was sketching the wild scene of the Sybil's Bock, he beheld a form of beauty standing there, her face glowing with inspire.- tion, her lips parted, the eyes dilated, gazing at the glorious landscape. ‘ Edith often came there to?» dream. Nature was her teacher, and there was her home. Percy gazed upon hi as one would at a star of sur. passing brilliancy which had suddenly appeared ; he was entranced, yet feared to speak lest the orb would fade away. He saw and drank in the light of her glorious eyes, and he loved; he knew he had found his truant spirit. Lang she stood in weird contemplation, then departed, and naught remained but the breath of her he saw. He hastened to the rock, kissed the spot her feet had pressed, and blessed Him for the vision. Edith lived in a small cottage almost hidden by trees. She was an only child, and her pa- ,rents-—well, no one would have dreamed of Edith being theirs; but it was only the old story over—the strange contrast of ether and earth—of a truant sera. h, stayed in its wander- ings at the humblest l) 9. But everybelng has a vein of celestialism; in some it ever re- mains obscure. ' The entity of Edith’s parents was subject to some peculiar agency Which classified the earth attribute, and blended with it the spiritual ; Edith inherited the whole of the essence. ; Wh are such stars permitted to veil their splen or, or shine in a sphere where none see their beauty, where none feel their hearts swell in thankfulness for the bright gift? ‘ Why are such poetical, ideal and delicate creatures found in homes where their hearts can never center? ' , Why are they the offspring of parents who can no more appreciate the intense emotions, the power of poesy, than the Juggernaut car hear the cries of its victims ? ' Why it is no one can tell. It belongs to the secrets of the great Unknown; and only when He gathers those stars to himself will We know the mystery. Edith was grateful to her parents, and they loved their child as much as they were capable of loving; but she was such a strange creature, and was, her mother said, “ always dreamin’.” To—night she had been to the Rock, and was more pensive than usual. Perhaps she felt the mystic power of love, which was even then hanging its rainbow-hued curtains all around her. , “ Do, William, jest look at Edith, standin’ in the door, gain’ at nothin’, with those great, strange eyes of hers. She’s always peerin’ at somethin’ that no one else can see ; wonder she don’t talk to sperits ? She looks like one. La, William, she ain't much like you and me.” Edith heeded not her mother’s words, but still stood gazing into the night—into the grand vacuum of darkness, dreaming the happy hours away. . After Edith left the rock Percy plunged into a reverie. He was wealthy, had traveled all his life, had seen the gay world until he was sick of it. He wanted solitude. . .. Why not remain in this Secluded and romantic place? Why not learn more of that beautiful being who had been the first to touch the chords of the harp of love, and make such exquisite strains of music ? ' His queries resulted in conclusion. He sought the cottage. What cared be how humble it was? That bright creature was there. Edith’s parents readily consented to take the stran er, and here, for a. time, at least, Percy foun' rest. Wholdoubts that two such beings, brought to- gether, would love ? They read, converged, and day-dreamed together. Percy was an exquisite performer on the lute, and Edith, while he played, would sit on a low , seat by his side and. drink in the grand music which was but the echo from the wild impas- sioned music of her heart. , Hand in hand they wandered over the voles. They loved nature and wnrshi (1 each other. They never thought of dissemb ' . From the first flash of the eye, the flash of the soul’s splendor met each being, they were one had always been one. 3 lie had been her ideal—~the beautiful invisi- ble that ever soothed her; he had come to her in the shadowy vole of dreamland; it was his THE era wow: We 0). L presence she had flit from the land of the un- seen. ' ' And now when they had met, when the sweet unreal was followed by the grand and peerless real, was the time to fritta away in dissimulation? No! as the dreamy autumn days came on their love grew more radiant. At the time my story begins it was Hal- lowe’en, and the had wandered to the trysting place—the Sybi 's Rock. “ They, too, felt the influence of the place and time. They were talking of their great love, when Percy suddenly exclaimed: , “ Tomight, Edith, pledge me your afiection. Name the day when I shall say to the world, you are mine; when I shall call thee wife.” Edith he not for some time- then taking his hand said: ' .“Letus knee " ' They knelt down, these two strange beings, and with claspedhands andupturned times they prayed to Him who guided all things—prayed that their life and ove might be pure‘ ; and V while they prayed, who knoweth but what an angel was near, and waved his golden pinions over them ? . When they arose Edith whispered in low ac- cents that one year from then he should call her his wife; they would be united on Hallowe’en, and come to that rock and re-live the present. “But’hush!” said Edith, “the angel is re- cording our vows in Heaven.” There was a silence while the ideal seraph wrote. Two weeks of happiness followed, too intense to be described, and then Percy was called home. His father was ill; he was an only son, and his father was his only living relative. , The evening ere he left they visited the rock, ' and both felt a shadow had come over their ho es. Even while they were penciling a _ go den future a cloud of dense ueness ob- scured the light of the moon, an remained till ' a moment before they started, then broke into a light of radiant splendor, Both felt the omen and were sad, and the fond embrace‘and part- ing caress were wildly given. a e at as It was night, and within the sumptuous halls of Glencoe Manor ’twould soon be eternal night. The proud master was dying. He had been a strange and silent man. His wife had died young, and Percy, his only child, was almost idolized. Gold to others, to his boy he was ever gentle and loving. Percy, who had never known a mother’s love, fully re- turnedhis father’s aflection. ’ They had always traveled together till the last tour of Percy’s. It is strange that he had never spoken to his son of marriage; he seemed rath- er to avoid it. Some secret preyed upon his _mind, and now he was dying; there was a strange scene at the couch of death. “Percy, my son, you must marry her; you dare not refuse a father’s last request. A bitter curse would follow you! My son, my son, you know not the agony of my life, or you could not embitter my last momen .” “But, father,” said Percy, with a face white with pain, " my life will be sadder than thine ; I would rather die than wed Maude Rivers, when I adore another, and my purest vows are pied ed to her," “gen will, you must marry her!” shrieked the father; “swear it now! ” ‘ And he rose up in terrible agony. . Percy felt as if a hand of iron was crushing his very being. _ _ Still a hen clenched his, and a voice cried: “ Swear it now! ” “ I swear it, and the Lord forgive me for the wron I am forced to do her." “ ow.myaon, I shall diein ace; Ihave talked with Maude , she has long ved you, and you will marry her and be happy. You see in my rivate desk the dark history which you never ew. I am dying; come nearer, my son.” A few more words, a last kiss, and the soul of the prend man was borne to the unknown. Percy knew nothing. felt nothing. 1 In one short hour he had felt that intense * i I . hadsoorned suitor after suitor~was she now . agony, which, after the terrible period, leaves one in a state of apathy; the very chords of his being seemed tearing; the heavy throbs of temples were visible ; his eyes gazed at vacancy; iron coils seemed to draw him closer, closer. stinging him with pain. He saw hope, beauty, life, all fade in the distance, and a poll, heavy and black, draped his scul. ' , He was so still and silent that, save for the unconscious writhings of his face, one would scarcely think he breathed. He saw not the faithful servants weeping, heard not the steps of the watcher, knew not he followed the coffin to its vaulted house. All was night to him. For some time he was thus insensible to all things, and then he awoke from the horrid dream to a yet more terrible reality. He wanted to die— rayed to die! If he could only die, than she would him in Heaven. ' But to live on—to cali another wife——to look, into another’s eyes and see the soul orbs of 'Edith peer into his—and to fold another to his heart when his life and love were Edith’s, was heartrending. No, he could not do it. But the oath by his dying father’s couch ever rose before him. .He must marry Maude. But how could he tell Edith, see her fall, cruelly crush the bright dream of her life? He would be hers still in spirit and realit , only inname should Maude be his wife. e searched and found among his father’s papers the dreaded secret. It was a long story of how he had wronged Celia Moore, a beautiful and innocent girl, be- yond reparation. She always loved him, but married soon after, and her only child was Maude. ,Mr. Devere was never happy after, though he had deserted her when he should have been hertruestfriend; imdwhen she died he swore hewould marry his son to Maude. Celia forgave him, but he never was happy after. This, then, was the story; for this he took the Oath that blasted every hope of earth. Why must he suffer for the sins of his parent ? Again he was racked with agony. He again visited the quiet vale, and saw once more his lost idol; her innocent beauty only added to his sin. She was s ocked by his appearance; he seemed years older. He told her all, gently, but would oft press her. wildly to him, as ghough he would fain crush her being into is. She listened to him; it was strange she did not swoon; she did not weep, but stood pale, calm and cold until he spoke. The words came like lead from a heart that was freezing. “Percy, do your duty; marry Maude. You have suffered deeply; our marriage is in Heaven. You will ever love me, but never let me hear from you. I could not bear it. Kiss me, Percy, and then farewell.” , They gazed long and silentl into each other’s faces, then those two impassioned natures met in a last embrace. “It would be glorious to die just now,” Edith whispered. They glanced at the dark waves beneath them; both knew the struggle in each other’s heart; then came the last kiss, they parted, and the joy of their life was dead. When Percy returned Maude Rivers was there ; he told her of his love for Edith; that he could never love her, hop' that her woman’s nature would revolt against such a hollow marriage; but he knew her not. ' Maude was an o , mud and self-willed. She had never crossed. She who ' meet tobe mocked? She loved Percy as deeply as one of her selfish nature could, and she would marry him, even if he des ised her. The poetical, dreamy Edith to preferred to air! And then, was he not sworn to marry r? ' But Percy lingered, and long delayed the evil day ; he oeuld not call her his when his love, his honor, his life, was calling for Edith. It was near Hallowe'en; he would wait till the anniv of that “over, their plunge into the}, whirlpool. _ «Edith, guiltle Edith, firms and to see;her. Ever before her was the great, hopeless vacuum. She was daily sinking ’neath the crushing sor. row. The day before Hallowe'en she had been wandering about the cottage, dreaming more than ever. That night she was to have been Percy’s bride, and arrow after arrow of heart-agony pierced her soul. She stood by the door, crossed her white hands, and longed for his presence. At last she sank down, but could not weep. “Edith, Edithl. I declare, child, you scare me with your white, mournf'ul face; an you look like a shadow. I do believe the p l is breaking her heart after that handsome, roud fellow that was here: 'n’ last j er! Why don’t you marry Will Dawson? Hedoves you. Come, forget that high-minded “upgtartl I could have tol you all such smooth-voiced people are deceitful. .Why don’t you be cky and— But what ails you, child ?" she ex- claimed, asa sharp cry of pain broke from the lips of Edith. “Mother, mother! don't speak to me new; kiss me, once more. ” " 2 And ere her mother knew it she was gobs. 0n, on she sped till she reached the Bybil's Rock, then she threw herself down, and none but He knew her fierce‘struggle. , “Father, Father!" she prayed, “ if it thy will, let the cup pass from me to-night. , 0h, Father, let the angel take me home !" 'i Long she wrestled, till darkness shadowed the earth, and a strange peace filled her heart. , Ere long the tide would rise, but still she ,ling'ered. She heard a step. Nearer and nearer it came; she felt a breath upon her cheek, and still she could not speak. 0n looking up an exclamation of joy burstfrom *- her lips; they met in a wild embrace, and to- gether they mingled tears of gratitude. “ Edith, to-day I thoughtlof last Hallowe’en. To-night, you were to stand beside me at the altar. Oh, 'th, it was too much for me. I had to visit once more the sacred rock ereII am; lost to happiness for ever.” Edith started. ' . He was not married, then. Thank Heaven for it. Still they sat and talked of one year ago, and time flew by unheeded. “ It is near the hour we were to be married,” Percy whispered. V Just then the moon broke out from under a heavy cloud, and shone calm and beautiful over a grand and awful scene. Edith grasped Perc '8 arm, pointed below, _and cried : ' ‘ “ ercy, the tide !” , They were on the highest point of the rock; there was but one the lowest point, an water at their feet. Closer they embraced each other, while a smile of inefi'able peace illumined their faces, for they knew the bridal hour would be in Heaven. ~ _ Nearer and nearer the tide came, and still they smiled, for they were happ that at last they would find rest—at last iae love’s re- pletion. No longer Edith peered into vacancy ; no longer Percy pined for the lost one. And nearer still the waters came. They gazed into each other’s eyes, where the light of eternal affection beamed; they ted to the star- even then they felt the Spangled arch above, their lips met, and the waters closed over them. There was rustling of piniomilzlh: of a J J a o celestial ‘ white robe, a low, soft voice, d uh glory passed over the waters, an two so were herbs to infinitude, and the waves sighed and heaved on. The morni dawned on two white faces. Very beautiful ylooked in their marble sleep, and myriads of voices joined the strain that thrilled the diamond battlements of Heaven, for there was happiness there—two more were fled to the pearly ranks of immortality. ' «If, V ~; g. .y ath out, which .was over ‘ m ’ w. x , l” . *4 e. H, Of NOtable W 01-129. by Notable Authors. Beautifully printed in the popular folio, form; each iesue Va. completenovel and sold at the uniform price of TEN GEN TS. NO double price on double or extra. size numbers. ‘ ‘ ’ ' l WAs San‘His Wm? Mrs. Ma. R. c‘ro'weu 10c We 1 Ring t .. 10c 2 F30! By e Irving. 8 Din Hz Love Han? Hartley T Campbell. 10c 4 ASrrluNan Wow. Bfiflett Winwood... .. 10c 6 Two 'GmLs' Lmas By rs. M. R. Crowell. 10c 9 Tan WAD on Hume. Corinne Cushmm. 10c ' 11 THDFALSDWIDOW. Mrs.J D Burton. 10c 19-13 Los'r non Lovn. MlseM. E. Brandon. . 100 1 Worms“. ByVictorHugo.. 10c mm QDADDOON. By AWarfield. 10c 17% UNDLISILAL, ByJ 8.1aqu . . 1 ‘ . MissM E. Braddon.. 10c 21-28 Lima: KATE Km“. 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Turner. 100 mm “B” High 3 r we '63 Wm on. Wmow. By Rett Winwood...... 10c 0” y m _‘ , ------------ -- 64 TEECREOLE Cousts. Phill S.Warne. 100 87 SW! MADRID». a the author 0! g PollsanmorningR . J giugnman. . “Carte.” Ready 100 '3 WE 9“ n- . whom-m, CHILD or W- or A e Beets-E63“... e..By:‘;hi¥e%~.‘imn..-~ :8: {www.monem... .gol- W ... . 6930mm, THE KNIeiir or CHIVALBY. " y """"" " _x The Only Young Ladies' Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published. Price, Five Cents. .l The Masked Bride; or, WILL Sm: MAB.- nr Hm. By Mrs. Ms. Reed Crowell. 2 Was It Love? or, LLneLANs AND Swnn'r- HEARTS. B Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 3 The .r Glr Wife' or, THE TRUE AND THE FAtsn. By Bartley '1‘. Campbell- 4 A Brave Heart; or, STARTLINQLY STRANGE. B Arabella Southworth. 5 essie Raynor, the Work Girl. W M D. or, A Ducmcss 11y, m. n Turner, . w 6 ' he Secret Marria e m Sam on HERSELF‘. y r9. Clnxton; . 7 A Daughter of Eve; or, BLnanD ,3! Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed CrOWell. 8 Heart to Heart; or, FAIR anLms’ Lovn. By Arabella Southworth. - e 9 Alone in the World; or. Tm: YOUNG MAN’S WARD. Bythe author of “Clifton.’,’ 10 A. Pair of Gray Eyeszor, THE EMER- ALD Nmmon. By Rose Kennedy. 11 Entnngledgkor, A DANoDnODs GAME. By ennetta. ‘ era‘y. '12 His Lawful W re; Ol~,MYIlA,m CHILD ‘ or ADOPTION. By Mrs. Anus. Stephens. l3 Mgdca , the Little Quakeress. By' . . Co one an. 14 Why I married Him: or, Tm: WOMAN Amen“. By-Sara Claxton. . v " 15 A Fair Face; or, OUT IN; gran WORLD. V ' Battle '1‘. Campbell. 16 1Bill-list. or Not' or, Tm: Tami. KNIGHT. MargaretLeiceser. 3 - :"' 17. Loyal Lovor; or, Tm: LAs'r or can ~ Gnnlsmns. VBy'Arabella Southworth. - 18 I! s Idol; or, Tm: ILL-STARR!!!) «Mrs MaryReedCrowell. '. ens HATE. y rthI-aoe Helpine. _ ~ M 200111th Noll,t e Orange Girl; or, . Tin: WITCBESOFNEWYOBL,‘ le Penna.“ " 21 Now and; Forever or HYDE) SEE ‘ Hm. Henrie keray. w ot.“Aloneln the War ,’fetc.,etc. , ‘38 Leo Ire”; or, B1! Sm: PROPOSED. By 41,4 or Fuce'Wns ner'Eortune. By TOLD . , 26,,‘Wlthout a Heart: “or WALKING O'N ‘ ’m‘n . By _ nmliam. ‘ 27 Was She n Coquette? ,or 'A Emmet Commas. By Henriette'rhoclmrey. 28 Sybil Chm: or TDD Gmm’e Wm. mmmevw r , . 42 Beatrice ' themautlml; or, H olmLom 13y Hill an, H ‘19" he Broken Betrothal; or. LOvn van? Y 22 The Bride. of fan A ctor. By the author. . canon Blaine. , . 25' om a' schoolmlstress; Ol‘LHER Uni mm By Ara worth. 29 For Her, Dear Sake: or, SAVED mu HIMSELF. By Sara. (Benton. 30 The Bon net Girl: or, A MILLION OF MONEY. By, gile Penile. ‘31 A Mad Marriage: or, THE IRON WILL. B Mrs. enison. y Mary AD 32 Miriana . ROSDSAND the Prima Donna: . 01', me. By A. Southworth. 33 The Three Sisters: or, Tarn Mvmnr or LORD CEALB’ONT. By Alice Fleming. 341’ A Mal-rt ' e ofConvenience: or WAS Em A 00013? By Sara. Clexton. V ' 35 Sinn’ed Against: or, TDD WINTHROP PRIDB. By Clare Augusta. 36 Sir Archer’s Bride: or, Tm: MN OF HIS HEART; By Arabella Southwort . 3'1 The Country Cousin; or ALL Is Now GOLD THAT GUMRS. By Rose kennedy. 38 His Own Afiain or,~ TRUST Hun Now. By Arabella. Sou ywo h. I . 39 Flirtation' or A YOUNG GmL’s GOOD - NAME. By Ra ph Iioyal. ' , 40 Pledged to, Marry; or, INLOVD’s 2 ‘By Sara Clexton. * , 41, Blind Devotion; or,;Lovn Asmara-la: r WORLD. By Alice Fleming. - -. Sne- . \ Southwo . . 43 The Baronevs Secret : or, TEERIVAL H HALF-SIMER. By Sara. Claxton. ' _ 44 The Only Daughter: or, BROTHER I AGAINST LOVER. I By Alice Fleming. 45' Her Hidden Foe’; or, Love AT ALL Opus. By Arabella. Southworth. - . 48 The Little ' Heiress; or, ; CLOUD. ByMrs. M. . Denison / _ 4'1 Because She vaed "Hlm; or, How WmL rr‘ END. By Alice Fleming. 48‘ In Spite of Herself; :or Jmmn’s Rm» ARA'I‘ION. By S. R. Sherwoml. I ' UNDER ~A ,, ~49 His Hearfls- Mistress; .or, Low: AT FIRST , . _ 510312., By Arabelleislouthworth. . 5 r The Cull n Heireis. or; ’I‘nDPilIsONDn. yo 0?. LAYH‘TI‘ESQE. BY Amelia”: Two Younfldirls; 03m BRIDE or By: ‘ceFlemingp . J ‘ 52 TheWin edlll' [son or Iorllh" e ALLFOBAJW. 53 Agnes Hope, the Actress ' or, TDD Ro- MANOR or A RUBY RING. W. M. ’l‘urner, M. D. 54 One Woman’s Heart; or, SAVED Fem: THE STREET. By George S. Kaime. 55 She Did Not Love Him or. Brooms TOCONQUER. By Al‘ebelleSou worth. 56 Love-Mad; or, Bnmomnn, MARRmD, DNOBCED‘ AND ——-. By W. M. er, D. 57 A Brave Girl; or, SUNSHINE AT LAST. - .ByAAlice Fleming. 58 The Eben Mask; 01-, Train STRANGE GUARDIAN. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Widow’s Wiles‘ or A BITTER, RE- PENTANCE. By Rachel ernherdl. ' 60 Cecil’s Deceit or, THE DIAMOND LEGACY. By Mrs. Jennie avis Burton. 61 A'Wicked Heart; or, THE FALSE AND Tim TRUE. BySara. Claxton. 62 The Maniac Bride; or, THE DEAD SECRET or HOLLow Asa HALL. By M. Blount. 68 The Creole Sisters; or."l‘ml: MYSTERY or m PERRYB. By Mrs. Anne E. Porter. 64 What Jealousy Bid; or TEE Him: or - I Wonsmy GnANGn. By Alice eming. .65 The Wife5s Seer-eggé or, ’waxr CUPMD‘ ‘ LIP. By COL Juan Le 66 A Brgthcr’s Sin or FLonA's Fowm- ms yRachel » unit. 67 Forbidden Bans "or Ann’s Dream Films. By Arabella. utllworth. 68 Weavers and Weft or,*“Lm Tau» HATE UelN Hrs Nm'. By. M. E. Braddon. 69' Camille ; or, Tm: Fun on A Coonmm. By Alex Dumas. Ready March 8th. 70 The Two Orphans. By- D’Enne . ' ' Readme 15th. 71 Yonn Wife. B M Yo ' Wife’s r'gluiba’nd. R‘gadynarch “y pug - 72 The Two Widows. ByAnnie Thomas. ‘ - ' ‘ - v - .BeadyMal-ch . filth. 78,30” Michel; or, TDD TRIALS or A FAGg non? GIRL. By, Maude Hilton. April 5th.. A new issue every week. ' WAvnnIm mama? is for sale Thy. gill y Newsdealers, five cents per‘ co mail on receipt ofeix cents can BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, y,or sen 98 William street, New York. b , , a»: