Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 68) (1881 03 01)
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myo gee The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels r > | ' Cs ; mn ™ 7 Hann ‘> Palit wring * i MOSS Pe i >" $2.50 a year. Published! Price, but 5 cents each. tay " nyt " r i ERA MAA March 1, 1881; Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class "Mail Rates. Copyrighted in 1881 by BEADLE AND ADAMS. No. 68. VoL. Ill... PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N.Y: PRICE, 5'CENTS. Weavers and Weft: or,“Love That Hath Us In His Net,” | BY MISS M. FE. BRADDON. CHAPTER I. AT THE STAR AND GARTER, GLorious June weather, tender moonlight froma moon newly risen —a mystical light—silver bright on far-off 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 isnot an acre of Davenant Park or a tree in Duve- 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 «xnow 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 eyés, This gentleman is James Morton Wyatt, a solicitor, with anh »ex- cellent practice, and a decided 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 AAT aaa itu | ‘li! wan _——" CONSTANCE GAVE A FAINT CRY OF HORROR, AND STARTED BACE. 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 ago.” “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 pros- pect of coming back again.” . “Well, I don’t know about that. It’s a pleasure trip, isn’t it, this African exploration business?” ‘‘ Tt 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 ago, 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 lincs 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’s tone. = *T should have thought there were not many. people in Eng- land you would care about’ leav-
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i+ = — dea! 3 WEAVERS AND WEFT. a ing, Davenant,” he said, with a curiously watch- | look at the other man’s half averted face. ped heard you boast of standing alone in the Wo! ‘ ae ‘“Rather a barren boast, isn’t it ?” said Sir Cyprian, with a brief and bitter laugh. —‘‘ Yes, Iam quite.alone. Since, my sister Marian’s marriage, and complete absorption in nursery cares and nursery joys, there ismo one to offer let or hindrance to my’going yonder. I have friends, of course, a great many—such as you, _ Jim, for instance; jolly good fellows, who _ would smoke a cigar with me to-night in the _ bonds of friendship, and who would hear of my - death a month hence without turning a hair.” “Don't talk platitudes about your friends, Cyprian. Ihave no doubt they are as good as other people’s. I don’t know a man going more popular than you are.” Cyprian Dayenant took no notice of this re- mark. ‘Dear old river!” he murmured, tenderly. ‘“Poor old river,. how many of the happiest hours of my life haye been spent upon your banks, or on your breast! Shall I ever see you again, I wonder, or shall I find 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 Iam a liftle out of spirits to-night. I ought not to have accepted Sinclair’s invitation. I talked 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 thing will come to a bad end. Of course I wouldn’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.” ‘* T'll tell you what it is, Dayenant,” answer- ed the lawyer. ‘‘ There is something deeper than you have owned to yet at the bottom of | your reluctance to leave England. There is some one, at least—a woman.’ The other tumed his face full upon the speaker. ‘‘ You're about right Jim,” he said, tossing 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 were a wise man, I should be very glad of this 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 hopeless. What have I to offer the woman Iloye? Theincome upon which I have managed to live since my ruin and subsequent reformation would be something worse than beggary fora wife suchas the woman I love. Even if she were willingto share my poverty, could I be mean enough to drag her into such a slough of despond? No, Jim, it is a hopeless case. My pretty one andI must part. Ito dreary old bachelorhood, she to her mis- sion, and make one of the grand matches of the n. ‘*T think I know the lady,” said James Wy- att, slowly. ‘‘Lord Clanyarde’s youngest daughter; the new one, eh, Cyprian? 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 Constance Clanyarde?” ‘ \ ‘Have not I senses to understand, and eyes to see, and have I not seen you and Miss Clan- yarde together atleast three times? Why, Cyprian, the infatuation on both sides is patent to the most unsophisticated observer. It’sa pity you’ve only four hundred a year. That ‘would be rather,a tight squeeze for a Clanyarde. They’re a notoriously extravagant set, I know, and, have been up to their eyes in debt for the last forty years. Yes, I have seen the lady, Cyprian, and she is very lovely. Upon my word I’m sorry for you.’ “Thanks, old fellow. I needn’t ask you not to mention my name in conjunction with Miss The | Clanyarde’s. And now I suppose we'd better go back to our friends.” “‘T think so. By-the-way, what do you think of the lady we were asked to meet?” **Mrs. Walsingham? She is very handsome. A widow, I suppose.” ‘She is rather silent on that t, and I have heard it hinted that Colonel Walsingham —he was colonel in the Spanish sa ae me I believe, and count of the Holy Roman pire —still walks this earth, and that the lady owes her agreeable freedom to an American court of divoree. ‘Their antecedents are altogether doubt- ful, and Mrs. Walsingham’s set is of the order fast and furious. Gilbert Sinclair likes that kind of thing.” ‘* And I suppose Mrs. Walsingham likes Gil- bert Sinclair.” ‘‘Or his money. Sinclair's about, the biggest fish in the matrimonial waters, and she will 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 dote upon him; but I confess thatif I were a wo- man I should regard him with "umitigated loathing.” ‘« That’s rather strong.” ‘*Of course he’s a most estimsvle creature; but such an unspeakable snob, such a pompous, purse-proud cad. Ah, there he is at the win- dow looking for us. IfI 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 present, one a fashionable actress, the other her friend and confidante, also an aspirant to dramatic fame. The first was occupied in an agreeable flirtation with a cornet of dragoons, the second was listening with delight to the lively conversation of Mr. Bellingham, manager of the Phoonix Theater. A couple 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 turning 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 times before, and she gave a hig a little yawn as Mr. Bellingham toldher how the pro- vincial Horatio informed the great Hamlet that his father’s ghost ‘‘would have much amused you.” She covered the yawn with her pretty plump little hand, watched Gilbert Sinclair's face with rather a 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 certain bluntness 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 supposed tolike ; but he was not liberal with protestations of re and he had few intimate acquaintances. © Was & man whom some people called handsome—a big man, upward of six feet high, and with a pon- derous, powerfulframe. He had large regular features, a florid complexion, prominent red- dish-brown eyes, thick curling hair of the same reddish-brown, and intensely white teeth. The chief claim which Mr. Sinclair to notoriety was comprised in the fact of hi wealth. He was the owner ofa great estate in the north, an estate consisting of iron-works and coal-pits, the annual income from which was said to be something stupendous, and he had shares in more railways and mines end foreign loans than his friends could ca, . His father had been dead about five years, leaving Gilbert sole possessor of this great fortune unfettered by a claim, for the young man was an only child, and had neither kith nor kin to share his wealth. He had been at and Cambridge, and had traveled all over Europe with pede tutor. ? He had séen every and -been taught every thing that Tatty young Engli Bifian ought to see or to learn, and had »p din a Medic wick degree by the p , Sanps ape strong a great capacity for ing bi own secrets, and had started in life with the de- termination to enjoy existence after his own fashion. After three years spent in his com- panionship, his tutor remarked that he scarcely knew Gilbert Sinclair any better at the close of their acquaintance than he bad known him at the beginning of it. ; ‘*And yet the fellow seems so candid,” said Mr. Ashon,-wonderingly.” ‘*T wish you would give me a little assistance with the tea-cups, Gilbert,” 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 that to 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. Walsingham 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 to-night was only one of many entertainments that had been given at different times for her gratification. It was scarcely strange, therefore, if rumor, especially loud on the part of the lady’s friends, declared that Mr. Sinclair and Mrs. Walsingham were engaged to be married. But the acquaintance between them had continued for along time, and those who knew most of Gilbert Sinclair shook their heads significantly when the matri- monial question was mooted. *¢ Gilbert knows his own value,” growled old Colonel Mordant, an inveterate whist-player and diner-out, who had introduced young Sinclair into fast society. ‘‘ When he marries he will marry 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 you—pas si bete !” Mrs. Walsingham 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 talkedto 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 cornet to Mr. Wyatt, much ‘to the dis- gust of the youthful dragoon. . ‘Yes, Sophy, I am just. going to put on my shawl. Will you fetch our Mi from the next room, please, Mr. Wyatt? ill you take the back seat in the brougham, Gilbert, and wind up with a lobster salad in Half-Moon Street? It is really early, you know.” ‘Thanks, no. I could scarcely trust my 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. care for dancing parties.” é, ‘‘T don’t care for them now; but one has to sacrifice inclination now and then, you know.”’ “Do I know the,people?” asked Mrs, Wal- aa Sinclair smiled as he replied, ‘‘ I think not.” A cloud came over the lady’s face, and when , ‘You used not to ~
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a nat ve WEAVERS AND WEFT. > 7 & * . * Da oy 3 her shawl had been adjusted she took Gilbert Sinclair’s arm in silence. Nor did she speak to him on the way to the porch of the hotel, where a mail phaeton and a couple of brough- ams were waiting. Her adieux to the rest of the party were brief and cold, and Gilbert him- self she only honored by a stately inclination of her beautiful head, with its coronal of bright ebbatnat hair, and coquettish little curls dotted about a broad white forehead. Mr. Sinclair stood bare-headed under the porch as the Walsingham brougham drove away, and then turned with a frown to perform his duties in other directions. Here, however, he found there was nothing left for him to do. Miss Morton and her companion ‘had been escorted to their carriage by Sir rian 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 art & long time, are we, Imogen ?” iss 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 dying day. And on the way home the two ladies discussed Mr. Sinclair ‘and his income, and speculated as to the chances of his ultimately marrying Mrs. Walsingham CHAPTER II, ‘“ WHEN. WE TWO PARTED.”’ Sm Cyprian Davenanr and James Wyatt went back to town by rail, and parted company at Wa- terloo, the baronet going westward to his bache- lor lodgings in one of the shabbiest streets about enor Square, the lawyer to ‘a big dull house on the coldest side of Russell Square, which his father had bought and furnished some fifty years before, and in which there was & 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 ignorance of the fact that it was from Thomas yatt’s own coffers that the money came, and that to him the interest accrued. James Wyatt inherited his father’s cautious Spirit, together with his father’s handsome for- tune, and he had cultivated very much the same kindof business, making himself emi- nently useful to hig young friends, and win- ning for himself the character of a most pru- dent friend and adviser. He did not take the Tisks of an ordinary money-lender, and he Taised money for his clients on terms that seemed moderate when compared with the usurer’s exhorbitant demands; but he con- trived, nevertheless, to profit considerably by évery transaction, and he never let a client es- cape him while there was a feather to pluck. Sir Tip Davenant had been im this gen- tleman’s hands ever since his coming of age, but now that there was not an acre of the Dav- ®nant estate unmortgaged, and the day was not far off in which must come foreclosure and sale, the relations between the two men were ther those of friendship than business. Cy- Prian had lived his life, had wasted his last available shilling, and had reformed. His dis- Sipations had never been of a base or degrad- ingorder. He had been wild and reckless, played high at his club, and lost money on the turf, and kept an extravagant stud, and ridden in steeple-chases at home and abroad, and had indulged in many other follies pecu- liar to his age and station ; but he had no low vices, and when his money was gone, and the 7 | * ee freshness of youth with it, he fell from the 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 dr 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 borethe youngsters with my —_ old stories. What a life to look forward to , 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 packing. When all was done, he was still wakeful, 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!” he thought, as he bent over a photograph framed in the ld of his dispatch-box, SonhenROMDs the lovely face with a fond smile, anda tender, 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 delight of loving her—without 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! Soeven 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? Ihave never asked her the question, never betrayed myself by any direct avowal. Yet these things make themselyes understood somehow, and I think my darling knows that I would die for her; and I think I know that she will never care for any man as sbe 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. [know 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 atthe 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 hisroom, 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 in a Han- som, and at mid-day he was in one 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 hands, but he knew that, with prudence, he might have saved the greater part of it. He entered the park by a rustic gateway, beside which there was a keeper’s lodge, a gate dividing the thickest part of the wood froma broad green valley, where the fern grew deep under the spreading branches of grand old oaks, and around the smooth silver- gray trunks of mighty beeches. The Davenant timber had suffered little from the prodigal’s destroying hand. He could better endure the loss of the place than its desecration. The woman at the keeper's lodge welcomed her master with an exclamation of rise. ‘‘T hope you have come to stay, Sir Cyprian,” she said, dropping a rustic courtesy. ‘‘No, Mrs, Mead, I have only come for a last look at the old place before I go away from England.” “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. ‘*Oh, by-the-way,” he said, ‘‘ Lord Clanyarde 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 unlock the gate again, Mrs. Mead.” ‘*Shall I send one of my boys to the house 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 ?” 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 upon a blank expanse of pasture land, by courtesy a park. An avenue of elms led from the lodge-gate to the southern front of the house, and on the western side there was a prim Dutch garden, divided from the park by aha-ha. The place was in perfect order, but there was a cold, bare look about everything that was eminently suggestive of poverty. A woman at the lodge informed Sir Cyprian that there was no one at home. Lord Clanyarde had driven to Maidstone; Miss Clanyarde was in the village. She had gone to see the ¢hildren 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. ‘* But they leave schoolat 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 retwn from her mis- sion. Nothing could be more pleasant to him than the idea of meeting her in her gol- 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 multi} lication table. Miss Clanyarde was standiug in tho little stone porch talking to the school-mistress when Sir Cyprian opened the low wooden gate. She looked up at the sound of his footstep with a sudden blush. ‘ ‘«T did not know you were at Davenant, Sir Cyprian,” she said, with some little embarrass- ment, as they shook hands. “I have not been at Davenant, Miss Clan- yarde. I only left town this morning. I have come down here to say good-by to Davenant and all old friends.” oo blush faded and left the lovely face very e. : “(Is it true that you are going to Africa, Sir Cyprian? I heard from some friends in town that you were going to join Captain Harcourt’s expedition.” Ms “Tt is quite true. I promised Harcourt some years ago that if he ever went again I would go with him.” ‘And you are pleased to go, I suppose ?” “No, Miss Clanyarde, not pleased togo, But 1%
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4 employment for the energies of. a waif and ., Stray, such as Lam.. I haye lived my. life, you see, and have not a single card. left. to play in the game of civilized existence. There is some hope of adventure out yonder. Are you going home?” “Yes, I was just saying good-by to Miss _Eyans.as you came in,” “Then I'll walk back to Marchbrook with ou, if you'll allow me...I told the lodge- eeper I would return by-and-by in the hope of finding Lord Clanyarde.” “wate ‘*You have been to Marchbrook already, then?” “Yes, and they told me at the lodge that I should find you here.” - After this there came rather an awkward si- lence. They walked away from the school- house side by side, Sir Sybian furtivel il of his companion’s face, in whic ’ ‘there were signs of a sorrow that seemed some- thing deeper than the conventional regret which 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, anda shady lane —d# cross-country road, above which the over- ‘arching branches of the elms made a roof of foliage at this bright midsummer-season. There was a way of reaching Marchbrook by ‘this lane—a tempting walk compared to the high-road. ** Let us go back by the lane,” said Cyprian. “Tt is a little longer, but I am sure you are not in a hurry. You would have dawdled away half the morning talking to that young woman at the school, if IThadn’t come to fetch you ; and it will be our last walk together, Constance, f 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.. Oh, Constance, what happy hours we have spent together in these Kentish lanes ! ‘I shall see then in my dreams out yonder, and our face will shine down upon me from a ackground of green leaves and 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 is a point of, honor with me to keep my promise ; and it is better for me to be away from fen glan ad ” . ‘** You are the best judge of that question.” Sir Cyprian was slow to reply to this remark. He 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 enough of Viscount Clanyarde’s principles and his daughter’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 ,am. likely to meet the girl’ I love; fondly, fool- ishly, hopelessly, Don’t look at me with those astonished eyes, my darling; you have known «my secret. ever so long. I-meant*to keep si- ence till the very end; but, you see, the words |' "are spoken in spite of me! My love, I dare not ask you ‘to be my wife. Idare only tell you that no other woman will fill that place. You- are not angry with me, Constance, for having spoken?” |» ; o “Angry with -you”—she: began, and then broke down utterly and burst into:tears. He drew his arm ‘round: her with a tender, protecting gesture, and soothed her gently, as 3f she had been a child. , 7a¥ = : —— I think that sort of thing is about the best eu 7, * ct rere ae ae ‘* My darling, I am not worth your tears... If I had been. a better man, I might have redeemed Davenant by this time, and might have hoped to make you my wife.. There would have been some hope for me, would there not, dear, if I could have offered you a home that your father could approve!” ‘‘T am notiso mercenary as you think me,” answered Constance, drying her tears and dis- engaging herself from Sir Oyprian’s encircling arm. ‘‘IT am not afraid of poverty. But I know that my father would never forgive”—— ‘“And I know it too,’my dearest:girl, and you shall not be asked'to break with your father for such a man asl: ‘I never meant to speak of this, dear; but perlaps it is better that 1 should have spoken. stance, and I shall hear of you making some brilliant marriage before I have been away very long: God grant the: man may be worthy of you. God grant you may marry a good man!” “Tam not very likely to marry,” replie Miss Clanyarde. “My dearest, it is not possible you can escape ; and Heaven forbid that my memory should come between you anda happy future! It is enough for one of us to Carry the burden of a life-long regret.” There was much moré talk between them be- fore they arrived at a little gate opening into the Marchbrook kitchen-garden, fond regretful talk of the days that were gone, in which they had been so much together down in Kent, with all the freedom permitted between friends and neighbors of long 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 Olanyarde. He had, in truth, very } han little desire to see that gentleman, who was one of the most pompous and self-opinionated of noblemen. 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.” Itis an eternal parting for me, darling, for I ean 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 itis 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 temembered 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 roses. she had loved still blossomed in all their glory. The memory of the dead was with him as hevate 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,, | He left, Davenant immedietely after dinner, and walked back to the little station, thinking mournfully enough of his day’s work and of the life that lay before him. Before noon next day he and his companions were on the first stage | of their journey, speeding toward Marseilles. CHAPTER II. “If WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FArL.” - Nwarty a year had gone since Cyprian Dave- nant turned his back upon British soil. It was the’end of May, high season in London, and wn- usually brilliant weather, the West End streets |. and squares thronged with carriages, and every- where throughout that bright western world: a delightful flutter, and buzz of life and gayety, as if the children of that pleasant region had indeed in some manner’ secured an’ exemption from the cares and sorrows of meaner mortals, You will soon forget me, Cons, and were bent on making the most. of their privileged, existence. , ’, 19 A neatly appointed ,brougham) waited before the door ofa house in Half-Moon Street, and had. been waiting there for some time, It. was Mrs. Walsingham’s brougham, and. the lady herself was slowly pacing to and fro her little drawing- room, pausing every now and then to lookjout of the window, and in ‘a very unpleasant state of mind. She was dressed for walking, elegantly dressed in her favorite toilet of India muslin and lace, with a bonnet that. seemed to: be, made. of pansies, and she was looking very handsome, in. spite of the cloud upon, her smooth; white brow and a certain ominous glitter, in, her blue eyes. ‘‘T suppose he is not coming,” she: muttered. at last, tossing her, white lace parasol upon the table with an angry gesture. ‘‘ This will be the second disappointment ina week. . But I shall not go to the concert, without him... What do I care for their tiresome classical,.music, or to be stared at by a crowd of great ladies; who don't choose to know me?” She rang the bell violently, but before it. could. be answered there came, a thundering double knock at the door below, and a minute after- ward Gilbert Sinclair dashed into the room, ‘t Late again, Gilbert,” cried |Mrs., Walsing- ham, reproachfully, her face brightening never- theless at his coming; and she smiled. at, him. with a pleased welcoming smile as they shook hands. ‘* Yes, I know it’s late for that confounded concert. But I want you to let me off that in- fliction, Clara. That sort of thing is such a con- sumate bore to a man who ‘doesn’t: know the difference between Balfe and Beethoven, and oe oct I have a-heap of engagements on my “You have only come to cry off, then?” said Mrs. Walsingham, with a sudden contraction of her firmly moulded lips. “My dear Clara, what a fiend you can look when you like! But I'wouldn’t cultivate that. kind of expression if I were you: Of course Pll go to the concert with you, if you are bent. upon it, rather than run the risk of any thing in the way of a scene. But you know very well that I don’t care for music, and you ought to know ”—— He stopped, hesitating, with a furtive look in his red-brown eyes, and a nervous. action of one big hand about his thick brown mus- tache. *‘T ought to know what, Mr. Sinclair ?” asked Clara Walsingham, with a sudden. hardness of voice and manner, “That it is good neither for your reputa- tion nor mine that we should be seen so often together at such places as this Portman Square concert. It is almost a private affair, you know, and everybody present. will know all about us.” ‘Indeed! and since when has Mr. Gilbert Sinclair become so careful of his reputation—or of mine ?”’ ay ‘Since you set, your friends talking about our being engaged to be married, Mrs. Walsingham. You have rather too, many feminine acquaint- ances with long, tongues,,I.don't like being congratulated, or chaffed—it, comes to pretty much thesame thing—-upow jan event, which you know can never happen.”5))0 » 6)! ‘t Never is a long word; Gilbert. My husband may die, and leave me free to become your wife, if you should. do me the ‘honor torepéat the proposal which »you' made: to me: six years Ox? | ; 14 Tto sar 3 ‘‘T don’t like waiting for: dead’ men’s shoes, Olara,” answered Sinclair, in rather a sulky tortie. ‘‘T made you: that offér' in all good faithy-when I believed you to'be a widow; dnd when Twas madly in love with you.’ But'six' years'is’a long time;oand ”?+— iv : 63) T9b1O Ba “He broke down again, and stood before ‘her with his eyes fixed’on'the ground. ope m0 “And men are fickle,” she said, taking up his ‘unfinished sentence. “You ‘have grown tired of me, Gilbert; is that what you mean ?” oor salle ‘* Not exactly that, Clara, but rather tired of
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- ee a position that keeps mea single man without a single man’s liberty. You are quite as exact- ing as a wife, more jealous thin a mistress, and! Tam getting to an age now at which a man bogins to feel a kind of yearning for something moré like a home than chambers in the Albany, some one more like a wife than a lady who’ requires one to be perpetually playing the cavaliere servante. ‘“Have I been exacting, Gilbert? Tf 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. Ishould be satisfied with a very dull life if I saw you often. Oh, Gilbert, I think you ought to know how well T love you.” “T could better have believed that six years ago, if you had consented to leave England with me, as [ proposed when I found out the secret of Mr. Walsingham’s existence, and that the Yankee divorce was all bosh.” “*T loved you too well to sink as low as that, Gilbert.” “T thought the strength of a woman’s love was best shown 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.” “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 ?” ‘*T 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 thing, of course. As it is, we are both wasting our lives and getting our- selves talked about into the bargain.” Clara Walsington laughed scornfully at this. “‘T care very little what people say of me,” she said. ‘‘ English society has not chosen to receive mé very | rere and I did not think you would consider 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 can marry. 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 the ground during that sharp scrutiny, but he was fully conscious of it nevertheless. “Gilbert Sinclair,” she cried, after a long ause, *‘ you are in love withsome other woman. ou are going to jilt me.” There was a suppressed agony in her tone which both surprised and alarmed the man to whom she spoke. Of late he had doubted the Sincerity of her attachment to him, and had fos- tered that doubt, telling himself that it was his wealth he cared for. _ “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 gre only trying to frighten me.” “You are frightening yourself,” he answered. “*T only put the question in a speculative way. Let us drop the subject. If you want to go to the concert ”—— , “T don’t want to go; I'am not fit to go any where, “Will you ring that bell, please? 1 shall send the brougham back’ to the stable.” “Won't you drive in the park ‘this fine after- Doon on , “No; Iam fit for nothing now.” A maid-servant came in answer to the bell. _ ‘You can take my bonnet, Jane,” said Mrs. ‘alsingham, romoving that floral structure, “‘and tell Jehnson I shall not want the brougham to-day. You'll stop to dinner, won't you, Gilbert?” she went on when the maid had Tetired. | ‘‘Mr. Wyatt is to be here, and Sophy te) mn.” ‘ | “How fond you are of those actor people! ) Jim Wyatt is coming, is he? I rather want to see him, But I have other engage- ee world.” ments this afternoon, and I reall, : y don’t think TI can stay.” reds cedw os {eOh,-yes,°you bah) Gilberto E:shdll think 1} had jast grounds formy suspicion | if» you are so eager to run away.” 6s sith ( «Very well, Clara; if you:make a point of it, I will stop.” Mr. Sinclair threw himself into. .one of the low luxurious chairs with anairof resignation ‘scarcely complimentary to his hostess. . Time was when this»wwoman had. exercised a pro- found power over him, when he had been in- deed eager to make her his 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 angry with himself for having wasted so much of his life upon an infatuation which he now accounted the one supreme mistake of his, career. 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 amagic which he had never before en- countered, a glamour that enthralled his nar- row soul. The interval before dinner dragged wearily, in spite of Mrs. Walsingham’s efforts 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 abyss, some dangerous chasm, into whose deadly 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. **T think not. I am tired of that part of the “Then I suppose you will amuse yourself with the grouse in Scotland ?” ‘*No, I have just declined.a share in a moor. I am heartily sick of grouse shooting. I have really no settled plans yet. I shall 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 talked to him faded the moment he had left her, and she began to pace the room with rapid steps and a darkly clouded brow. ** Yes, there is no doubt of it,” she muttered to herself, with suppressed passion, ‘‘T have seen the change in him for the last twelve months. There is some one else.. How should T lose him if it were not so? Heaven knows what pains I have taken to retain my hold upon him!, There is some one else. He is afraid 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 loyed you, for your own sake, without a thought of your fortune, with a blind. idolatry of your very faults? What is it that I love in him, I wonder? 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 wrong were done me. Yes, even tohim. Let him take care how he provokes a passionate, reckless nature like mine. Let him beware of playing with fire.” This was the gist of her thoughts during a gloomy reverie that lasted more than an hour. At the end of that time Miss Morton was an- nounced, and came fluttering into the room, re- splendent in a brilliant’ costume of rose-colored silk and black lace, followed shortly by James Wyatt, the lawyer, courteous and debonair, full ‘ — Before his | of. small-talk and fashionable scandal. Gilbert- Sinclair was the last to entér..)) - adi | ~The dinner was elegantly »served, in a pretty., ‘little dining-room,: hung! with» pal c : e green dra-, peries and,adorned’ with .a. few clever pwater- color pictures, a@ room in which there,wasja de-_ lightful air. of coolness and repose..,,The,fold.. ing doors between the two rooms on the ground- floor had been removed, and the, back. room, was covered with a cool Indian matting, and converted into a kind of conservatory, for large ferns .and , orange-trees, the .,dark... foliage whereof made an agreeable background to the fresh brightness of the pollard oak. fwmiture in the dining-room. There was no profuse show of plate upon the round table, but the wine, flasks and tall-stemmed glasses; were, old Venetian of the costliest kind, and the dessert sérvice was Wedgewood. Mr. Wyatt was invaluable in the task of sus- taining the conversation, and Clara Walsingham seconded him admirably, though there was a sharp anguish at her heart that was. now _al- most-a habitual pain, an agon prophetic of a coming. blow. Gilbert Sinclair was ;a_ little. brighter than -he had been. in the afternoon, and contributed his share to the talk with a decent grace, only omee or twice betraying ab- sence of mind by a random answer and a wan- dering look in his big brown eyes. James Wyatt and Mrs. Walsingham had been running through a catalogue of the changes of fortune, for good or evil, that had befallen their common acquaintances, when Gilbert broke in upon their talk suddenly with the question : ‘‘ What has become of that fellow who dined with us at Richmond last year? Sir Cyprian something.” ‘*‘Sir Cyprian Davenant,” said James Wyatt. ‘He is still in Africa.” ‘*In Africa! Ah, yes, to be sure, I remem- ber hearing that he was going to join Har- court’s expedition. I was not much impressed by him, though I had heard him talked abou as something out of the common way: He had precious little to say for himself.” “You saw him at a disadvantage that day. He was out of spirits at leaying England.” ‘Very likely, but I had met him in society very often before. He’s rather a handsome fel- low,‘no doubt ; but I certainly couldn’t dis- cover any special merit in him beyond his good looks. He's a near neighbor of the Clan- yardes, by-the-way, when he’s, at home, is he not,?” “When he’s at home, yes,” answered the so- licitor. “But I doubt if ever he'll go homie again.” ** You mean that he'll come by his death in Africa, I suppose ?” . **T sincerely hope not, for Cyprian Davenant is one of my oldest friends. No, I mean ‘that he’s not very likely to see the inside of his an- cestral halls any more. The place is to be sold this year.” ‘The baronet is quite cleared out; then ?”’ ‘**He has about four hundred’a year ‘that “he inherited from his mother, so tightly tied ap a that he has not’ been able to make away wit. it," J ‘*What Clanyardes are those?’ asked Mrs, Walsingham. “ Viscount Clanyarde and his family. , They have a plaee called Marchbrook, and a very poor place it is, within a mile or two of Dave- nant. The old Viscount is as poor as Job.” “Indeed! But his youngest daughter will make a great match, no doubt, and redeem the fortunes of the house. I saw her at the opera the other night. She was pointed out to me as the loveliest girl in London, and I really think she has a right to be called so. What,do you think of her, Gilbert?” sn sien She fixed her eyes upon Sinclair with a sud- den scrutiny that took him off his guard. A dusky flush came over his face, and he hesita- ted awkwardly before replying to her very sim- ple question. wrt ee Walshingham’s heart gave a great ‘That is the woman,” she said to herself. ‘Miss Clanyarde is very handsome,” stam-_ * + y a -t% , owe Fe »* ~
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WEAVERS 4ND WEFT -_ mered Gilbert; ‘‘at least I believe that is the general opinion about her. She has been inti- mate with your friend Davenant ever since she was a child, hasn’t she, Wyatt?” he asked, with an indifference of tone which one listener knew to be assumed. ‘“‘Yeg, I have heard him say as much,” the other answered, with an air of reserve which implied the possession of more knowledge upon this point than he cared to impart. “ Those acquaintances of the nursery are apt to end in something more than friendship,” said ‘Mrs. Walshingham. “ Is there any engage- ~ -—s ment between Sir Cyprian and Miss Clan- yarde?” ‘* Decidedly not.” Gilbert Sinclair burst into a harsh laugh. ‘‘ Not very likely,” he exclaimed. ‘‘I should like to see old Clanyarde’s face if his daughter talked of marrying a gentlemanly pauper.” ‘¢ That is the woman he loves,” Mrs. Walsin ham repeated to herself. No more was said about Sir Cyprian or the . @lanyardes. The conversation drifted into other channels, and the evering wore itself away more or less pleasantly, with the assis- tance of music by-and-by in the drawing-room, where there were a few agreeable droppers-in. Mrs. Walsingham played brilliantly, and pos- sessed a fine mezzo-soprano voice, that had been cultivated to an extreme degree. There were those who said she had been an opera singer before her marriage with that notorious roue and reprobate, Clarence Vernon Walsing- ham. But thiswas not true. Clara Walsing- ham’s musical powers had never been exercised professionally. She had a real love of music for its own sake, and found a consolation for many desolate hours in the companionship of her piano. y ——————— CHAPTER IV. “OFFEND HER, AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.” Taree days after the little dinner in Half- Moon Street, Mrs. Walsingham sat at her soli- tary breakfast-table rather later than usual, dawdling over the morning newspapers, and wondering drearily what she should do with the summer day before her. She had seen nothing of Gilbert Sinclair since the dinner, and had endured an agony of self-torment in the inter- val. His name appeared in one of the morning journals among the guests at a distinguished countess’s ball on the previous evening, and in the list of names above Mr. Sinclair’s she found those of Lord Clanyarde and his daughter. . "There had been a time when Gilbert set his face . against all fashionable entertainments, voting them the abomination of desolation. He had changed of late, and went everywhere, raising fond hopes in the breasts of, anxious mothers with large broods of marriageable daughters waiting for their promotion. . Mrs. Walsingham sat for some time looking -vacantly at the long list of names, and thinking - of the man she loved. Yes, she loved him. She knew his nature by heart ; knew how nearly that : obstinate, selfish nature verged upon brutality, 2 and loved him nevertheless. Something in the _ force of his character exercised a charm over her own imperfect disposition. She had believed in the strength of his affection for herself, which had been shown in a passionate, undisciplined kind of manner that blinded her to the shallow- ness of the sentiment. She had been intensely proud of her power over this rough Hercules, all the more proud of his subjugation because of that half-hidden brutishness which she had long ago divined in him. | She liked him for what he was, and scarcely wished him to be better than he was. She only wanted him to be true to her. When he had asked her, years ago, to be his wife, she had frankly told him the story of her youth and marriage. Her husband was five-and- twenty years her senior, a man with a constitu- tion broken by nearly halfa century of hard living, and she looked forward hopefully to a - speedy release from a union that had long been hateful to her. She had believed that it would be possible to retain Gilbert’s affection until the 8) g= i a \ ae YO Se Cae See ie at “" z - time when that release should come without sacrifice to herreputation. Had she not believed and hoped this, it is impossible to say what guilty sacrifice she might have been willing to make rather than lose the man she loved. She had hoped to keep him dangling on, governed by her womanly tact, a faithful slave, until the colonel, who led a stormy kind of existence about the Continent, haunting German gaming tables, should be good enough to depart this life. But the colonel was a long time exhaust- ing his battered constitution, and the flowery chain in which Mrs. Walsingham held her cap- tive had faded considerably with the passage of years. A loud double knock startled the lady from her reverie. Who could such an early visitor be? Gilbert himself, perhaps. He had one of those exceptional constitutions to which fatigue is a stranger, and would be no later astir to-day for last night’s ball. Her heart fluttered hope- fully, but sank again with the familiar anguish of disappointment as the door was opened and a low, deferential voice made itself heard in the hall. ‘Those courteous tones did not belong to Gilbert Sinclair. A card was brought to her presently, with James Wyatt’s name upon it, and ‘on special business, with many apologies,” written in pen- cil below the name, in the solicitor’s neat hand. ‘Shall I show the gentleman to the drawing- room, ma’am, or will you see him here ?” asked the servant. “Ask him to come in here. What special business can Mr. Wyatt have with me?” she wondered. The solicitor came into the room as she asked herself the question, looking very fresh’ and bright, in his careful morning costume, with a hot-house flower in the button-hole of his perfectly-fitting frock-coat. He was more careful of his toilet than many handsomer men, and knew how far the elegance of his figure and the perfection of his dress went to atone for his plain face. ““My dear Mrs. Walsingham,” he began, “I owe youa thousand apologies for this un- seasonable intrusion. If I did not think the nature of my business would excuse” —— ‘There is nothing to be excused. You find me guilty of a very late breakfast, that is all. Why should you not call at half-past ten as well as at half-past two? It is very kind of you to come at all.” There was atone of indifference in all this politeness, a half-weary tone, which did not fail to strike James Wyatt. He had made this woman a study during the last year, and he knew every note of her voice, every expression of her face. “‘T hold it one of my dearest privileges to be received by you,” he replied with a certain grave tenderness. ‘‘ There are some men who do not know when they are happy, Mrs. Wal- singham. I am notone of those.” e looked at him with a surprise’that was half scornful. ‘Pray spare me the pretty speeches which make you so popular with other women,” she said. ‘You spoke of business just now. Did you really mean business ?” ‘Not in a legal sense. My errand this morn- ing is of rather a delicate nature. I would not for the world distress or offend you by any un- warranted allusion to your domestic relations but I believe I am the bearer of news which can scarcely have reached you yet by any other channel, and which may not be altogether un- welcome.” ~ “What news can you possibly bring me?” she asked, with a startled look. ‘Would it distress you to hear that Colonel Waisingham is ill—dangerously ill, even ?” Her breath came quicker as he spoke. ‘‘T am not hypocrite enough to pretend that,” she answered. ‘* My heart has long been dead to any feeling but anger—I will not say hatred, though he has deserved as much—where that man is concerned. I have suffered too much by my alliance-with him.” ff Then let me be the first to congratulate you upon your release from bondage. Your husband is dead.” , 7 7s Clara Walsingham’s cheek blanched, and she was silent for some moments ; and then she asked in a steady voice : ‘‘ How did you come by the news of his death?” ‘* In the simplest and most natural manner. My business requires me to be au courant as to Continental affairs, and I get several Frenchand German newspapers. In one of the last I found the account of a duel, sueceeding upon a quar- rel at the gaming-table, in which your husband fell, shot through the lungs. He only survived afew hours. His opponent was a Frenchman, and is now under arrest. Shall I read you the paragraph ?” ‘‘ Tf you please, answered Mrs. Walsingham, with perfect calmness of manner. Her heart was beating tumultuously, nevertheless. She had a dismal conviction that no advantage—that is to say, not that one advantage for which she longed—would come to her from her husband's death. How eagerly she had desired his death a To-day the news gave her little satisfac- ion. Mr, Wyatt took a slip of newspaper from his card-case, and read her the brief account of the Colonel’s exit from this mortal strife. Duels were common enough in Prussia, and the jour- nal made very little ofthe sanguinary business. ‘‘ As many of my friends believe me to haye been left a widow long ago [shall make no fuss about this event; and I shall be very grateful if you will be good enough not to talk of it any- where,” Mrs. Walsingham said, by-and-by, after a thoughtful pause. ‘*T shall be careful to, obey you,” answered the lawyer. ‘*T wonder how you came to guess that I was not a widow, and that Colonel Walsingham was my husband. He took me abroad directly after our marriage, and we were never in England to- gether.” ‘*Tt is a solicitor’s business to know a great many things, and in this case there was.a strong personal interest. You accused me just now of flattering women; and it is quite true that I have now and then amused myself a little with the weaker of your sex. Until about a year ago I believed myself incapable of any real feeling— of any strong attachment—and had made up my mindto a life of solitude, relieved by the frivolities of society. But at that time a great change came over me, and I found that I too was doomed to suffer life’s great fever. Ina word, I fell desperately in love. I think you can guess the rest.” ‘‘Tam not very good at guessing, but I sup- pose the lady is some friend of mine, or you would scarcely choose me for a confidante. Is it Sophy Morton? I know you admire her.” ‘‘ As Ladmire wax dolls, or the Haidees and Zuleikas of an illustrated Byron,” answered Mr. Wyatt, with a wry face. ‘‘Sophy Morton would have about as much power to touch my heart or influence my mind as the. wax dolls or the Byronic beauties. There is only one woman I ever loved, or ever can love, and her name is Clara Walsingham.” Mrs. Walsingham looked at him with unaf- fegted surprise. f ‘Of course I ought to feel very much flat- tered by such a declaration on your part, Mr. Wyatt, if I could quite bring myself to believe in your sincerity.” ‘**’Put me to the proof.” “T cannot do that. Ican only thank you for the honor you have done me, and regret that you should endanger the smooth course of your friendship by that kind of declaration. I have learned to rely upon you asa friend and an adviser, a thorough man of the world, and the fast of mankind to lapse into _sentimental- ity.” “There is no sentimentality in the business, Mrs. Walsingham. I offer youa real and de- voted affection, such an affection as a man feels but once in his life, and which a woman should scarcely reject without a thought of its value. I know I must seem ata disadvantage among the men who surround you, but they are men of the butterfly species, and I believe the best of them to be incapable of feeling as I feel for you. Yes, you are right when you call me &.\,
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WEAVERS AND WEFT. man of the world. It is tosuch men that love comes with its fullest foree when it comes at all. Ihave not yielded weakly to the great mas- terof mankind. Ihave counted the cost, and I know the devotion which I offer you to-day is as unalterable as it is profound.” ‘‘T am sorry that I should have inspired any such sentiment, Mr. Wyatt. Ican never return it.” ‘*Ts that your irrevocable reply ?” ‘It is,” she answered, decisively. ‘You reject the substance—an honest man’s devoted love—and yet you are content to waste the best years of your life upon a shadow.” ‘*T don’t understand you.” ‘Oh, yes, I think youdo. I think you know as well as I do how frail areed you have to lean on when you put your trust in Gilbert Sinclair.” ‘You have no right to speak about Mr. Sin- clair,” answered Clara Walsingham, with an indignant flush. ‘‘ What do you know of him, or of my feelings in relation to him ?” **T know that you love him. Yes,. Clara, it is the business of a friend to speak plainly ; and even at the hazard of incurring your anger, I willdoso. Gilbert Sinclair is not worthy of your affection. You will know that Iam right before long if you do not know it now. It is not in that man’s nature tobe constant under difficulties, as I woud be constant to you. Your hold upon him has been growing weaker every year.” “Ti that is true, I shall discover the fact quite soon enough from the geuatleman him- self,” replied Mrs. Walsingham, in a hard voice, and with an angry cloud upon her face. ‘‘ Your friendship, as you call it, is not required to enlighten me upon a subject which scarcely comes within the province of a solicitor. Yes, Mr. Wyatt, since plain speaking is to be the order of the day, I am weak enough and blind enough | to care for Gilbert Sinclair better than for any ; one else upon this earth, andif I do not marry |’ him, I shall never marry at all. He may intend to jilt me. Yes. I have seen the change in him. It would be a vain falsehood if I denied that. IT have seen the change, and I am waiting for the inevitable day in which the man I once be- lieved in shall declare himself a traitor. ‘‘ Would it not be wise to take the initiative, and give him his dismissal ?” ‘““No. The wrong shall come from him. If he can be.base enough to forget all the prom- ises of the past, and to ignore the sacrifices I have made for him, his infamy shall have no excuse from any folly of mine.” ‘* And if you find that he is false to you--that he has transferred his affection to another wo- man—you will banish him from your heart and mind, I trust, and begin life afresh.” Mrs. Walsingham laughed aloud. ‘Yes, I shall begin a new life; for from that hour I shall only live upon one hope.” ‘And that will be”—— ‘“The hope of revenge.” ‘My dear Mrs. Walsingham!” remonstrated the lawyer. ‘‘That sounds melodramatic, does it not? But, you see, there is a strong mixture of the melodramatic element in real life. Gilbert Sinclair should know that I am not a woman to be jilted with impunity. Of course I don’t mean that I should poison him or stab him. That sort of thing is un-English and obselete, except among the laboring classes, who have a rapid way of taking payment for the wrongs that are done them. No, I should not kill him; but rely upon it, I should make his life miserable.” Mr. Wyatt watched her face with a thought- ful expression in his own. Yes, she looked the kind of woman whose anger would take some tangible and perhaps fatal form. She was not a& woman to the burden of a broken heart in silent patience to the grave. _ Upon my life, I should be afraid to offend her,” thought James Wyatt. “Revenge is a bad word,” he said, after an- other long pause. ‘‘Redress is much. better. If Mr. Sinclair should marry, as I have some reason to think he will”—— ‘What reason ?” ‘‘Public rumor. His attentions to a certain young lady have been remarked by people I ow.” ‘The lady is the beautiful Miss Clanyarde.” ‘* How did you discover that?” ‘*From his face the other night.” “You are quick at reading his face. Yes, I believe he is over head and ears in love with Constance Clanyarde, as a much better man, Cyprian Davenant, was before him; and I have no doubt Lord Clanyarde will do his utmost to bring the match about.” ‘‘ How long has this been going on?” ‘‘Since the beginning of this season. He may have lost his heart to the lady last year, but his attentions last year were not so obvi- ous.” “Do you know if Miss Clanyarde cares for him ?” “T have no means of knowing the lady’s feeling on the subject, but I have a consider- able knowledge of her father in the way of business; and I am convinced she will be made—induced is, I suppose, a more appro- priate word—to accept Sinclair as a husband. Lord Clanyarde is as poor as Job and as proud as Lucifer. Yes, I think we may look upon the marriage as a certainty. And now, Mrs. Wal- singham, remember that by whatever means you seek redress I am your friend, and shall hold myself ready to aid and abet you in the exaction of your just right. You have rejected me as a husband. You shall discover how faithful I can be as an ally.” “T don’t quite understand the nature ot the alliance you propose. Do you mean you will help me to come between that man and all hope of domestic happiness? You do not know how merciless I could be if chance gave me the power to punish Gilbert Sinclair’s in- fidelity.” “TJ know that he will deserve little compas- | sion from you.” ‘‘But from you? you.” ‘Do not be so sure of that. There are petty insults and trivial injuries that make up the sum of a great wrong. Gilbert Sinclair has not treated me well. I will not trouble you with the dry details of our business relations, but I > have sufficient reasons for resentment without reference to you, And now I will intrude upon you no longer. I see you are a little tired of | this conversation. I only entreat you once | more to remember that I am your friend.” Mrs. Walsingham looked at him with a doubt- | ful expression. He had subjugated her pride completely by the boldness of his attack. At another time she might have been angry with him, but the weariness of her spirit, the dull sense of impending sorrow, were more power- ful than anger. She only felt humiliated and perplexed by James Wyatt’s proffers of love and friendship, uncertain how far he had been sincere in either offer. “T have no doubt I ought to be grateful to you, Mr. Wyatt,” she said, in a slow, weary way, ‘but I do not think your friendship can ever be of much service to me in the future business of my life, and I trust that you will forget all: that has been said this morning. Good-by.” She gave him her hand. He held 1t witha gentle pressure as he answered her: ‘Tt is impossible for me to forget anything that you have said, but you shall find me as secret as the grave. Good-by.” He bent his head and touched her hand lightly with his lips before releasing it, In the next instant he was gone. “How she loves that snob!” he said to him- self, as he walked away from Half-Moon Street. «And how charming she is! Rich too. I could scarcely make a better match. It is. case in which inclination and prudence go together. And how easily I might have won her but for that man! ell, well, I don’t despair of ultimate victory, in spite of Gilbert Sinclair. Everything comes to the man who knows how to wait.” He has never injured | rooms.” — ' see.” ' | eyes fixed upon the carpet, tracing out the fig- CHAPTER Y. ‘(7H DREAM IS ENDED.” Mrs. WatsryeHam wrote to Gilbert Sinclair, immediately after Mr. Wyatt's departure, a few hasty lines begging him to come to her without delay. ‘‘Something has occurred,” she wrote, “an — event of supreme importance to me. I will tell/ you nothing more till we meet.” She dispatched her groom to the Albany with / this note, and then waited with intense impa- ‘ tience for Gilbert Sinclair’s coming. If he were at home, it was scarcely possible he could refuse to come to her. ‘*T shall know the worst very soon,” she said to herself, as she sat behind the flowers that shaded her window. ‘‘ After to-day there shall be no uncertainty between us—no further re- servation on my part—no more acting on his. He shall find that I am not his dupe, to be fooled to the last point, and to be taken by sur- prise some fine morning by the announcement of his marriage in the “mes.” Mr. Sinclaix was not at home when the note” _ was delivered, but between two and three _ o'clock in the afternoon his thundering knock assailed the door, and he came into the room unannounced, In spite of the previous night’s ball he had ridden fifteen miles into the country that morn- ing to attend a sale of hunters, and was looking flushed with his long ride. ‘‘What on earth is the matter, Clara?” he hae and I rode down there to see if there was thing worth bidding for. I might have saved myself the trouble, for I never saw such a pack of screws. The ride was pleasant enough, however.” - *‘T wonder you were out so early after night’s dance.” “‘Oh, you’ve seen my name down among swells,” he answered, with rather a force laugh. ‘‘Yes, I was hard at it last night, no end of walzes and galops. But, you know, late hours never make much ditference to me ?” “Was it a very pleasant party ?” «The usual thing—too many people for the oy “Your favorite, Miss Clanyarde, was there, I ‘Yes, the Clanyardes were there. But I suppose you haven’t sent for me to ask ques- tions about Lady Deptford’s ball? I thought by your letter something serious had hap- = - pened.” ‘‘ Something serious has hapvened. My hus- band is dead.’ : She said the words very slowly, with her eyes fixed on Gilbert Sinclair's face. The florid color faded suddenly out of his cheeks, and left him ghastly pale. Of all the events within the range of probability this was the last he had expected to hear of, and the most unwelcome. rh ‘Indeed !” he stammered, after an awkward J pause. ‘‘I suppose I ought to congratulate you on the recovery of your freedom ?” ’ *‘T am very glad to be free.” *“What did he die of—Colonel Walsingham ? And how did you get the news ?” “Through a foreign paper. He was killed in a duel.” And then she repeated the contents of the paragraph James Wyatt had read to her. ;* “Ts the news correct, do you think? No mistake about the identity of the person in_ question ?” it, “None whatever, I am convinced. How- ever, I shall drive into the city presently and see the solicitor who arranged our separation. I know the Colonel was in the habit of cor- responding with him, and no doubt he will be able to give me official intelligence of the event.” After this there came another pause, more awkward than the first.. Gilbert sat with his
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8 WEAVERS AND WEPT. ures of it meditatively with his stick, with an | his death. He was glad that the interview was air of study as.profound as if hehad been an over, and that Clara knew what she had to ex- yea enignen, Rent upon achieving some, novel combinatio nbination of form and color. Clara Wal- singham sat opposite to him, waiting for him to speak, with a pale, rigid face, that grew more stony-looking as the silence continued. silénce became at last quite unendurable, | That pa Gilbert felt himself obliged to say some- thing, no matter what. “Does this business make any alteration in your circumstances?” Gilbert asked, with a faint show of interest. “Only for the better. I surrendered to the Colonel the income of one of the estates my father left me, in order to bribe him into con- | senting to a separation. Henceforward the in- come will be mine. to sécure me from the possibility of being ruined by a husband. My fortune was wholly at my own disposal, but I was willing to make the surrender in question in exchange for my liberty.” “Tam glad to find you will be so well off,” said Mr. Sinclair, still engrossed by the pattern of the carpet. ‘*Ts that all you have to say?” ‘““What more can I say upon the subject ?” ‘¢ There was atime when you would have said a great deal more.” “Very likely,” answered Gilbert, bluntly; ‘* but then, you see, that time is past and gone. What is it Friar Bacon’s brazen head said, ime is, time was, time’spast?’? Come, Clara, itis very little use for you and me to play at cross purposes. Why did you send for me in 4 hot haste to tell me of your husband’s death ?” ‘* Because I had reason to consider the news would be as welcome to you as it was to me.” “That might have been so if the event had -- a year or two ago ; unhappily your re- lease comes too late for my welfare. You ac- c me the other day of intending to jilt you. I think that was scarcely fair when it is remem- bered how long I was contented to remain your devoted slave, patiently waiting for something better than slavery. There is a limit to all things, however, and I confess the bondage be- came a little irksome at last, and I began to look in other directions for the happiness of my fu- ture life.” ‘‘Does that mean that you are going to be married ?” ' “* Tt does.” ‘‘The lady is Miss Clanyarde, I conclude,” said Mrs, Walsingham. Her breathing was a little hurried, but. there was no other outward sign of the storm that raged within. ‘“Yes, the lady is Constance Clanyarde. now, my dear Clara, let me entreat you to be reasonable, and to consider how long I waited for the chance that has come at last too late to be of any avail, so far as Iam concerned. I am not coxcomb enough to fear that you will regret me véry much, and I am sure you know that I shall always regard you with the warmest friendship and admiration. With your splendid attractions you will have plenty of opportunities in the mat- rimonial line, and will have, I dare say, little reason to lament my secession.” Clara Walsingham looked at him with unut- terable scorn. ‘And I once gave you credit for a heart, Gil- bert Sinclair,” the said. ‘‘ Well, the dream is ended. ' ‘* Don't let us part ill friends, Clara. Say you ‘wish me well in my new life.” “TI cannot say anything so false. No, Gil- bert, I will not take your hand. There can be no such thing as friendship between you and ‘“That seems rather hard,” answered Sin- clair, in a sulky tone. ‘‘But let. it be as you Good-by.” ‘“*Good-morning, Mr. Sinclair.” Mrs. Walsingham rang the bell, but before her summons could be answered Gilbert Sin- clair had gone out of the house. He walked back to the Albany in a very gloomy frame of mind, thinking it a hard thing that Colonel Walsingham should haye chosen this crisis for im ey My poor father took pains | And | *Y pect, but he felt an uneasy sense that the busi- ness was not yet finished. “She took it pretty quietly upon the whole,” he said to himself; ‘‘but there was a look in her eyes that I’didn’t like.” : Mrs. Walsingham called on her late husband’s lawyer in the course of the afternoon, and re- ceived a confirmation of James Wyatt's news. Herhusband’s death increased her income from two to three thousand a year, arising chiefly from landed property which had been purchased | by her father, a city tradesman, who had late in life conceived the idea of becoming a coun- try squire, and had died of the dulness incident upon an unrecognized position in the depths of the country. His only daughter’s marriage with Colonel Walsingham had been a severe affliction to him, but he had taken care to set- tle his money upon her in such a manner as to secure itfrom any serious depredations on the part of the husband. CHAPTER VI. ‘““ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW | ” OELL. Tue summer had melted into autumn, the London season was over, and the Clanyardes had left their furnished house in Eaton Place, which the Viscount had taken for the season, to return to Marchbrook, where Gilbert Sin- clair was to follow them as a visitor. He had proposed for Constance, and had been accepted —with much inward rejoicing on the part of the lady’s father; with a strange conflict of feeling in the mind of the lady herself. Did she love the man she had promised to marry ? Well, no; there was no such feeling as love for Gilbert Sinclair in her mind. She thought him tolerably good-looking, and not exactly disagreeable, and it had been impressed up- on her that he was one of the richest men in England—a man who could bestow upon her everything which a well-bred young lady must, by nature and education, desire. The bitter pinch of poverty had been severely felt at Marchbrook, and the Clanyarde girls had been taught, in an indirect kind of way, that they were bound to contribute to the restoration of the family fortunes by judi- cious marriages. The two elder girls, Adela and Margaret, had married well—one Sir Henry Elrington, a Sussex baronet, with a very nice place and a comfortable income, the other a rich East Indian merchant, sonsiderably past middle age. But the fortunes of Sir Hen- , and Mr. Campion, the merchant, were as nothing compared with the wealth of Gilbert Sinclair; and Lord Clanyarde told his daugh- ter Constance that she would put her sisters to shameby the brilliancy of her marriage. He flew into a terrible passion when she at first expressed herself disinclined to accept Mr. Sinclair’s offer, and asked her how she dared to fly in the face of Providence, by refusing sucha splendid destiny. What, in Heaven’s name, did she expect, a girl without asixpence of her own, and with nothing but her pretty face and aristocratic lineage to recommend her? He sent his wife to talk to her, and Lady Clanyarde, who was avery meek person, and lived in a state of perpetual subservience to her, husband, held forth dolefully to her daughter for upward of an hour upon the fool- ishness and ingratitude of her course. Then came the two married sisters with more lectur- ing and persuasion, and at last the girl gave way, fairly tired out, and scolded into a kind of desponding submission. So Gilbert Sinclair came one morning to Eaton Place, and finding Miss Clanyarde alone in the drawing-room, made her a solemn offer of his heart and hand. He had asked her to be his wife before this; and she had put him off with an answer that was almost a refusal. Then had come the scolding and lecturing, and she had been schooled into resignation to a fate that seemed to her irresistible, She told her suitor that she did not love him—that it she accepted him it would be in deference to her father’s wishes, and that she could give him nothing better than duty and gratitude in re- turn for the affection he was so good as to en- tertain for her. This was enough for Gilbert, who was bent on winning her for his wife, in a headstrong, reckless) spirit that made no count of the cost. Butas Miss Clanyarde. sat by-and-by with her hand in his, and. listened to his protestations of affection, there rose be- fore her the vision of a face that was not Gil- bert Sinclair’s—a darkly splendid face, that had looked upon her with such unutterable love one summer day in the shadowy Kentish lane ; and she wished that Cyprian. Davenant had carried her off to some strange, desolate land, in which they might have lived and died together, “ What will he think of me when he hears that Lhave sold myself to this man for the sake of his fortune?’ she asked herself, and then she looked up at Gilbert’s face and won- dered whether she could ever teach herself to love him, or to be grateful to him for his love. All this had happened within a week of Gil- bert’s final interview with Mrs. Walsingham, and in a very short time the fact of Mr, Sin- clair’s engagement to Miss Clanyarde was pretty well known to all that gentleman’s friends and acquaintance, He was very proud of carrying off a girl whose beauty had made a considerable sensation in the two past seasons, and he talked of his matrimonial projects in a swaggering, boastful way that was eminently distasteful to some of his acquaintance. Men who were familiar with Mr. Sinclair's antecedents shrugged their shoulders ominously when his marriage was discussed, and augured ill for the future happiness of Miss Clanyarde. James Wyatt was one of the first to con- gratulate him upon his betrothal. ** Yes,” answered Gilbert, ‘‘she’s a lovely girl, isn’t she? and, of course, I’m very proud of her affection. It’s to be a regular love match, you know. I wouldn’t marry the hand- somest woman in the world if I were not secure on that point. I don’t say the father hasn’t an eye to my fortune. He’s a thorough man of the world, and, of course, fully alive to that kind of thing. But Constance is superior to any such consideration. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be such a fool as to stake my happiness on the venture.” “T gsearcely fancied you would look at mat- ters from such a sentimental point of view,” said Mr. Wyatt, thoughtfully, ‘‘ especially as this is by no means your first love.” ‘* Tt is the first love worth speaking of,” an- swered the other. ‘‘I never knew what it was to be passionately in love till I met Constance Clanyarde.” ‘*Not with Mrs. Walsingham ?” ‘‘No, Jim. I did care for her a good deal once upon a time, but never as I care for Con- stance. I think if that girl were to play me false I should kill myself. By-the way, ’'m sure you know more about Sir Cyprian Daven- ant than you were inclined to confess the other night. I fancy there was some kind of love affair—some youthful flirtation—between him and Constance. You might as well tell me everything you know about it.” ‘«T know nothing about Miss Clanyarde, and Ican tell you nothing about Davenant. He and I are old friends, and I am too fully in his confidence to talk of his sentiments or his affairs.” i ‘‘ What a confounded prig you are, Wyatt! But you can’t deny that Davenant was in love with Constance. I don’t believe she has ever cared a straw for him, however; and if he should live to come back to England, I shall take good care he never darkens my doors. How about that place of his, by-the-bye? Is it in the market ?” ’ ‘“ Yes; I have received Sir Cyprian’s instruc- tions to sell whenever I see a favorable oppor- tunity. He won’t profit much by the sale, poor fellow, for it is mortgaged up to the hilt.” “Tl look at the p while at Marchbrook, and if I like it I may make you an offer. We shall want ies ie nearer town than the Re ee
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f WEYVERS AND WEFT. place my father built in the north, but I shall not give up that, either.” ‘ «You can afford a couple of country-seats, and you will have a house in town, of course.” ms Yes, I have been thinking of Park Lane, but it is so difficult to get anything there. I’ve told the agents what I want, however, and I dare say they'll find eee before long. ««When are you to be married ?” “No later than October, Lhope. There is not the shadow of a reason for delay.” At Marchbrook everything went pleasantly enough with the plighted lovers, Lord Clan- arde had filled the house with company, and fis youngest daughter had very little time for reflection or regret upon the subject of her approaching marriage. . Everybody congratu- ‘lated her upon her conquest, and: praised Gil- bert Sinclair with such a show of enthusiasm that she began to think he must be worthy, of a warmer regard than she was yet able to feel for him: She told herself that in common gratitude she was bound to return his affec- tion, and she tried her utmost to please him by a ready submission to all his wishes; but the long drives and rides, in which they were always side by side, were. very weatisome to her, nor could -his gayest talk of the future, the houses, the yachts, the carriages and horses that were to be hers, inspire her with we expectation of happiness. ~ They rode over to Davenant with Lord Clan- arde one morning, and explored the old ouse, Richard looking at everything in a business-tike’ manner, which jarred a_ little upon Constance, remembering that luckless exile who had loyed the place so well. Her lover consulted her about the disposition of the rooms, the colors of the new draperies, and the style of the furniture. “We'll get rid of the gloomy old tapestries and have everything modern and, bright,” he said; but Lord Clanyarde pleaded hard for the reservation of the tapestry on the principal foot which was very fine and in excellent condition. “Oh, very well,” answered Gilbert, care- lessly. ‘‘In that case we'll keep the tapestry. I suppose the best plan will be to get some first-class London man to furnish the house. Those fellows always have good taste. But of course ho must defer to you in all matters, Constance. ‘You are very good,” she returned, list- lessly. ‘‘But Idon't think there willbe any necessity for my interference,” “Don't say that, Constance. That looks as if you were not interested in the subject,” Gil- bert said, with rather a disconted air. The listlessness of manner which his be- trothed so often displayed was by no means pleasing to him. There was a disagreeable suspicion growing in his mind that Miss Clan- yarde’s heart had not quite gone with her ac- ceptance of his offer, that ily influences had something to do with her consent to be- come his wife. He was not the less resolved an this account to hold her to her promise; but his selfish, tyrannical nature resented her coldness, and he was determined that the balance should be adjusted between them in the future. ‘* Perhaps you don’t like this place, Con- stance,” he said presently, after watching her thoughtful face for some minutes in silence. “Oh, yes, Gilbert, I am very fond of Daven- ant. I have known it all my life, you know.” ‘*Then I wish you'd look a little more cheer- ful about my intended purchase. I thought it would please you to have a country-house so near your own family.” ‘* And it does please her very much, I am sure, Sinclair,” said Lord Clanyarde, with a stealthy frown at his daughter. ‘‘She can’t fail to appreciate the kindness and delicacy of your choice.” “Papa is quite right, Gilbert,” added Con- stance. ‘‘I should be ungrateful if I were not pleased with your kindness.” After this she tried her utmost to sustain an appearance of interest in the discussion of fur- nituré and decorations; but every now and then she found her mind wandering away to the bi i banished owner of these rooms, and she wished that Gilbert Sinclair had chosen any other habitation on this earth for her future home. October came, and with it the inevitable day which was to witness more perjury from the lips of a bride, little villiage church near Marchbrook, and was altogether avery brilliant affair, attended by all the relatives of the Clanyarde family, who were numerous, aud by a great) many acquaintances of bride and bridegroom. Notable among the friends of the latter was James Wyatt, the sol- icitor who. had been employed in the drawing up of the marriage settlement, which was a most liberal one, and highly ‘satisfactory to Viscount Clanyarde. Mr. Wyatt made himself excessively agreeable at the breakfast, and was amazingly popular among the bridesmaids. He did not. long avail himself of the Marchbrook hospitalities, but went quietly back to town by rail immediately after the departure of» the newly married couple on their honeymoon trip to. the south of France... He had an engage- ment in Half-Moon Street that evening at eight o’clock, The neighboring clocks were striking the hour as he knccked atthe door. Mrs. Walsingham was quite alone in the drawing-room, and looked unusually pale in the light of the lamps. The solicitor shook his head reproachfully as he pressed her hand. ‘« This is very sad,” he murmured, ina semi- paternal manner. ‘‘ You have been worrying yourself all day long, I know. You areas pale as a ghost.” ‘Tam a little tired, that is all.” ‘‘You have ‘been out to-day? You toid me you should not stir from the house.” “T changed my mind at the’ last moment. Anything was better than staying at home keep- ing the day like a black fast. Besides, I wanted B ge how Gilbert and his bride whould look at the altar.” ‘You have been down to Kent ?” ‘* Yes ; I was behind tho curtain of the organ- loft. The business was easily managed by means of a sovereign to the clerk. I wore my plainest dress anda thick veil, so there was very little risk of detection.” ‘* What folly |!” exclaimed Wyatt. ‘Yes, it was greatfolly, no doubt, but it is the nature of women to be foolish. And now tell me all about the wedding, Did Gilbert look very happy ?” ‘*He looked like # man who has got. his own way, and who oares very little what price he has paid, or may have to pay, in getting it.” ‘* And do you think he will be happy ?” ‘* Not if his happiness depends upon the love of his wife.” ‘*Then you don’t think she loves him?” ‘*T am sure she does not. Imade a study of her face during the ceremony and afterward ; and if ever a woman sold herself, or was sold by her people, this woman is guilty of such a bargain.” ‘Perhaps you say this to please me,” said Clara, doubtfully. “T do not, Mrs. Walsingham. I am con- vinced that this affair has been brought about by Lord Clanyarde’s necessities, and not the young lady’s choice. But I doubt whether this will e much difference to Gilbert in the long run. He is not s man of fine feelings, you know, and Ithink he will be satisfied with the fact of having won the woman he wanted to . I should fancy matters would go smoothly enough with him so long as he sees no cause for jealousy. He would be rather an ugly customer if he took it into his head to be jealous.” ; ‘© And you think his life will go smoothly,” said Clara, ‘‘ and that he will go on to the end unpunished for his perfidy to me?” ‘* What good would his punishment be to you?” : ‘Tt would be all the world tome.” “And if I could bring about the retribution you desire, if it were in my power to avenge your wrongs, what reward would you give me ?” The wedding took place at the. She hesitated for a moment, knowing there was only one reward he was likely to claim from her. ‘‘ If you were a poor man I would offer you two-thirds of my fortune,” she said. ‘But you know that Iam not a poor man. If I cancome to you some day, and tell you that Gilbert Sinclair and his wife are ‘parted forever, will you accept me for your hus- band?” ‘« Yes,” she answered, suddenly : ‘‘ break the knot between those two—let me" be assured that he has lost the woman for whose sake he jilted me, and I will refuse you nothing.” ‘¢ Consider it done. There is nothing in the world I would not achieve to win you for my wife.” CHAPTER VII. “ GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY.” Ir was not till the early spring that Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair returned to England. They had spent the winter in Rome, where Gilbert* had found some'con- genial friends, and where théir time had been occupied in one perpetual round of gayety and dissipation. Constance had shown a great taste for pleasure since her marriage. She seemed to know no weariness ‘of: visiting and 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 seo his wife occupy a prominent position in society, atid having no taste himself for the pleasures of the: domestic hearth, he was neither surprised nor vexed by Constance’s indifference to her home, Of course it: would all be different at Davenant Park ; there would’ be plenty of home life there—a little toomuch, per- haps, Gilbert thought with a yawn. 1 They had been married nearly four months, and t there had not been the shadow of disagreement be — , tween them. Constance’s manner to her hu¢band was — amiability itself. She treated him a little de haut en bas it is true, made her own plans for the most 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 been. She was always agreeable to his friends, and was eminently popular with all of them; so Gilbert Sinclair was, upon the whole, perfectly satisfied with the result of his marriage, and had no fear of evil days in the future. What James Wyatt had said of him was perfectly true. He waa not gifted with very fine feelings, and that sense of something wanting in such a union, which wouid have disturbed the mind of a nobler man, did not treuble him, They returned to England early in February, and went at once to Davenant, which had been furnished in the modern medisyal style by a West End upholsterer. The staff of servants had been provided by Lady Clan- yarde, who had bestowed much pains and labor upon the task of selection, bitterly bewailing the degeneracy’ of the race she had to deal with during thé per formance of this difficult service. All was ready when Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair arrived. A pompous house keeper simpered and courtesied in the hall ; am accom- ed cook hovered tenderly over the roasta and the - stew-pans in the great kitchen; house-maids im smart caps flitted about the passages and poked the fires in bed-room and dressing-rooms, bath- rooms and morning-room, eager to get an earl look at their new lady ; a butler of the usual cleri- cal appearance ushered the way to the lamp-lit drawing-room, while two ponderous footmen con- veyed the oy and newspapers and morocco bags from — the carriage, leaving all the heavier luggage to the carea of unknown a, attached to t ment. Mr. and Mrs, Minclair dined alone upon this first evening of their return, under the inspection of the clerical butler and the two ponderous footmen. They talked chiefly about the house, which rooms were most su 1 im their new arrangement, and so on; a little about what they had been doing in Rome; and a little about their plans forthe next month, what guests were to be invited, and what rooms they were to occupy. It was all the most matter-of-fact, conyen- tional talk, but the three men retired with the impres- sion that Gilbert Sinclair and his wife were a very happy couple, amd reported to that effect in the house- keeper’s room and tho servants’ hall. y Before the week had ended the great house was full of company. That feverish desire for gayety and change, which had seemed a part of Constance’s nature since her netiy in no way subsided on her arrival at Dayenant. She appeared to exist for pleasure, and pleas- ure only, and her guests declared her the most charm- ing hostess that eyer reigned over a country-house. Lavish as he was, Mr. Sinclair opened his eyes to their widest extent when he perceived his wife’s capacity for spending money. “It's rather lucky foxy you that you didn’t marry a poor man, Constance,” He said, with a boastful laugh. She looked at him fora moment with a strange ex- pression,and then turned very pale, “I should not have been afraid to face poverty,” she said, “if it had been my fate to do so,” “Tf you could have faced it with the man you liked, eh, Constance? That’s about what you mean, isn’t it?” , “Tg this intended for a complaint, Gilbert ?” his wife * 8 Stable depart em
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tow , . t 0 +, 10 asked, in her coldest tones. mitich money ?’’ “No, no, I didn’t mean that. Iwas only congratulat- ing you upen 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 eo those vague hints that had been dropped about Sir Cyprian Davenant, and was tor- amented by the idea that James Wyatt knew a great deal more than he had revealed upon this point. This hidden jealousy had been at the bottom of his purchase of the Davenant estate. He took a savage pride in reigning over the little kingdom from which his rival had been deposed. i Among the visitors from London appeared Mr. Wyatt, always unobtrusive, and always useful. He contrived to iugratiate himself very rapidly in Mrs. Sinclair's favor, and established himself as a kind of adjutant in her household corps, always ready with advice upon every social subject, from the costumes in a fableau vi vant 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 alittle surprised to sce the manner in which Lord Clanyarde’s daughter filled her new position, the unfailing yvivacity which sho displayed in the performance of her duties as hostess, and the excellent terms upon which she appeared to live with her husband, He was accustomed, however, to look below the surtace of things, and by the time he had been a fortnight at Davenant ho had discovered that all this brightness and gayety on the part of the wife indicated an artificial state of being, which was very far from real happiness, and that there wasa owing sense of disappointment on the part of the usband, He was not in the habit of standing upon much cere- mony in his intercourse with Gilbert Sinclair, and on the first convenient occasion questioned him with blunt directness upon the subject of his marriage. “TI hope the alliance has brought you all the happi- ness you anticipatod?” ho said. “Oh yes,Jim,” Mr. Sinclairanswered, rather moodily, “my wife suits me pretty well. We get on very well together. She’s a little too fond of playing the woman of fashion; 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 fe for any woman in Christendom; but I should like a wife who seenied to carenlittle more for my company, and was not always occupied with other people. I don’t think we have dined alone three times since we were married.” It was within a few days of this conversstion that Mr. Wyatt gratified himself by the performance of a little experiment which he had devised in the comfort- able retirement of his bachelor rooin at Davenant, He had come into Mrs, Sinclair's morning-room after breakfast to consult her upon the details of an amateur dramatic performance that was to take place shortly, and had, 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.’”’ “Ts that your theatrical rubbish?’ asked Gilbert. “You’d better say what you've got to say about it. You needn’t mind me. I can absorb myself in the atudy of Bell’s Life for a quarter of an hour or go.” He withdrew 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. “Every amateur in ‘polite society believes himself able to play Charles Mathews’s business,’’ he said, laugh- ing. “Itisafixed delusion of the human mind. Of course we sliall set them all by the ears, do what we may. Perhaps it would be better to let them draw lots “or the characters, or we might put the light comedy parts up to auction, and send the proceeds to the poor-box.” ; He ran onin this strain gayly enough, writing lists of the characters and pieces, and puttin, down the names of the guests witha rapil pen as he talked, untilGilbert Sinclair threw down his newspaper and came over to tho fire-place, politely requesting his friend to ‘‘ stop that row.” It was a hopelessly wet morning, and the master of Davenant was sorely ata loss for amusement and occu- tion. He had come to his wife’s room inrather a yoflant spirit, determined that sie should favor him with alittle more of hersociety than it was her habit to give him, and he had found her writing letters, which she declared were imperative, and hadsat by the fire waiting for her correspondence to be finished, in a very sulky mood. “ What's the last news, Wyatt?” ho asked, poking the fire gavegely ; “anytuing stirring in London?” “Not ie London, Thero is some newsof an old friend of mine who’s far away from London—news, I don’t.altogether like.’’ “Some client who has boltedin order to swindle you out ofa long Dill of costs, I suppose,” answered Gilbert, indifferently. nih . “No; the friend Iam talking of is a gentleman we all know—the late owner of this place.” “Sir Cyprian Davenant?” cried Gilbert. Sppstance looked up from her writing. “Sir Cyprian Davenant,”’ repeated James Wyatt. « Has anything happened to him?” ‘Have I been spending too sf o' ad ~ —_—" WEAVERS AND WEFT “ About the last and worst thing thatcan happen to any man, I fear,’ answered the lawyer, ‘‘For some time since there have been no reports of Captain Har- court’s expedition; and that, ina negative way, was about as bad asit could be. But in a letter Ireceived this morn- ing from a member of the geographical society, there is worse news. My triend tells me there is a very general belief that Harcourt and his party have been made away with by the natives. Of course this is only clubgos- sip as yet, andl trust that it may turn out a false alarm. Constance had dropped ner 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 opportunity as he had wished for. He wanted above all things to satisfy his doubts about that man. **T don’t see that it much matters whether the report is true or false,’’ he said, ‘‘as far as Dayenant 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,” remonstrated Mr. Wyatt, ‘the Davenant property was impoverished by Cyprian’s father and dfather. I don’t say that he was not extravagant himself at one period of his life, but he had reformed long before he left England.” “ Reformed—yes, he had no more money to spend. That’s @ common kind ofreform. However, I suppose you've profited so much by his ruin that yon can afford to praise him.” “Hadn’s you better ring the bell?” asked James gia very quietly ; ‘I think Mrs. Sinclair has faint- e ” He was right; Constance Sinclair’s head had fallen back upon the 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 friend of hers. You know that better than I do, thought you have never chosen to tell me the truth. And now, [suppose, you have trumped up this story in order to let me see what a fool 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 #0?” “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 asky above us, if he andI 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 ofthe way. Pray apolo- gize to Mrs. Sinclair for my indiscretion in forgetting that Sir Cyprian was a iriendofher family. It was only nateral that she should be affected by the news.” The lawyer went away as the maid came into the room. His face was brightened by a satisfied smile as he walked slowly along the corridor leadiug to the bil- liard-room. * Othello was a fool to him in the matter of Jealousy,’ he said to himself. ‘‘I think I’ve fired the train. If the nows I heard is true, and Davenant is on his way home, thero’ll be nice work by-and-by.” CHAPTER VII. “HAD YOU LOVED ME ‘ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED.” GILBERT Srvcuarr 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. : sc “T have been over-exerting myselt a little lately, or I should scarcely have fainted, however sorry I felt,’’ she said, quictly, and Gilbert wondered at her self possession, but was not the less convinced that she had loved—that she did still love—Cyprian Davenant. He watched her closely after this to see if he could de- 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 ease. Mr, and Mrs. Sinclair left Davenant early in May fora charming house in Park Lane, furnished throughout with delicate tints of white and green, like a daisy- sprinkled meadow in early spring, a style in which the upholsterer had allowed full scope to the sentimental- ity of his own nature, bearing in mind that the house was to be occcupied by a NS ge couple. Mrs, Sinclair declared herself perfectly satisfied with the house, and Mrs. Sinclair's friends were in raptures with it. She instituted a Thursday evening supper after the opera, which was an immense success, and en- joyed a popularity that excited some envy on the part of unmarried beauties: Mrs. Walsingham heard of the Thursday evening parties, and saw her beautiful rival yery often 2t tho opera; but she heard from James Wyatt that Gilbert Sinclair spent.s great deal of time at his club, and male a point of attending all the race meetings, habits that did not augur very well for his Gomestic happiness. : ' “He will grow tired of her, aa he did of me,’’ thought Clara Walsingham. But Gilbert waa 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, itis true, but with all the intensity of which his nature was capable. If ho had lived in the good old feudal days he would have shut her up in some lonely turret chamber, where no one but himself sould approach her. He know that she did not love him; and with his own affection 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 Davenant. 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 spring gave a baby daughter to the master of Day- enant, much to his disappointment, as he ardently de- sired ason and heir. The birth of this infant brought s new sense of joy to tne mind of Constance Sinclair. She had not thought it possible that the child could give her so much happi ness. She deyoted herself to her baby 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 bring him no nearer to his wife. The timeand attention which she had given to society she now gave to her child; but her husband was no more to her than he had evor been, a little .ess, perhaps, as he told himself an- grily, in the course of his gloomy meditations. Mrs. 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 shouldera deprecatingly. “I did not tell you that the parting oom take place within any given time,” hesaid; “but it shall go hard with meifI donot keep my promise sooner or later.’ He had indeed not been idle. The wicked work which he had set himself todo had seqoned considerably. It was he who always yee tees n asubtle manner, te remind Gilbert Sinclair of his wife’s coldness toward himself, and to hint at her affection for another, while seeming to praise and defend her. Throughout their acquaintance his wealthy client had treated him with a selfish indifference and a cool, unconscious insolence that had galled him to the quick, and he took a ma- licious pleasure in the discomfiture 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 notorious whist club, sitting at the card table till the morning sun shone through the chinks in the shutters. Mr. Wyatt was a member of the same club, but too cautious a player tor the set which Gilbert now affected. “ That fellow is going to the bad in every way,’ the lawyer said to himself. “If Clara Walsingham wants to seo him ruined she is likely to have her wish without any direct interference of mine.” The state of affairs in Park Lane was indeed far from satisfactory. Gilbert had grown tired of playing the indulgent husband, and the inherent brutality of his nature had on more than one occasion displayed iteelf 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 are so 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? T heard you and that dreadful man your trainer, talking ofthe tan gallop the other day, and it seems to me al- together rather an expensive affair, especially as your horses haye such a knack of getting beaten. Itis most gentleman-like of you to remind me of my poverty. Yes, I was very poor in my girlhood—and very happy.” “And since you’ye married me you’vye been miser- able... Pleasant, upon my soul! You’d have married that fellow Cyprian Dayenant and lived in a ten-roomed house in the suburbs, with a majid-of-all-work, and called that happiness, I suppose |’ “IfIhad married Sir Cyprian DavenantI should at eld haye been the wife of a gentleman,’’ replied Con- stance. This was not the first time that Gilbert had mentioned Cyprian Davenant oflate. A report of the missing tray- elers had appeared 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, Mr. Wyatt, who thereupon opined that those thoughts were more than ordinarily bitter. Before the London season was over Mr. Sinclair had occasion to attend a rather insignificant meeting in Yorkshire where a two-year-old filly, from which he ex- pected great things in the future, was to try her strength in a handicap race. He came home by way of Newmarket, where he spent a few. days pleasantly 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 ina hansom. He found his wife in the drawing-room occupied with several visitors, among whom appeared a tall figure which he remem- bered only too well, Sir Cypr an. Davenant, bronzed bam and looking handsomer than when he left on. Gilbert stood at gaze for 8 moment, confounded by the surprise, and then went through the ceremony of hand-shaking with his wife’s guests in an awkward, “00 tan faasived him with h dn mstance receive her usual co) , and he felt himself altogether at a dissdvantape if the
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WEAVERS AND WEFT. il presence of the man he feared and hated. He seated himself, ‘however, determined to see the end of this ob- noxious visit, and remained moodily silent until the callers had dropped off ome by one, Sir Cyprian among the earliest departures. Gilbert turned savagely upon his wife directly the Toom wasclear. ~ “So your old favorite has lost no time in renewing his intimacy with you,” he said. “I came home at rather an awkward moment, I fancy.” “I did not perceive any particular awkwardness in “Suffer! Yes, I was thinking of that this afternoon when she was engaged in her worship. She would take my death coolly enough, I have no doubt; but I be- lieve the loss of that child would lll her.” Lon Clara Walsingham sat brooding over all that he had told her upon the subject of his domestic life. “ And so he has found out what it is to have a wife who does not care for him,” she said to herself. ‘‘ He has gratified his fancy for a lovely face, and is paying a heavy price for his conquest. And I am to leave all my your return,”’ his wife answered, coolly, “ unless it was | hopes of revenge to James Wyatt, and am to reward his your own manner to my friends, which wasa little cal- culated to give 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 a good deal more awkward if I should ha) to find him here again. In plain words, I for- bid you to receive Sir Cyprian Davenant im my house.” sie Fou no more close my doors upon Sir Cyprian Davenant than on any other visitor,’’ replied Constance, “and I do not choose to insult an old friend of my family for the gratification of your senseless jeal- ousy.” “Then you mean to defy me?” “ There is no question of defiance. consider right, without reference to this absurd fancy of yours. Sir Cyprian is not very likely to call upon me again, unless you cultivate his acquaintance.” “Iam not very likely to do that,” Gilbert answered, @avagely. His wife’s quiet defiance baffled him, and he could find nothing more to say for himself. But this preter of Sir Cyprian was in no manner abated by Constance’s self-possesion. He remembered the faint- ing fitin the morning-room at Davenant, and he was determined to find some means of punishing her for her secret preference for this man. An ugly notion flashed across his mind by-and-by, as he saw her with her child lying im her lap, bending over the infant with a look of supreme affection. “She can find love for everything in the world except me,” he said to himself, bitterly. He had ceased to eare for the child after the first month orso of its ex- istence, beinginclined toresent its sex as a personal injury, and disliking his wife’s devotion to the infant, which seemed to make her indifference to himself all the more obvious. He left the house when Constance went out for her daily drive in the park, and strolledin the same direc- tion, caring very little where he went upon this par- ticular afternoon. The Ladies Mile was thronged with carriages, and there was a block at the corner when Gilbert took his place listlessly among the loungers who were lolling over the rails. He nodded to the men he knew, and answered 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.” “Oh, of course you want to keep her dark, Sinclair. Theard she was a flyer, though.” Mr. Sinclair did not pursue the conversation. The carriages moved on fora few paces, at the instigation ofa pompous mounted policeman, and then stopped again, leaving a quiet little brougham exactly in front of Gilbert Sinclair, The occupant of the brougham was Mrs, Walsingham. The stoppage brought her so close to Gilbert that it was impossible to avoid some kind of greeting. The widow’s handsome face paled as she reeognized Gilbert, and then, with a sudden impulse, she held out her hand. It was the first time they had met since that unpleasant interview in Half-Moon Street. The opportunity was very gratifying to Mrs. Walsingham. She had most ardently desired to see how Gilbert supported his new position, to see for her- self how far Mr. Wyatt’s account of him might be credited. She put on the propitiatory manner of a woman who has forgiven all past wrongs. “Why do you never come to see me ?”’ she asked. “IT scarcely thought you would care to receive me, after what you ssid when we last met,” he replied, rather embarrassed by her easy way of treating the sit- uation. “Let that be forgotten. Itis mot fairto remember what a woman says when she is in a passion. I think you expressed a wish that we might be friends after your marriage, and I was too angry to accept that proof of your regard as Ishould have done. I have grown wiser with the iil of time, and, believe me, I am still your friend.” There waa a softness in her tone, which flattered and touched Gilbert Sinclair. It contrasted so sharply with the cool contempt he had of late suffered at the hands ot his wife. He remembered how this woman had loved him ; and he asked himself what good he had gained by his marriage with Constance Olanyarde, ex- cept the empty triumph of an alliance with a family of eu rank to his own, and the vain delight of mar- gan acknowledged beauty. Before Mrs. Walsingham’s brougham had moved on, he had promised to look in upon her that evening, and at ten o’clock he was seated in the familiar drawing-room, orig Pyatl his domestic wrongs, and freely confessing that his marriage had been a failure. tle by little she iled him into hanes g her these things, and Er er part of adviser and consoler with exquisite act, not once allowing him to perceive the pleasure his on afforded her. He spoke of his child without the faintest expression of affection, and laughed bit- — as he described his wife’s devotion to her infant. “T thought asa woman of fashion she would havo given herself very little trouble about the baby.” he said, “ but she continues to find time for maternal rap- tures in spite of her incessant visiting. Ihave told her that she is killing herself, and the doctors tell her ey much the same; but she will have her own _ “She would suffer frightfully ifthe child were to die,” said Mrs, Walsingham. ” * I shall do what I 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 of her child 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 a wo- man’s affections.” CHAPTER IX. THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. Sre Cyprran did not again call at the house in Park Lane. He had heard of Constance Clanyarde’s mar- riage during his African travels, and had come back to England resolved to avoid her, as far as it was ible for him to do so. Time and absence had one little to lessen his love, but he resigned himself to her marriage with another as an inevitable fact, only regretting she had married a man of whom he had by no means an exalted opinion. James Wyatt was one of the first persons 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 and call in Park Lane. He wanted to see for himself whether Constance was obviously unhappy. He saw little, however, to en- lighten him on this point. He found the girl he had so fondly loved transformed into a perfect woman of the world; and he could draw no inference from her careless gayety of manner, except that James Wyatt | had said more than was justified by the circumstances of the case. Instead of returning to Davenant for the autumn months, Mr. Sinclair chose this year to go to Germany, an extraordinary sacrifice of iuclination, one might sup- pose, as his chief delight was to be found at English race meetings, and in the supervision of his stable at Nowmarket. Mrs. Sinclair’s doctor had recommended change of some kind as acure for a certain lowness of tone and general derangement of the nervous system under which bis patient labored. The medical man suggested Harrowgate or Buxton, or some Welsh water-drinking place; but when Gilbert proposed Schonestahl, in the Black Forest, he caught at the idea. “ Nothing would be better for Mrs. Sinclair and the baby,” he said; ‘and you'll be near Baden-Baden if you want gayety.” “I don’t care about brass-bandg and a lot of people,’’ answered Gilbert; ‘‘lcean shoot capercailzies. I shall get on well enough for a month or so.” Constance had no objection to offer tothis plan. She cared very little where her life was spent, solong as she hadherchild with her. A charmiug 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 infantine grace and intelligence in the eyes of mother and nurse. The nurse was @ young woman belonging to the village near Marchbrook, one of the pupils of the Sunday-school, whom Constance had known from girlhood. The nurse-maid who shared her duties in London had not been brought to Schonestahl, but in her place Mrs. Sinclair engaged a French 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 sho seemed unusually slow and stolid in comparison with the vivacious French girl. ‘Ihis girl had come to Ba- den with @ Parisian family, and had been dismissed with an excellené 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- gratiate herself with her mistress, as she had done with the good priest of the little church she had attended during her residence af Baden, who was delighted with her artless fervor and unvarying piety. Poor Martha Briggs was rather inclined to be jealous of this new ri- valin her mistress’s favor, 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 girl, for her part, seemed passionately devoted to the baby. She was always eager to carry the child when the two nurses were ont together, and resented Martha’s determination to deprive her of this pleasure. One day when the two were disput- ing together upon this subject, Martha bawling at the French girl under the popular idea that she would make herself understood if she only talked loud enough, Melanie repeating her few words of broken English with many emphatic shrugs and frowns and. nods, a lady stopped to listen to them and to admire the baby. Shespoke in French to Melanie, and did not address Martha at all, much to that young person's indignation. Sheasked Melanie to whom the child be- longed, and how long she had been with it, and whether she was accustomed to nursing children, adding with a smile, that she looked rather too lady-like for 4 nurse- maid. 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 in her last situation, and had preferred the place very Ee Gilbert Sinclair had left her that night | much to her present position. She told this strange lady nothing about that rapturous affection for the 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’s jealousy. “Tam staying at the Hotel du Roi,” said the lady, after talking to Melanie ‘or some little time, “and | should like to see youif 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 upon the lady, and then the two nurses moved on with their little charge. Martha asked Melanie what the foreign lady had been saying, and the French girl replied carelessly that she had only been praising the baby. “And well she may,” answered Miss Briggs rather snappishly, ‘‘for she’s the sweetest child that ever lived ; but, for my own part, I don’t like foreigners, or any of their nasty, deceitful ways.”’ This rather invidious remark was lost upon Made- 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 Sinclulr’s protestation of indiffer- ence to the attractions of brass-bands and crowded as- semblies, he contrived to spend the greater part of his time at Baden, where the Goddess of Chance was still worshiped in the brilliant Kursaal, while his wife was left to drink her fill 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 wait- ing for the turn of Fortune’s wheel in the golden salon, oryawning over Galignani in the reading-room, Con- stance’s lite came far nearer happiness than she had ever dared to hope it could come, after her perjury at God’s | altar two yearsago. Many atime, whileshe was leading her butterfly life in the flower-garden of fashion, mak- ) ing dissipation stand for pleasure, she had told herself, | in some gloomy hour of reaction, that no good ever could come of her marriage; that there was @ curse upon it, arighteous God’s amathema against falsehood. And then her baby had eome, and she had shed her first happy tears over the sweet small face, the blue eyes lookin 3 had thanked Heayen for this new bliss, and believed her sin forgiven. After that time Gilbert had changed for the worse, and there had been many a polite pass- age-at-arms between husband and wile, and these en- counters, however courteously performed, are apt to leave ugly scars. But now, fer away from all her frivolous acquaint- ance, free from the a)l-engrossing duties of a fine lady’s existence, she put all evil thoughts out of her mind, Gilbert among them, and abandoned herself wholly to the delight of 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 her explora- tions; but she made no complaint, she expressed no curiosity as to the manner in which he amused him- 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 inward,” and although his old passionate love still remained, it was curiously interwoyen with hatred. Once when husband and wife were seated opposite each other, in the September twilight, after one of their rare fele-a-tele dinners, Constance looked up suddenly and caught Gilbert’s brooding eyes fixed upon her face with an expression which made her shiver. “Tf you look at me like that, Gilbert,’ she said, with a nervous laugh, ‘I shall be afraid to drink this glass of Marcobrunner you’ye just poured outfor me. There might be poison it. I hope I haye done nothing to de- serve such an angry look. Othello must have looked something like that, I should think, when he asked Desdemona for the strawberry-spotted handkerchief.” “Why did you marry me, Constance?” asked Sinclair, ignoring his wife’s speech. There was something almost piteous in this ques- tion, wrung from a man who loved honestly, according to his lights, and whose love was turned to rancor by the knowledge that it had won no return. “What a question, after two years of married life? Why did I marry you? 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, looking at him through un- shed tears. Since her own life had become 80 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. She would haye taken much trouble, made some sacrifice of womanly pride, to win him back to that amiable stato of mind she remembered in their honeymoon, “I’ve promised to meet Wyatt at the Kursaal this evening,” said Sinclair, looking at his watch as he rose from the table, and without the slightest notice of his wife's reply. “Js Mr. Missy at Baden ?’’ “Yes ; he hascame over for a little amusement at the tables—deuced lucky dog—always contrives to leave off awinner. One of those cool-headed fellows who know the turn of the tide. You've no objection to his being there, I suppose ?” ; “T wish you and he were not such fast friends, Gil- bert, Mr. Wyatt is no favorite of mine.” “Isn't he? Too much ofthe watch-dog about him, I suppose. As for fast friends, there’s not much friend- ship between Wyatt and me. He’s & useful fellow to have about one, that’s all. He has served me faithfully, and has got well paid for his services. It's a matter of up at her full of vague wonder, and she ~
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¥ “Nonsense. ‘ tober, and shall have topay pretty stiffiy forit. I “pounds, shillings, and pence on his side, anda matter of conyenience on mine. No doubt Wyatt knows that ‘as well as I do.” «Don’t you think friendship on such a basis may be ‘rather an insecure bond?’ said Constance, gravely ; “and that a man who can consent to profess friendship on such degrading terms is likely to be half an enemy?” “Oh, I don’t goin for such high-flown ethics. Ji 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 besure.” “Tam 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, her pretty cluck-clucking noises, as of anxious maternal hetts calling their offspring, her inarticulate leamguage of broken syllables, which only maternal love could interpret, were an inexhaustible fountain of delight. She was the blithest and happiest ‘of babies, and every object in creation with which she Decame newly acquainted was asource of rapture to The flowers, the birds, the insect life of that y pine forest, filled her with delight. The soft ue eyes sparkied with pleasure, the rose-bud lips ‘babbled her worldless wonder, the little feet danced with ecstasy. “Oh,” cried the delighted mother, “ if she would always be just Jike this, my plaything and my darling! ‘Of course I shall love herjust aa dearly when she is older—a long-armed lanky girl in a brown holland pinafore, always inking her fingers and getting into troublé about her lessons—like my sisters and imo when we were in the school-room ; but she can never be so pretty or so sweet again, can she, Martha?” “Lor’ mum, she'll always bo a love,” replied the devoted nurse ; ‘‘ and as for,her arms being long and her fingers inky, you won't love her a bit less—and I’m sure I hope she won’t be worried with too many lessons, for Ido 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 piano, while poor children are running wild in the fields,’’ “Oh, Martha, how shocking,” cried Mrs. Sinclair, pretending tobe horrified, “to think that one of my favorite pupils should underrate the yalue of educa- tion !”” * Oh no, indeed, ma’am, Ihave 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, ButI never can think that life was meant to be all education.” “Tifois all éducation, Martha,’ answered her mis- tress, with a sigh, “ but not the education of grammars 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 hera paragon. Her life shall be all hap- piness and freedom, and she shall grow up without the knowledge of care or evil, except the sorrows of others, and those she shall heal ; and she shall marry the man she loves, whether he is rich or poor, forI am sure my - **T don’t say that, ma’am,” reiterafed Martha; ooks are go deceiving. I’m sure there was my own cousin, on the father’s side, Susan Tadgers, 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 now she’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 tete-a-tete between husband and wife, Gilbert Sinclair an- nounced his intention of going back to England for the Leger. “YT 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 like to miss this race.” “Hadn’t we better go home at once, then, Gilbert ? Tam quite ready to return.’ Tye taken this place till me nat one would never love a bad man.” shall come back directly after the Doncaster.”’ “But it will bea tatiguing journey for you.” “T’d just as soon be sitting in a railway train as any- where else.” “Does Mr. Wyatt go back with you ?”” “No; Wyatt stays at Baden for the next week or so. pretends to be here for the sake of the waters, goos little to the Kursaal, and lives quietly like a care- old bachelor who wishes to mend a damaged consti- on, but Ishould rater think he had some deeper me than water-drinking. _ | Gilbert departed, and Constance was alone with her ane fb The weather was delightful—cloudless skies, balmy days, blissful weather for the grape gatherers on the vine-clad slopes that sheltered one side of this quaint old village of Schonesthal. A river wound through 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- sons rafts of timber were floated down the Rhine. - A romantic road following the course of this river was one of Mrs. Sinclair’s fayorite drives. There were picturesque old villages and romantic ruins to be ex- plored, and many lovely spots to be shown to baby, who, although inarticulate, was supposed to be ap- prociative. Upon the first day of Gilbert’s absence Martha Briggs came home from her afternoon promenade with baby ooking flushed and tired, and complaining of sore the 20th of | WEAVERS AND WEFT. 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 groom off at once to that town, She told him to inquire for the 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 get misdirected at last. ‘Mr. Wyatt is at Baden,” she thought ; ‘‘Idare say ho would act kindly in such an extremity as this, though Ihave 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 Badenscher Hof. He will direct you to the doctor. Yeu’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 kindliness for her fellow-servant, a sympathy which Martha Briggs’s surly British temper disdained. Mrs. Sinclair had Martha s bed moved from 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. ‘ Butif Martha has a fever, and madame nurses her, this little angel may catch the fever from madame,” suggested Melanie. “‘ If Martha’s illness is contagious I shall not nurse her,” answered Constance. «“‘lcangeta nursing Sister from one of the convents. But Ililike to have the poor girl nearme, that; at the worst, she may know she is not deserted.” ‘Ah, but:madame is too good! serve so kind a mistress |’’ Mr. Wyatt showed himself most benevolently anx- ious to be useful on the receiptof Mrs. Sinclair's now. He made all mecessary inquiries at the office of the hotel, and having found out thename of the best doc- tor in Baden, took the trouble to accompany the groom to the medical man’s:house, and waited until Mr. Paul- ton; the English surgeon, was seated in the pony-car- riage. : “ Lshalh beanxious 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 lineif you like. Where are you staying ?” « At the Badenscher.”’ “ You shall know how the young woman is directly I get back.” , “ Athousand thanks.” What happiness to CHAPTER X. THE CRUEL RIVER, Mrs. Srxcuar’s precautions had been in no wise fu- tile.. Mr. Paulton pronounced that Martha’s symptoms pointed only too plainly to some’ kind of fever—posat- bly scarlet fever—possibly typhoid. In any casa, there could not be too much care taken to guard nst oon- tagion. The villa was airy and spacious, and Mrs. Sin- clair’s dressing-room at some distance from the nurso- 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. Tho Blister came—a middle-aged woman—in the som- ber garb of her order, but with a pleasant, choeertul face, that well became her snow-white head-gear. Sho showed herself kind and dextrousin nursing the sick girl, but beforoshe had been three days in the house, Martha, who wasnow ina raging fever, took a dislike to the nurse, and raved wildly about this black-robed figure at her bedside. In yain did the Sister endeavor to reassure her. To the girl’s wandering wits that foreign tongue seemed like the gibberish of some un- holy goblin. She shricked for help, and Mrs. Sinclair ran in from the adjoining room to seo what was amiss. Martha wascalmed amd comforted immediately by the sight of her mistress ; and from that time Oonstance devoted herself to the aick-room, and shared the nurse's watch. This moant separation from Christabel, and that was a hard trial for the mother, who had never yet lived a day apart from her child; but Constance bore this bravely for the sako of the faithful girl—too thankful that her darling hadescaped the fever which had so strangely stricken the nurse. The weather continued glorious, and baby scemed quite happy with Melanie, who roamed about with her charge all day, or went for long drives in the pony-carriage under the care of the faitful Dawson, who was a pattern of sobrioty and steadiness, and incapable of fliration. ne belek Nad over from Baden ese reed oy, “ ci quiry about the nurse's progreas—aninguiry which he mnight just as easily have made of the doctor in Baden— and this exhibition of good feeling 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 judgment upon one another. Perhaps, after all, Mr. Wyatt is as kind- hearted as his admirers think him, and I have don wrong in being prejudiced agaist him. He was Cyprian's friend too, and always speaks of him with particular affection,”’ Constance remembered that scene in the morning- room at Dayenant. It was one of those unpleasant memories which do not grow fainter with the passage of years. She had been inclined to suspect James yatt ofa malicious intention in his sudden announce- ment of Sir Cyprian’s death—the wish to let her hus- band see how strong a hold her first love still had upon her heart. He, who had been Cyprian Davenant’s friend and confidant, was likely to have known some- thing of that early attachments, or at least to have tormed a shrewd guess at the truth, ‘Perhaps I have suspected him wrongly in- that affair,’’ 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-plot 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 even at 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 patient was going on wonderfully well, Mr. Paulton said; the violence. of 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, Siliclair, could. leave her .en- 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 Duport had been a marvel of goodness throughout this anxious time. “I shall never forget how good and thoughtful 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,” shricked Melanie, in her shrill treble. “Monsieur returns this evening,” said Constance, who had just received a hurried scrawl from Gilbert, naming the hour of his arrival; “you must take care that Christabel looks her 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 ?’’ ‘*To the ruined Castle on the hill.” “Do you think that is a safe place for baby ?’” “ What could there be safer? What peril can madame foresee ?”’ ‘ “No,” said Constance with a sigh. ‘I suppose she is as safe there-as anywhere else, but I am always uneasy when she is away from me.”’ ‘But madame’s love for this little one passion |” Melanie departed with her charge, and Constance went back to the sick-room to attend to her patient while the Sister enjoyed a few hours of comfortable al is @ esp. One o’clock was Christabel’s dinner.time, and Chris- tabel’s dinner was a business of no small importance in the mother’s mind. One o’clock came, and there was no sign of Melanie and her charge, a curious thing, as Melanie was methoilical and punctual to a praiseworthy degree, and was provided with a — little silver watch to keep her acquainted with the ime. Two o’clock struck, and still no Melanie. Constance began to grow uneasy, and sent scouts to look for the nurse and child. But when three o’clock came and baby had not yet appeared, Constance became serioualy alarmed, and put on her hat hastily, and went out to search for the missing nurse. She would not listen to the servants who had jnst 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. Send to the police, any one, the proper author- ities. Tell them my child is lost. Let them sendin every direction. You have been to the ruins ?” “ Yes, ma’am.”’ “And there was no one there? You could hear nothing ?” **No, ma’am,”’ answered Dawson the groom; “the place was quite lonesome. There was nothing but hoppers chirping.’ “The river?’ thought. Constance, white with horror; ‘the ruins are only a little way from the river.”’ She ran along the romantic pathway which followed the river-bank for about half a mile, and there ascended the steep hill on the slope of which stood the battered old shell which had once been a feudal castle, with dungeons beneath its stately halls, and.a deep and secret well for the safe putting away of troublesome enemies. Very peaceful looked the old ruins on this balmy September day, in the mellow afternoon sun- shine, solitarr, silent, deserted, There was no tr of nurse or childin the ssy court.or on the crum ling old rampart. Yes, just where the rampart looked down upon the river, just at that point where the short sunburned grass sloped steepest, Constance Sinclair found a token of her child’s presence, a toy dog, white, fleecy, and deliciously untrue to, nature—an animal noes shapelees beauty had been the baby Christabel’s delight. Senstatics gave a little cry of joy. “They have been here, they are somewhere near,” she thought, and then, suddenly, in the sweet summer stillness the peril of this particular spot struck her—
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that steep descent—the sunburned sward, slippery as glass—the deep, swift current below—the utter loneli- ness of the scene—no help at hand, “Oh, God !’’ she cried, ‘‘ the river, the river!’ She looked round 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 end of the rampart led to the bank, and by this path Constance hurried down to make inquiries at the cottager ; The door was standing open, and 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. j “Das arme madchen. Ach, Himmel! Was gibt es?’ and a good deal more of aspasmodic and sympathetic nature. .A woman’s garment’s dripping wet, were hanging in front of the stove, beside which sat an elderly vine-dresser with stolid countenance, smoking PAPO Constance Sinclair put the women aside and made her way to the bed. It was Melanie who lay there wrapped in a blanket, sobbing hysterically. “ Melanie, where is my child ?” The girl shrieked and turned her face to the wall. “She visked 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, mein Gott!’ exclaimed the man, with a shrug. “No one has seen the poor child. No one knows.” “My child is drowned !”’ * Liebe 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 clfild, she could do no more. But the current was too strong. Dear lady, be comforted. The good Ged will help you,” “No, God is cruel,” cried Constance. ‘I will never 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 atone floor, = CHAPTER XI. GETTING OVER IT, Baby CunisTaBEL 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 torm refused to give it back. Perchance the lurleys had taken her for their play- fellow, 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 te Constance Sinclair’s grief it was this last drop of bitterness—the knowledge that her child wonld never rest in hallowed ground, that there ‘was no quiet grave on which to lay her aching head and feel nearer her darling, no spot of earth to which she could press her lips and fancy she could be heard by the little one lying in her pure shroud below, asleep on Mother Earth's calm breast. No, her little one was driven by winds and waves, and had no resting-place 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, Melaine holding lier securely, as she believed, when the little one, attracted by the flight of a butterfly, made a sudden spring—alas! madame knew how strong and active the dear angel was, and How difficult it was to hold her sometimes— and slipped out of Melanie’sarmson to the rampart, and from the rampart—which was very low just there, as madame might baye observed—on to the grass, and rolled and rolled down to theriver. It wasall 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 time ?—a nothing. Alas! she tried to grasp the frock, but the stream swept it from her; an instant, and one sawitno more. She felt herself sinking, and then she fainted. She knew noth- ing till she woke in the cottage where madame found a vidlanie a~as @ heroine in a small way after this sad event. The villagers thought her a wonderful young person. Her master rewarded her handsomely, and promised to retain her in his service till she should choose to marry. Her mistress was as grateful as despair can be for any service. The light of Comstance Sinclair’s life had gone. Her one source of joy was turned to a fountain of bitter- ness. A dull and blank despair took possession of her. She did not succumb utterly to her grief. She strug- gled against it bravely, and she would accept no one’s compassion or sympathy. ‘Oneof her married sisters, a comfortable matron with half a dozen healthy child- ren in her nursery, offered to come and stay with Mrs. Sinclair; but this kindly offer was refused almost un- civilly. “What good could you do me?” asked Constance. «Tf you spoke to me of my darling I should hate you, wet I should always be thinking of her. Do you sup- WEAVERS AND WEFT. pose you could comfort me by teiling about your herd of children, or by repeating little bits of Scripture, 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 eyery one in the world, but happy mothers most of all.” Gilbert Sinclair endured the loss of his little girl with a certaln amount of philosophy. In the first place she was nota boy, and had offended him ab initio by that demerit. She had been a pretty little darling, no doubt, and he had had his moments of fondness tor her; but his wife’s idolatry of the child was an offense that had rankled 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 boy 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 Briggs recovered health and strength, but her grief for the lost 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—‘tand you'd remind me. I'll go home. I’m more grateful than words can say for all your goodness; but, oh, I hate myself so for being ill. I never, never shall forgive myself—never.” So 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 80 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, believing with Gilbert that the girl deserved recompense; but Melanie’s presence was full of painful associations, and kept the bitter memory of her lost child continually before her. ‘ Constance went back to Dayenant, 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 windows and a wide balcony, with a flight of steps leading down to the quaintest old garden, shut in from the rest of the grounds by a holly 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 injury, and was determined to give that sul- len sorrow no indulgence. When the hunting season was at its best, and pheasant-shooting made one of the attractions of Davenant, Mr. Sinclair determined to fill his house with his own particular set—horsy men— men who gave their minds to guns and dogs, and rarely opened their 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 conyersation was of breaks and flukes, pockets and cannons. “‘You’d better ask some women, Constance,’’ said Gil- bert, one Sunday morning in November, as they sat at their tete-a-tele breakfast, the wife reading her budget of letters, the husband with the Field propped up in front of his coffee-cup, and the Sporting Gazelle at his elbow. “T’ve got a lot of meu coming next week, and you might feel yourself de trop in a masculine party.” “Have you asked people, Gilbert, so soon ?” said Con- stance, reproachfully, “T 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 amonth. You’d better .ask some nice young women—the right sort, you. know; no non- sense about them.” “TI thought we should have spent this winter quietly, Gilbert,” said Constance, in a low voice, looking down at her black dress with its deep folds of crape ; ‘just this one winter.” “That's sheer sentimentality,’ exclaimed Gilbert, giving the Field an impatient twist as he folded it to get at his favorite column. “ What good would it do you or me to shut ourselves up in this dismal old house like 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 ery, Constance. 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 upon an unheeding ear. Constance Sinclair’s thoughts had wandered far away from that oak-paneled breakfast-room. 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 diyined her darl- ing’s fate. “Gilbert, Ireally am not fit to receive people,’ she said, after a silence of some minutes, during which Mr, | Sinclair had amused himselt 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 Perigord pie. “Ifyou have set your heurt wpon hay- ing your friends this winter you had better let me go > away,to Hastings or somewhere. It would be pleas-. anter for you to be free from the sight ot my unhap- piness.”’ “Yes, and for you to find consolation elsewhere, no doubt. You would pretty soon find a consolerifI gave you your liberty.” “ Gilbert !” d “Oh, dont think to frighten me with your indig- nant looks. Ihave not forgotten the scene in this room when you heard of yourold lover’ssupposed death. 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 waita little longer, isn’t it? A pity your father should have been in sucha hurry tomake his last matrimonial bargain.” “Gilbert!” cried Constance, passionately, ‘what havyelever done that you should dare to talk to me like this? How have I ever failed in my duty to you ?” “ShallItellyou? I won'tsay that, having accepted me for your husband, you ought to have loved me. That would be asking too much. The ethics of We nineteenth century don’t soar so high as that. 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.” “Tam not capable of pretending, Gilbert,’’ an- swered Constance, gravely. “If you would only bea 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 de- sire. I would, Gilbert,” she cried in a yoice, 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 of mine, to mope in solitude, or to find consolation among old friends, please comprehend that if you leave my house once you leave it forever. Ishall expect tosee you at the headofmy table. I shall expect you to surround yourself with pretty women. I shall expect you to be awite that a fellow may be proud ot.” “TIshalldo my bestto oblige you, Glibert; 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 acquaintances— young married women, whose chief delight was to dress more expensively than their dearest friends and to be seen at three parties on the same evening, and a few who were still spinsters, from no fault or foolishness of their own, since they had neg- 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 suflicient to insure an ac- ceptance. “ Dearest Ipa,—My husband is filling the house with men for the hunting season. Do come, and save me from being bored to death by their sporting talk. sure you bring your hunting-habit. Gilbert can ed you a good mount,”’ etc., etc. Whereupon dearest Ida, twisting about the little 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. Dayenant is a sweet house to stay at, quite liberty hall. Yes, I think I shall go, and if there are plenty of people Ican finish out. my ball dresses in the evenings.” Before another Sunday came Davenant was full of 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 peryading the out-buildings, and chained up in every available corner. ? Constance pineal ety ear ae somber robes of crape and cashmere, and met her friends with wel- comingsmiles, radiant in black silk and lace, her graces ful figure set off by the latest Parisian fashion, which, being the newest, was, of course, infinitely the best. “JT thonght 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 corner at afternoon tea. ‘The men were so noisy with their haw-haw talk, one could say what one liked,” remarked. Mrs. Millamount afterward to Lady Loveall. “ Looks rather heartless, doesn’s it ?—an only ch ‘ too. She might at least wear paramatta instead of hel black silk—not even’a mourning silk. I suppose t black net trimmed with jet she wore last night w: from Worth.” rt “My dear, you couldn't have looked at it properly. — Worth wouldn’t have male her such a thing if r\ had gone down on her knees to him. The sleeve was positively antediluvian. Nice house, isn’t it /—every- thing good style. What matches all these Clanyardes haye made |” ] A a it true that she was engaged to Sir Cyprian Day- enant ?” “They say so. How sorry she must be! He has just, come into quite a heap of money. Some old man ‘down in the Linconshire fens left it him—quite a char acter, I believe. Never spent anything except on black letter books, and those have been sold for a fortune at Sotheby’s. Ah, Mr. Wyatt, how d’ye do ?”’ as the solic itor, newly arrived that afternoon, threaded his toward the quiet corner ; ‘‘do come and sit here. You always know everything, Isit true that Sir Cyprian Davenant has come into a fortune f’ wal in, *> 3. * .
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-milliner. Oe a WEAVERS AND WEFT. a” “ “Nothing can be more true, unless it is that Mrs. Millamount looks younger and lovelier every season.”’ _ “You horrid flatterer. You are worse than a French And is it true that Mrs. Sinclair and Sir Cyprian were engaged? But no, it would be hardly Po pe sa you about that. You area friend of the “As a friend of the family Iam bound to inform you that rumor is false on that point. There was no en- gagement.”’ “Really, now ? PS viv Sir Cyprian was madly in love with Miss Clan- e a” ™ “‘ And she ’’——. “Twas not in the lady’s confidence; but I believe that it was only my friend’s poverty which prevented their marriage.” “How horridly mercenary !’”’ cried Mrs. Millamount, 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 Diana, but toa rich »stock-broker. Perhaps as that was along time ago she may have forgotten how much more Plutus had had to do with her marriage than Cupid. CHAPTER XII. THE BHACKLES OF AN OLD LOVE STRAITENED HIM. Cyprian DAVENANT had inherited a fortune. Com- mon rumor had not greatly exaggerateed the amount of wealth, though there was the usual disposition to expatiate upon the truth. Needy men looked at him with enyy as he went in and out of his club, or sat in a quiet corner reading the last 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 his rapture in a war-whoop. “ Hang it all, you know,’ remarked an impecunious younger son, “‘it aggrayates 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 standa pony. And he won’t play whist, or touch a billiard cue—quite ap unapproachable beast.’’ Aman 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 give him Constance Clanyarde, or even re- store the good old house in which his father and mother 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 back from Africa like a man who lives a charmed life, ‘escaping all manner of perils, from the gripe of marsh ver to the jaws of crocodiles; while men who had valued existence a great deal more than he had done had succumbed and left their bones to bleach upon the sands of the Gold Coast, or to rot in a stagnant swamp. Cyprian Dayenant had returned to find the girl he loved the wife of the man he most disliked. He heard of her marriage more in sorrow. than in anger. He had mot expected to find her free. His knowledge of Lord Clan- yarde’s character had assured him that his lordship’s beautiful daughter would be made to marry well. No fair Circassian, reared by admiring and expectant rela- tives in the seclusion of her Caucasian home, fattened mpon 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 specifio intention than that which had ruled Lord Clanyarde in the edu- cation of his daughters. They had all done well. He el very little of his time at Marchbrook nowadays, wife having died shortly after Consatance’s marriage, - ‘Dut 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. Whata comfort to have been blest with lovely marriageable daughters, instead of lubberly sons, squatting on a father’s shoulders like the old man of the mountain, thought Lord Clanyarde, when 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 make a fashionable lion of him upon the etrength of his African explorations, he had strength of mind enough to refuse all manner of flattering invita- ms, and innumerable introductions to people who * dying to know him. He took a set ot chambers in one of the streets be- tween the Strand and the river, surrounded himself ith the books he loved, and set about writing the his- ny, of his travels. He had no desire to achieve fame by book-making, but aman must do something with his life. Sir Cyprian felt himself too old or too unambitious to enter one of the learned professions ; and he felt him- self without motive for sustained industry. He had anincome that sufficed for all his desires. He would write his book, tell the world the wonders he had seen, and then go back to Africa and see more wonders, and perhaps leave his bones along the road, as some of his fellow-travelers had done, He heard of Constance Sinclair—heard of her as one of the lights in fashion’s sidereal system—holding her own against all competitors. He saw her once or twice, between five and six on a June afternoon, when the carriages were creeping slowly along the Ladies’ Mile, and the high-mettled horses champing their bits and tugging at their bearing reins in sheer desperation at being compelled to this snail's pace. He saw her looking her loveliest, and concluded that she was happy. She had all things that were reckoned good in | > her world. Why should he suppose there was any- thing wanting to her content? The lawyer's letter which told him ofold Colonel Gryffin’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 of peace over the last new treatise on metaphysics by a German philosopher. Lady Davenant had been a Miss Gryffin, and the favorite niece of this ancient Anglo-Indian Colonel Gryffin, who had lived and died a bachelor. Sir Cyprian hada faint recollection of seeing a testy old gentleman with a yellow complexion at Davenant in his nursery days, and haying been told to eall the old gentleman ‘uncle,’’ whereupon he had revolted openly, 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.” Soon afterward the queer old figure had melted out of the home picture. Colonel Gryffin had gone back to the Lincolnshire fens, 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 beenso long alive. Messrs. Dott and Gowunn, a respectable firm of family solicitors im Lincoln’s Inn, begged to inform Sir Cyprian Dayenant that his great-uncle, on the maternal side, Colonel Gryffiu, of Hobart Hall, near Hammerfield, Lincolnshire, had appointed him residuary legates and sole executor to his will. Sir Cyprian was quite unmoved by the announcement. Residuary legatee might mean a great deal, orit might mean very little, He had a misty recollection of being told that Colonel Gryffin was rich, and was supposed to squander untold sums upon Gutenberg Bibles, and other amiable eccentricities 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 missals and Bibles and an- tique Books of Hours, the Decameron, and the fine old Shakespeare, were put up to auction—by desire of the testator—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 Sir Cyprian upon this change of fortune. “Apity the old gentleman did not die before you went to Africa,’ he said sympathetically. haye squared things for you and Miss Clanyarde.” ‘‘Miss Clanyarde made a very good marriage,” an- swered Cyprian, too proud to barehis old wound even to friendly James Wyatt. ‘She is happy.” Mr. Wyatt shrugged his shoulders dubiously. “Who knows?” he said. is always the best part of the performance.” Thia happened while Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair were at Schonesthal. Soon came the tidings of Baby Christa- bel’s fate, briefly told in a newspaper paragraph, and Cyprian Dayenant’s heart bled for the woman he had once loved. He was nota little surprised when James Wyatt called upon him one day in November and told him he was going down to Davenant, where there was to be a houseful of company. y. “So soon after the little girl’s death! ’’ exclaimed Sir Cyprian. ‘Yes, itis 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.” “People have hearts, I suppose, even in the nine- teenth century,” said Sir Cyprian, somewhat bitterly. “T should haye thought Mrxe. Sinclair would have felt the loss of her little girl very deeply.”’ “We don’tknow what she may feel,”” retummed Wyatt. ‘Gilbert likes his own way.”’ “You don’t mean to say that he ill-uses his wife?” asked Sir Cyprian, alarmed. “Ti-us days,”’ replied Mr. Wyatt, with his imperturbable smile, “Gilbert Sinclair is my client, and an excellent one, as you know. It wouldill-become me to disparage him, but I must admit that he and Mrs. Sinclair are not the happiest couple whose domestic hearth I have 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 exceedingly dull at home. Idon't expect to find her very lively now that she has lost the only be- ing she really cared for. She absolutely worshiped that child.’ This conversation gave Sir Cyprian Davenant material for much sad thought. To know that Constance was unhappy seemed to bring hernearertohim. It brought back the thought’of 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, believing her lover strong to conquer Fate and Fortune. And he had brought the chilly light of worldly wisdom to bear on this dream of Arcady. He had been strong, self-deny- ing, and had renounced his own happiness in the hope ofsecuring hers. And now 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-sufficient fool,, what an idiot I have been !” he said to himself, in an agony of remorse. “And now wha! atonement can I make to her for my folly ? Can I defend her from the purse-proud snob she has been sold to? can Isave her wounded heart one pang? can I be near her in her hour of misery, or offer BX “Tt would ““We see our friends’ lives from the outside, and, like a show at a fair, the outside eisabigword. We don’t employ it nowa- one oe of comfort from a soul overflowing with tender- ness and pity? No; to approach her is to do her s wrong. But I can watch at a distance, perhaps. Imay use other eyes. My money may be of some use in buy- ing her faithful service from others. God biess her! 1 consecrate my days to her service; distant or near X will be her friend and her defender.” Two days later Sir Cyprian met Lord Olanyarde at that nobleman’s favorite club. It was a club which Cy prian Dayenant rarely used, although he had beem a member ever since his majority, and it may be that he went out of his beaten track in the hope of encounter- ing Constance Sinclair’s father. Tord Clanyariie was very cordial and complimentary upon his friend’s altered fortunes. “You must feel sorry for having parted with Daven- ant,” he said, ‘‘ when you might so easily have keptit.’ “ Davenant is rather too big fora eonfirmed bachelor.’* “True, it would have been a white elephant, I dare say. Sinclair has improved the place considerably. You ought to come down and have a look at it. I’m go- ing to Marchbrook to shoot next week. Come and stay with me,” added Lord Clanyarde, with heartiness, not at all prepared to be taken at his word. a ‘‘T shall be charmed,” said Sir Cyprian, to his lord« ship’s infinite astonishment. People generally took his invitations for what they: were worth, and declined them. But here was a Man fresh from the center of Africa, who. hardly understood, the language of polite society. CHAPTER XL “AT MERLIN’S FEET THE WILY VIVIEN LAyY.’’ 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 cark and care. That magnificent iron and coal producing estate in the north had not been yielding quite so much hard cash as its owner expected trom it lately. Strikes and trade-unionism had told upon Mr. Sinclair’s income. 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 large possessions; but unfortunately there was algo a great deal going out. The Newmarket stables had cost asmall fortune, the Newmarket horses had been un- lucky, and 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 (ete-a-tete 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 acaretul aim at the distant red. “Haye very nearly stumped me,”—— - “Why not sell Davenant? You don’t wantsuch a big barrack of a place, and—Mrs. Sinclair isn’t happy here,” “No,” said Gilbert, with a smothered oath; ** the ag- sociations are too tender.”’ “Tcould get you a purchaser to-morrow.’’ “Yes, at a dead loss, no doubt. You fellows live by buying and selling, and you don’t care how much your client loses by a transaction that brings grist to your mill.” “Tcan get you the money you gave for Davenant, timber and all.” ‘*Who’s your purchaser ?” “Td rather not mention his name yet awhile. He is &@ quiet party, and wouldn’t like to be talked about.” “JT understand. Some city cad who has made his. money im the zoological line.” “ How zoological ?’”” ** Bulling and bearing. Well, if those beastly colliers hold outmuch 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 6ak ?’’ “Oh, the old sticks are put away somewhere, I be 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 there was no more said about the sale of Davenant. Nobody—not even his worst enemy, and no doubt among his numerous friends he had several foes—could deny Mr. Wyatt’s merits as a guest in a cowntry-house. He was just the kind of man to keep things going—s omg master in all social accomplishments—and Gilbert inclair graciously allowed him to take the burden of amusing everybody upon his shoulders, while the master of the house 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 quite enough for them in giving them what he elegantly called ‘‘the run of their teeth,” and the fres use ot his second-rate hunters. On Mr, Wyatt, therefore, devolved the duty of keep ing things going—devising the day’s amusements, protecting the ladies of the party from the selfishness. of neglectful and unappreciative mankind, arranging picnic luncheons in keepers’ lodges, at which the fair: sex might assist, finding safe mounts for those aspiring damsels who wanted to ride hounds, planning private. theatricals,.and stimulating the musical members of the society to the performance of part songs in a busi. ness-like and creditable manner. ’ He had done all these things last winter and the winter before, but on those occasions he had been aid- ed in his task. Constance Sinclair had, given him her hearty co-operation. She had played her part of hos- tess with grace and spirit—had allowed no cloud of
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WEAVERS AND WEFT. 16 sf thought or memory to obscure the brightness of the present moment. She had given herself up, heart and soul, to the duties of her position, and her friends had believed her to be the happiest of women, as well as the most fortunate. To seem thus had cost her many an effort; but she had deemed this one of her obliga- tions as Gilbert Sinclair's wite. y Now all was changed. Her husband had been obey- ed; but that obedience was all which Constance Sin- clair’s sense of duty could now compel. She sat like a beautiful statue atthe head of her husband's table, she moved about among her guests with as little part in their pleasures and amusements asif she had been a picture on the wall—courteous to all, but familiar with none, she seemed to live apart from her surroundings —a strange and silent life, whose vail of shadow even sympathy failed to penetrate. Mrs. Millamount, not unkindly, despite her frivolity, had tried to get Con- stance to talk of her bereavement, but the wounded heart was galled 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. Nothing can | ever lessen my grief, and I like best to keep it quite to myself.” ‘‘How you must hate us all for being here!’ said Mrs. Millamount, moved with compunction at the in- congruity between that houseful of company and the mother’s desolate heart. “It seems quite wbominable for us to be thinking of nothing but pleasure while you bear 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 Iam very glad that he should be pleased.” “She's ares too good to live,” remarked the spright- ly Mrs. Millamount to her friend Lady Loveall, that evening. “But do you know I’m afraid there’s some- | thing a little wrong here,” and Flora Millamount | touched her ivory turehead suggestively with the tip of her Watteau fan. James Wyatt was nota sportsman. He was an ex- cellent judge of a horse, rode well, and knew as much about guns as the men who were continually handling them, but he neither shot nor hunted, and he had never been knowa to speculate upon the turf. These things were for his clients—a yery pretty way of run- ning through handsome fortunes and bringing their owners to the Jews—not for him. He cotld take his amusement out of other men’s follies and remain wise himself. Life to him was an agrecable 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 infernal regions where bank- rupts aud 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 Dayenant 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 ladies and the lunch- eon. These Icisure hours Mr. Wyatt improved by strolling about the corridors, looking at the old pic- tures, for the most part in that meditative mood in which a man sces 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 perambulating the corridors between breakfast and dinner. Mrs. Sinclair was by no means an exacting mistress, and Melanie’s lite at Dayenant was one of comparative idleness. Her superiority of mind showed itself in a calm con- tempt for her fellow-servants, and she was rarely to be 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 a supply of the newest and worst Parisian literature in his port- manteaue On this dull December morning, a day of gray 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 Me lanie’s light, quick step and tripping French walk at the other end uf the gallery caught his ear. He turned slowly round to meet her, puffing lazily at his cigar. “Eh, la belle,”’ he exclaimed, “‘even an.English De- | eember does not dim the luster of those southern eyes.” “I was born in the Quartier Latin, and my parents were all that there is of the most Parisian,’ answered Melanie, scornfully. “Then you must have stolen those eyes of yours from one of the Murillos in ‘the Louvre. What news, little one ?” “Only that I find myself more and more weary of this great barrack.” “Come now, Melanie, you must confess you have a good time of it here.” “Oh, as for that, perhaps I ought not to complain. My mistress is very gentle, too gene: it gnaws me to te ast to see her silent grief. That preys upon my m dd Here Melaine squeezed out a tear, which she removed from her pearl-powered cheek—a very sallow cheek under the powder—daintily with the corner of a hem- stitched handkerchief. “You are too compassionate, little one,’ said Mr. Wyatt, putting his arm round her waist consolingly. t Perhaps he had gone a little too far with these leisure half hours of flirtation. He had an idea that the girl pn tee to be troublesome. ‘Tears augured mis- ef, “C'est dommage,”’ murmured Melanie: ‘‘ I have the heart too tender.” “Don’t fret, my angel. See here, pretty one, I have * 4 : ae “ th a ts i | ond *, brought you another novel,” taking a paper-covered book from his pocket. “ Belot ?” “No, Zola.” “I don’t want it. I won’t readit. Your novels are full of lies. They describe men who will make any sacrifice for the woman they love—men who will take a peasant girl from her hovel or a grisette from her gar- ret, and make her a queen, There are no such men. I don’t believe in them,’’ cried the girl, passionately, her eyes flashing fire. “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 sweet things without meaning them, who flatter every every woman they talk to, who turn a foolish girl's head with their pretty speecies and caressing ways, and then laugh at her folly. Yes,as you are laughing at me,’’ cried Melanie, exasperated by Mr. Wyatt’s placid smile. ' No, my sweet, Lam only admiring you,’’ he replied, ealmly. ‘What have I done to raise this tempest ?’’ ‘“‘What have you done?’ cried Melanie, and then burst into tears, real tears this time, which: seriously damaged the pearl-powder. ‘‘Iam sureI don’t know why I should care so much for you. You are not hand- some. You are not even young.” *« Perhaps not, 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 day that there are men, real, living men, who are capable ef aly sacrifice for the woman they love.” : Melante 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 face clouded at this question. “Sheis related to me; and I knew she had been badly used. Hush, my dear, walls: hayo ears, There aré things we musn’t talk about here.” “What is the lady’s real name?’ . “ Madaiie Chose. She comes of the oldest branch of the family—altogether grande dame, I assure’ you.” “IT wish she would take me into her service.” “ Why, you are better off here than with her.” “T don’t think so. I should see more of youif I lived with that lady.’”’ ’ “There you are wrong, rarely.” “JT don't believe you.” ‘Melanie, that’s extremely rude.” “JT believe that you are passionately in love with that lady, and that is why ’—— “Not another word,” exclaimed James Wyatt;'‘ 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 !’’ 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 comes of putting one’s self in the power of the inferior sex. IfIhad trusted a man—as 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 makes it an affair of the heart, and I dare say will worry my life out before I have done with her.” Ieee’ Madame Chore very CHAPTER XIV. 818 CYPRIAN HAS HIS SUSPICIONS. Sim Cyprian DavENANT had not forgotten that dinner at Richmond given by Gilbert Sinclair a little while be- fore 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 brought more vividly back to his mind by a circumstance that came under his notice the evening after he had accepted Lord Clanyarde’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 burlesque was being played for the three hundred and sixty-fifth time. Sir Cyprian enter- tained a cordial detestation of this kind of entertain- ment, in which the low comedian of the company enacts a distressed damsel in short petticoats and a flaxen wig, while pretty actresses swagger in costumes of the cavalier period, and ape the manners of the music-hall swell. But it was ten o’clock. The friends had recalled all the old Oxford folliesin the days when they were undergraduates together in Tom Quad. They had exhausted these reminiscences and a magnum of Lafitte, and thought Sir Cyprian would haye gladly gone back to his chambers and his books, Jack Dun- ster, his iriend, was of a livelier temperament, and wanted to finish the evening. * : “Let's go and see Hercules and Omphale at the Kaleid- oscope,” he said. ‘It’s no end of fun. Jeemson plays Omphale in a red wig, and Minnie Vavasour looks aw- fully fascinating in pink satin boots and a lion-skin. We shall be just in time for the breakdown.” Sir Cyprian assented with a yawn. He had seen fifty such burlesques as Hercules and Omphale in the days when such things had their charm for him, too, when he could be pleased with a pretty girl in pink satin Hes- sians, or be moved to laughter by Jeemson’s painted nose and falsetto scream. They took a hansom and drove to the Kaleidoscope, a bandbox of a theater screwed into an awkward corner ofthe narrowest streets in London—a street at which well-bred carriage-horses accustomed to the broad thoroughfares of Belgravia shied furiously. ° of ; ’ It was December, and there was no one worth speak- ing fof‘ in town; but the little Kaleidoscope was crowded, udtwithstanding. There were just a brace of — empty stalls in a draughty corner for Sir Cyprian and Mr. Dunster. The breakdown was. just on, the pretty little Her- cules flourishing his club, and exhibiting a white round arm with a diamond bracelet above the elbow. Omphale was showing her ankles, to the delight of the groundings, the violins were racing one another, an@ the flute squeaking its shrillest in a vulgar nigger mel- ody, accentuated by rhythmical bangs on the big drum. The audience were in raptures,and rewarded the ex- — ertions of band and. dancers with a double recall. Sir a stifled another yawn and looked round the ouse. ‘ Among the vacuous countenauces, 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 rounded arm resting indolently on the velvet cushion—an arm that. might have been carved in marble, bare to the elbow, its warm human ivory relieved by the yellow hue of an old Spanish point ruffle. Where had Cyprian Daye- nant seen that face belore ? ‘fg The lady had passed the first bloom of youth, but het ? beauty was of the ‘character that docs not tade with youth. She was of the Pauline Borghese type, a woman worthy to be modeled by a new Canova. “T remember,” said Sir Cyprian to himself. “It was at that Richmond dinner I met her. She is the lady. Gilbert Sin¢lair was to have married.’ He telt a curious interest in this woman whose name even he had forgotten. Why had not Sinclair married her? She was strikingly landsome, with a bolder, grander beauty than Constance Clanyarde’s fragile and poetic loveliness—a woman whom such aman as Sin- clair might have naturally chosen. Just as such amen would choose a high-stepping chestnut horse, without being too nice as to fineness and delicacy of line. “And I think from the little that Isaw the lady was attached to him,” mused Sir Cyprian. He glanced at the stage-box scyeral times before the end of the per’crmance. ‘The lady was quite alore, and sat in the sume attitude, funniny herself languidly, and hardly looking at the stage. Just as the curtain fell Sir Cyprian heard the click of the box door, and look- ing up, saw that a gentleman had entered, The lady rose, aud he came a littlé forward to assist in the arrange- ment of her ermine-lined mantic The gentleman was Gilbert Sinclair. “What did you think of it ?” asked Jack Dunster, as they went out into the windy lobby, where people were crowded together waiting for their carriages. “ Abominable,’’ murmured Sir Cyprian. “Why, Minnie Vavasour is the prettiest actress in London, and Jeemson’s almost equal to Toole,” “TI beg your pardon. I was not thinking of the bur- ; lesque,” answered Sir Cyprian hastily. Gilbert and his companion were just. in front of: them, sae ae. “Shall I go and look for your carriage?’ asked Mr.. — : Sinclair. “Tf you like. But as you seft 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. Iwas obliged to go out shooting with some fellows, and I didn’t leave Maidstone till nine o’clock. ; I think I paid you a considerable compliment in travel- ing thirty miles to hand you to your carriage. No other woman could expect so much from me,” = “You are not going back to Davenant to-night?” ‘No ; there is a supper on at the Albion. Lord Cok sterdale’s trainer is to he there, and I expect to get a | a wrinkle or two from him. A simple matter of busi- . ness, I assure you.’ “Mrs. Wulsingum’s carriage! ’”’ man, “Mrs. Walsingham,’ thougnt Sir Cyprian, who was — squeezed into a corner with his friend, walled up by opera-cloaked shoulders, and within earshot of Mr. Sinclair. ‘Yes, that’s her name.” : “That saves you all trouble,” said Mrs. Walsingham, “Can I set you down any where?” “No, thanks ; the Albion’s close by.’’ Str Cyprian struggled out of his corner just in time to see Gilbert shut the brougham door and walk off through the December drizzle, “So that acquaintance is not a dropped one,’’ he thought. ‘It augurs ill for Constance.” : Three days later he was riding out Barnet way, ina quiet country lane, as rurc] and remote in aspect as an accommodation road in the shires, when he passed a brougham with a lady in it—Mrs. Walsingham again, and again alone. «This looks like fatality,” he thought. ad He had been riding Londonward, but turned his horse and followed the carriage. This solitary drive, on a dull, gray winter day, so far from London, struck him as curious. There might be nothing really suspicious in the fact. Mrs. Walsingham might have friends in this northern district. But after what he had seen at the Kaleidoscope, Sir.Cyprian was inclined to suspect Mrs. Walsingham, That she still cared for Sinclair he was assured. He had seen her face light np when Gil- bert entered the box; he had seen’ that suppressed anger which is the surest sign of a jealous, exacting love, Whether Gilbert still cared for her was an open question. His meeting her at the theater might have been a ccncession to a dangerous woman rather than @ spontaneous act of devotion. Sir Cyprian followed the brougham into the seques- tered village of Totteridge, where it drew up before the garden gate of @ neat cottage with green blinds and a half-glass door—a cottage which looked like the abode of a spinster annuitant. Here Mrs, Walsingham alighted and went in, opening roared the water
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16 WEAVERS AND WEFT. * Leen ee ee the half-glass door with the air of a person accustomed to enter. i » He rode a little way further, and then walked his horse gently back.» The brougham was still standing before the garden gate, and Mrs, Walsingham was walk- ing up and down a gravel — by the side of the house with a woman and a child—a child in ascarlet hood, just able to toddle ae the path sustained on each slde by a supporting hand. “Some poor relation’s child, cen thought ian. “A friendly visit on the lady’s part.” He had ridden further than heintended, and stopped at the little inn to give his horse a feed of corn and an hour’s rest, while he strolled through the village and looked at the old-fashioned churchyard. The retired ‘ spot was not without its interest. Yonder was Coppet all, the — Lord Melbourne once occupied, and which had later passed into the hands of the author of that splendid series 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 Franco- Prussian war. ; ‘Who lives in that small house with the blinds?” asked Sir Cyprian, as he mounted his to ride home. “Tt’s been took furnished, sir, by a lady from Lon- don for her nurse and baby.” “Do you know the lady’s name?” .“Ican't say that Ido, sir. They has their beer from the brewer, and pays ready money for every think. But Isee the lady’s brougham go by not above ’alf an hour ago.” * Curious,” thonght Sir Cyprian. “ Mrs. Walsingham is not rising in my cpinion.” een orse ' CHAPTER XY. “THEY LIVE TOO LONG WHO HAPPINESS OUTLIVE.”’ In edd toe | Lord Clanyarde’s invitation Cyprian Davenant had but one thought, one motive—to be near Constance. Not to see her. Dear asshe still was to him, he had no desire to see her. He knew that such & 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 herdomestic 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 thanit was. The human mind leans to vivid coloring and bold dramatic effect. An ill-used wife and a tyrannical husband present one of those powerful pictures which society contemplates with in- terest. Society—represented generally by Lord Dun- dreary—likes to pity just as it likes to wonder. At Marchbrook Sir Cyprian was likely to learn the ¢ truth, and to Marclibrook he went, affecting an interest in pheasants and in Lord Clanyarde’s conversation, _which was like a rambling and unrevised edition of the Greville Memoirs, varied with turf reminiscences, ¢. There was wonderfully fine weather in that second _ week of December—clear autumnal days, blue skies, and sunny mornings. The pheasants were shy, and atter : the first day Sir Cyprian left them to thir retirement, referring long lonely rides among the scenes of his i Boyhood: and half hours of friendly chat with ancient gaffers and goodies who remembered his father and mother, and the days when Davenant had still held up * its head in the occupation of the old race. “This noo gentleman, he do spend a power 0’ money; but he’ll never be looked up to like old Sir Cyprian,” aid a gray-headed village sage, leaning over his gate to talk to young Sir Cyprian. 5 one of his rounds Cyprian Dayenant looked in ~ pon the abode of Martha Briggs, who was still at home. : “Her parents were in decent circumstances, and not wer to see their daughter ‘‘suited’’ with a new ser- ce. a ‘Martha remembered Sir Cyprian as a friend of Mrs. ; ad clair’s before her marriage. She had seen them ous - - walking together in the days when Constance Clanyarde was still in the nursery ; for Lord Clanyarde’s youngest daughter had known no middle stage betwen the nur- sery and her Majesty’s drawing-room. Indeed, Martha had had her own ideas about Sir Cyprian, and had quite made up her mind that Miss Constance would marry him. She was therefore disposed to be confidential, and with very slight encouragement told Cyprian all about that sad time at Schonesthal, how her mistress had nursed her through a fever. and how the sweetest child that ever lived had been drowned through that horrid French girl's carelessness... “It’s all very well to boast of jumping into the river pir : “But why did to save the darling,” exclaimed Martha. ae lhe go and take the precious pet into a dangerous . place? When I had her, I could see danger beforehand. I didn’t want to be told that a hill was steep, or that rass was slippery. I never did like foreigners, and now I hate them like poison,” cried Miss Briggs, as if under the impression that the whole continent of Europe was implicated in Baby Christabel’s death. “Tt must haye been a great grief to Mrs. Sinclair,” said Sir Cyprian. “Ah, poor dear, she’l]l never hold up her head again,” sighed Martha. “Isaw herin church last Sunday, in the beautifulest black bonnet, and if ever Isaw any one going to heaven, it’s her. And Mr. Sinclair will have alot of company, and there are all the windows at Dayenant blazing with light till past twelve o’clock every night—my cousin James is a pointsman on the t Southeastern, and sees the house from the line—while he that poor sweet lady is breaking her heart.” a: “But surely Mr. Sinclair would defer to his wife in 4 these things,” suggested Sir Cyprian. : “Not he, sir. For the last twelve months that I was MN with my dear lady I seldom heard him say a kind word to her. Always snarling and sneering. I do a believe he was jealous of that precious innocent because Mrs. Sinclair was so fond of her. I’m sure ifit hadn’t been for that dear baby my mistress would have been a miserable woman.” ; This was a bad hearing, and Sir Cyprian went back to Marchbrook that evening sorely depressed. He had declined to visit Davenant with Lord Clan- yarde, owning frankly that there was no friendly feel- ing between Gilbert Sinclair and himself. Lord Clan- yarde perfectly understood the state of the case, but affected to be supremely ignorant. He was a gentle- man whose philosophy was to take things easy. Not to disturb Camerina, or any other social lake beneath whose tranquil water there might lurk a foul and muddy bottom, was a principle with Lord Clanyarde. But the nobleman, though philosophic and easy-tem- pered, was not without a heart. There wasa strain of humanity inthe Sybarite and worldling, and when, at a great dinner at Davenant, he saw the impress of a broken heart upon the statuesque beauty of his daugh- ter’s face, he was touched with pity and alarm. To sell his daughter to the highest bidder had not seamed to him in anywise a crime; but he would not havo sold her to age or deformity, or toa man of notorious- ly evil life. Gilbert Sinclair had appeared to him a very fair sample of the average young Englishman. Not stainless, perhaps. Lord Clanyarde did not inquire too closely into detaiis. The suitor was good-looking, good-natured, open-handed, and rich. What more could any dowerless young woman require? Z—Thus had Lord Clanyarde reasoned with himself when he hur- ried on his youngest daughter's marriage; and havin secured for her this handsome establishment, he ha yen himeelf no further concern about her destiny. o daughter of the house of Clanyarde had ever ap- eared in the divorce court, Constance was a girl of igh principles, always went to church on saints’ days. mn rages in Lent, and would be sure to go on all right. ut at Davenant, on this particular evening, Lord Clanyarde saw a change in his daughter that chilled his heart. He talked to her, and she answered him absently, with the air of one who only half under- stands. Surely this argued something more than grief for her dead child. He spoke to Gilbert Sinclair, and gave frank utter- ance to his alarm. “Yes, she is very low spirited,’ answered Gilbert, carelessly ; ‘still fretting for the little girl. I thought it would cheer her tohave people about her—prevent her dwelling too much upon that unfortunate event. But I really think she gets worse. It’s rather hard upon me. I didn’t marry to be miserable.” “Haye you had a medical opinion about her?” asked Lord Clanyarde, anxiously. ‘Oh, yes, she has her own doctor. The littleold man who used to attend her at Marchbrook. He knows her constitution, no doubt. He prescribes tonics, and so on, and recommends change of scene by-and-by, when she gets a little stronger; but my own opinion is that if she would only make an effort, and not brood upon the past, she’d soon get round again. Oh, by-the-way, I hear you have Sir Cyprian Davenant staying with you.” “Yes, he has come down to shoot some of my pleas- ants.” ‘I didn’t know you and he were go thick.” “J haye known him ever since he was a boy, and knew his father before him.” “TI wonder, as your estates joined, you did not knock up a match between him and Constance.” “That wouldn’t have been much good, as he couldn’t keep his estate.” “No. It’s a pity that old man in Lincolnshire didn’t take it into his head to die a little sooner.” “T find no fault with destiny for giving me you asa son-in-law, and I hope you are not tired of the posi- tion,” said Lord Clanyarde, with a look that showed Gilbert that ho must pursue his insinuations no fur- ther, Lord Clanyarde went home and told Sir Cyprian what he had seen, and his fears about Constance, He re- proached himself bitterly for his share in bringing about the marriage, being all the more induced to re- gret that act now that change of fortune had made Cyp- rian as good # parti as Gilbert Kinclair. “ How short-#ighted we mortals are!’’ thought the anxious father. ‘I did noteven know that Cyprian had a rich bachelor uncle.” Sir Cyprian heard Lord Clanyarde’s account in grave silence. “What do you mean to do?” he asked. “What can Ido? Poor child, she is alone, and must bear her burden unaided. I cannot come between her and her husband. 1t would take very little to make me quarrel with Sinclair, and then where should we be? Ifshe had a mother living it would be different.” “She has sisters,’ suggested Cyprian. “Yes, women who are absorbed by the care of their own! families, and who would not go very far out of their way to help her. With pragmatical husbands, too, who would make no end of mischief if they were al- lowed to interfere. No; we must not make a family row of the business, «After all, there is no specific und for complaint. She does not comp}ain, poor child. I’ll go to Davenant early to-morrow and see her alone. Perhaps I can persuade her to be frank with “You might see the doctor, and hear his account of her,’’ said Cyprian. “Yes, by-the-way, little Dr. Webb, who attended my girls from theircradles. Anexcellent little man. I'll send for him to-morrow and consult him about my rheumatism. Hemust know a good deal about my poor child.” Lord Clanyarde was with his daughter soon after breakfast next morning. He found herin that pretty old-fashioned room which had been Christabel’s day nursery, and which had a door of communication with Pi Mrs. Sinclair’s dressing-room. It was a curious angle of the house at the end of the north wing, and was over- looked by the oriel-window of Gilbert's study—which, occupied the opposite corner of the wing—study par excellence, but dressing-room and gunnery in fact. Constance received her father with affection, but he could not win her confidence. It might be that she had nothing to confide. She made no complaint againstber husband. : “Why do I find you sitting here alone, Constance, while the house is full of cheerful people?’ asked Lord Clanyarde, “J heard the billiard balls going as I came through the hall, early as it is.’ “Gilbert likes company and I do not,’’ answered Constance, quietly. ‘We each take our own way.” “That does not sound like a happy union, pet,” said her father. Pe you expect me to be happy—with Gilbert Sin- clair?” “Yes, my love, or I-would never have asked you to marry him. No, Constance. Of course it was an under- stood thing with me that you must marry well, as your sisters had done before you; bunt I meant you to marry @ man who would make you happy; andif I find that Sinclair ill-uses you or slights you, egad, he shall have no easy reckoning with me.” ** My dear father, pray be calm. He is very good to me. I have never complained—I never shall complain. Itry to do my duty, for I know that I have done him a wrong for which a life of duty and obedience can hardly atone.” “Wronged him, child? him?’ ; “By marrying him when my heart was given to another.’’ “Nonsense, pet ; a mere school-girl penchant. If that kind of thing were to count, there’s hardly a wife living who has not wronged her hushand. Every romantic girl begins by falling in love with a detrimental; but the memory of that juvenile attachment has no more influence on her married life than the recollection of her favorite doll. You must get such silly notions out of your head. And you should try to be alittle more lively ; join in Sinclair’s amusements. No man likes a gloomy wife. And remember, loye, the past is past— no tears can bring back our losses. If they could, ho would prevent our crying, as somebody judiciously ob- serves.’ Constanoe sighed and was silent, whereupon Lord Clanyarde embraced his daughter tenderly and departed, feeling that he had done his duty. She was much depressed, poor child, but no doubt time would set things right; and as to Sinclair’s ill-treating her, that was out of the question. No man above the work- ing classes ill-uses his wife nowadays. Lord Clanyarde made quite light of his daughter's troubles when he met Sir Cyprian atlunch. Sinclair was a good fellow enough at bottom, he assured Sir Cyprian; a little too fond of pleasure, perhaps, but with no harm in him, and Constance was inclined to make rather too much fuss about the loss of her little girl. Sir Cyprian heard this change of tone in silence, and was not convinced. He contrived tosee Dr. Webb, the Maidstone surgeon, that afternoon. He remembered the good-natured little doctor as his attendant in many a childish ailment, and was not afraid of esking him a question or two. From him he heard a very ac- count of Constance Sinclair. Dr. Webb professed him- self fairly baffled, There was no bodily ai:ment, except want of strength; but there was a settled melancholy, a deep and growing depression for which medicine was of no avail. iy “You'll ask why I don’t propose getting a better opinion than my own,” said Dr. Webb,” “and I'll tell you why. I mightcall in halfthe great men in London and be no wiser that I am now. They would only make Mrs. Sinclair more nervous, and she is very ner- vous already, I am a faithful watch-dog, and at the first indication of danger I shall take measures.” “You don’t apprehend any danger to the mind?” asked Sir Cyprian, anxiously. F “There is no immediate cause for fear. But if this melancholy continues, ifthe nervousness increases, I cannot suewer for the result.” “You have told Mr. Sinclair as much as this?’ “Yes, I have spoken to him very frankly. It would have been difficult to imagine a life more solitary than that which Constance Sinclair contrived to lead in a house full of guests. Forthe first two or three weeks she had bravely tried to sustain her part as hostess; shehad pretended to be amused by the amusements of others, or, when unable to support even that poor simulation, had sat at her embroidery frame and given the grace of her presence to the assembly, But now she was fain to hide herselt all day long in her own rooms,or to walk alone in the fine old park, re- stricting her public appearance to the evening, when she took her place at the head of the dinner table, and endured the frivolities of the drawing-room after dinner. Gilbert secretly resented this withdrawal, and refused to believe that the death.of Baby Christabei was his wife's sole cause of grief. There was something deeper—a sorrow for the past—a regret that was in- tensified by Sir Cyprian’s presence in the neighborhood, “She knows of his being at Marchbrock, of course,” he told himself. ‘How do I know they have not met? She lives her own life, almost as much apart from me as if we Were in separate houses. She has had time and opportunity for seeing him, and in all probability ee is at Marchbrock only for the sake of being near er.’? But Sir Cyprian had been at Marchbrook a week, and had not seen Constance Sinclair. How the place would have reminded him of her, had not her image been al- ways present with him in all times and places! Every grove and meadow had its memory, every change in the fair pastoral landscave its bitter-sweet association. Marchbrook and Davenant were civided in some parts by an eight-foot wall, in others by an oak fence. The How haye you wronged
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WEAVERS AND WEFT. 1t Dayenant side of the land adjoining Marchbrook was copse and wilderness, which served as covert for game. The Marchbrook side, a wide stretch of turf, which Lord Clanyarde let off as grazing land to one of his tenants. A railed-in plantalion here and there sup- ported the fiction that this meadow land was a park, and for his own part Lord Clanyarde declared that he -would just as soon look at oxen as at deer. The one only feature of Marchbrook Park was its avenues. One of these, known as the Monks’ Avenue, and supposed to have been planted in the days when Marchbrook was the site of a Benedictine monastery, was a noble arcade of tall elms planted sixty feet apart, with a grassy road between them. ‘he monastery had long vanished, leaying not a wrack behind, and the avenue now led only from wall to wall. The owners of Dayenant had built a classic temple or summer- bouse close against the boundary wall between the two estates, in order to secure the enjoyment of this vista, as it was called in the days of Horace Walpole. The windows of this summer-house looked down the wide avenue to the high-road, a distance of a little more than a quarter of a mile. This summer-house had always been a favorite resort of Mrs. Sinclair's. It overlooked the home of her outh, and she liked if on that account, for although yenant was by far the more beautiful estate, she loved Marchbrook best. CHAPTER XVI. “GRIEF FILLS THE ROOM UP OF MY ABSENT CHILD.” Sm Cyprian had told himself that, in coming to Marchbrook, nothing was further from his thoughts than the desire to see Constance Sinclair; yet now that he was so near her, now that he was assured of her un- happiness, the yearning for one brief meeting, one look into the sweet eyes, one pressure of the gentle hand that used to lie so trustingly in his own, grew upon him hourly, wntil he felt that he could not leave March- brook without having seen her. No motive, no thought that could have shadowed the purity of Gil- bert Sinclair’s wife, had his soul’s desire been published to the world, blended with this yearning of Sir Cyp- rian's. Deepest pity and compassion moved him. Such sorrow, such loneliness as Constance §inclair’s, were unutterably sacred tv tne man who had loved and sur- rendered Constance Clanyarde. Sir Cyprian lingered at Marchbrook, and spent the greater part of his daysin riding or walking over famil- jar grounds. He was too much out of spirits to join Lord Clanyarde in the slaughter of innocent birds, and was not a little bored by that frivolous old gentleman’s society in the winter evenings by the fire in the com- fortable bachelor smcking-room—the only really snug apartment in that great bare house. Every night Sir Cyprian made up his mind to depart next morning, yet when morning came he still lingered. One bright, bleak day, when there were fiying snow- storms and intervals of sun and blue sky, Sir Cyprian —having actually packed his portmanteau and made ar- rangements for being driyen to the station to catch an afternoon train—took a final ramble in Marchbrook Park. He had not once put his foot on the soil that had been his, but he could get a peep at the old place across the railings. There was a melancholy pleasure in look- ing at those wintry glades, the young fir-trees, the acudding rabbits, the screaming pheasants, the with- ered bracken. The sun had been shining a few minutes ago. Down came the snow in a thick driving shower, almost blind- ing Sir Cyprian ashe walked swiitly along the oak fence. Presently he found himself at the end of the Monks’ Avenue, and under that classic temple which was said to be built upon the very spot where the Bene- dictines once had their chapel. Ten years ago that temple had been Cyprian Daven- ant’s summer retreat. He had made it his smoking- room and study; had read Thucydides and the Greek dramatists there in the long vacation; had read those books of modern travel which had fired his mind with a longing for the adventures, perils, and triumphs of the Atrican explorer. Twenty years ago it had been his mother’s chosen resort. He had spent many a summer morning, many a pensive twilight, there by his moth- er’s side, watching her sketch or hearing her play. Tho old-fashioned square piano was there still, perhaps, and the old engravings on the walls. “Poor old place,” he thought; “I wonder if any one ever goes there now, or if it is quite given up to bats and owls, and the spirits of the dead!” He stopped under the stone balcony which over- hung Marchbrook, on a level with the eight-foot wall. In Gilbert Sinclair’s—or his architect’s—plan of im- provements this classic summer-house, a relic of a departed taste, had been forgotten. SirCyprian was ge to find it unchanged, unchanged in any wise, save atit hada more forlorn and neglected air than of old. The stonework of the balcony was green and gray with mosses and lichens. The frame-work of the window had not been painted for a quarter of a cen- tury. The ivy had wandered as it listed over brick- work and stone, darting sharp-forked tongues of green into the crevices of the decaying mortar. Sir Cyprian looked up at the well-remembered window, full of thoughts of the past. ‘Does she ever come here, J wonder? he said to himself; ‘or do they use the old place for a tool-house or an apple shed ?” Hardly, for there fell upon his ear a few bars of plaintive symphony, played on a piano of ancient tone —the pensive Broadwood dear to his childhood—and then a voice, the pure and sweet contralto he knew too well, began Lord Houghton’s pathetic ballad, - pie yet.” He listens as if he lived but to hear. Oh, what patos, what profound melancholy in that voice, pour- ag outits sweetness to the silent walls! Regret, re- e* morse, sorrow, too great forcommon language to ex- press, are breathed in that flood of melody. And when the song is done the singer’s hands fall on the keys in a crashing chord, and a wild cry—the sudden utterance of uncontrollable despair—goes up to heaven. She is there—so near him—alone in her anguish. She, the only woman he has ever truly loved, the woman for whom he would give his life as freely as he would spill a cup of water upon the ground, and with as little thought of the sacrifice. The lower edge of the balcony is within reach of his hand. The century-old ivy would afford easy footing for aless sxilled athlete. To climb the ascent is as simple as to mount the rigging of his yacht. In a minute, before he had time to think, he was in the balcony, he hed opened the French window, he was standing in the room. Constance Minelair sat by the piano, her arms folded on the shabby old mahogany lid, her drooping head resting on her arma, her face hidden. She was too deoply lost in that agony of hopeless grief to hear the rattling of the frail casement, the footstep on the floor, “Constance |’”’ ‘ She started up and confronted him, pale as ashes, with asmothered scream. ‘My dearest, I heard your grief. I could not keep away. Only for a few minutes, Constance, only for a few words, and I will leave you. Oh, my love, how changed, how changed !”’ A flood of crimson rushed into the pale face, and as quickly faded. Then she gave him her hand, with an innocent frankness that went to his heart, so like the Constance of old—the pure and perfect type of girl- hood that knows not sin. “Ido not mind your hearing me in my sorrow,” she said, sadly. ‘‘Icomehere becauselI feel myself away from all the world, At the house servants come to my room with messages, and worry me. Would I like this? WillI do the other? What carriage will I drive in? At what time? A hundred questions that are so tiresome when one is tired of lite. Here Ican lock my door, and feel as much alone as in a desert.” “But, dear Mrs. Sinclair, itis mot good for you to abandon yourself to such grief.”’ “How canIhelpit? ‘Grief fills the room up of my absent child!’” with a sadsmile. “You heard of my loss, did you not? The darling who made life so bright for me—snatched away in a moment—not one hour’s warning. I woke that morning a proud and happy mother, and at night— No, no one can imagine such a grief as that.” “‘Lhave heard the sad story. But be sure Heaven will send comtort—new hopes ””——~ “Don’t talk to me like that. Oh, if you knew. how I have had Heaven and the Bible thrown at my head— by people who talk by rote! Ican read my Bible. I read of Dayid and his great despair; how he turned his face to the wall, how he wept again for Absalom; and of the Shunamite woman who said, ‘It is well;’ but David had many children, and the Shunamite’s child was given back to her. God will not give my darling back to me.” “He will—in heaven.” “But my heart is breaking for want of her here: She will be an angel before the throne of God—not my Christabel. I want my darling as she was on earth, with her soft clinging arms—not always sgood— naughty sometimes—but always dearer than my life.” What could Sir Cyprian say to comfort this bereaved heart? Hecould only sit down quietly by Constance Sinclair's side, and win her to talk of her sorrow, far more freely and confidingly than she had talked to her father; and this he felt was something gained. There was comfortin this free speech—eomfort in pouring her sorrow into the ear of o friend who could verily sympathize. “ Dear Mrs. Sinclair,’’ said Sir Cyprian, vely, when he had allowed her to tell the story of her bereavement, ‘‘as avery old friend—one who has your welfare deep at heart—I must entreat you to struggle against this absorbing grief. I have seen our old iriend Dr. Webb, and he essuresme that uniess you make an effort to overcome this melancholy, your mind as well as your body will suffer. Yes, Constance, reason itself may give way under the burden you impose upon it. Per- haps no ove else would have the courage to speak to you so plainly, but I venture to speak es a brother might to a fondly loved sister. This may be our last meeting, forI shall go back to Africa ss soon as I can get my party together again. You will try, dear friend, will you not, for my sake, for the sake of your hus- band ”’—— “My husband !” she exelaimed, with a shudder. “He has billiards, and guns, and rece-horwes, and friends without number. hat can it matter to him thet I grieve for my child? Somebody had need be sorry. He does not care.” ‘ “Constance, it would matter very much to your father, to all who have ever loved you, to yourself most of all, if youshould end your life in a lunatic asylum.” bi startled her, and she looked up at him ear- nestly. “Unreasonable grief sometimes leads to madness. Despair is rebellion against God. If the Shunamite in that dark day could say, ‘It shall be well,’ shall a Christian have.less patience—a Christian who has been taught that those who mourn are blessed, and shall be comforted? Yes, Constance, they shall be comfurted. Have faith in that divine promise, and all will be well.” “J will try,” she answered, gently. “It is yery good of you toreason with me. No one else has spoken 80 frankly. They have only talked platitudes, and begged me to divert my mind. As if acted charades. or bill- iards, or bezique, could fill up the gap in my life. Are you really going to Africa very soon ?”’ | “Early in the new year, perhaps ; but I shall not go till I have heard from some reliable source that you are happy.”’ : } oyu must not wait for that. I shall never know happiness again in this world. At mostI can but try to bear my lot patiently and put on cheerful: looks... I shall try to do that, believe me. Your lesson shall not be wasted. And now I suppose we must say good-by,”’ looking at her watch ; “it is time for me to go back to the house.” “Twill not detain you; but before I go I must apolo- ze for my burglarious entrance by that window. I ope I did not frighten you ?” : “Twas only startled. It seemed almost a natural thing to see you here. Iremember how fond you were of this summer-house when I was a child. I have so often seen you sitting in that window smoking and reading.” “Yes, I have speut many an hour here puzzling over the choruses in Prometheus, and 1 have looked up from my book to see you scamper by on your pony.” * Pepper, the gray one,”’ cried Constance, absolutely smiling ; “such adear pony! We used to teed him with bread and apples every morning. Ah what happy days those were !”’ It touched him to the core of his heart to see the old girlish look come back in all its brightness, But it was only atransient gleam of the old light, which left a deeper sadness when it faded. *Good-by, Constance,” he said, taking both her hands, “JT may call you that for the last time. ; “Yes, and when you are in Africa—in another world, far from all the false pretenses and sham pleasures that make up lite in this—think of me as Constance, the Constance you knew in the days that are gone—not as Gilbert Sinclair's wife.”’ He bent his head over the unresisting hands and kissed them. “God bless you and comfort you, my Constance, and give you as much happiness as I lost when I made up my mind to live without you!” He opened the window, and swung himself lightly down from the balcony to the turf below. CHAPTER XVII. A BALCONY SCENE. i GILBERT Sincuare and his chosen set—the haif dozen turfy gentlemen with whom he was united by the closest bond of sympathy—had spent this December morning agreeably enough at arustic steeple-chase nino miles from Davenant. The race was an event of the most significant order—unchronicled in Ruft—but there was pleasure in the drive to and fro on Mr. Sin- clair’s drag through the keen frosty air, with an occa- sional diversion in the shape of a flying snow-storm, which whitened the men’s rough overcoats, and hung on their beards and whiskers. Just at the hour in which Sir Cyprian and Constance were bidding each other a long good-by, Mr. Sinclair was driving his sorrel team back tc Dayenant at a slashing pace. He and his friends had enjoyed them- selves very thoroughly at the homely fermers’ meeting. The sharp north wind had given a keen edge to some- what jaded appetites, and game pie, anchovy sand- wiches, cold prouse, and boar’s head had been duly appreciated, with an ad libitum accom‘paniment of dry Champagne, bitter beer, and Copenhagen Kirschen Wasser. The gentlemen’s spirits had been improved by the morning’s sport, and the homeward drive was hilarious. It was now between three and four o’clock. There would be time for a quiet smoke, ora gameat pyramids, and a fresh toilet before afternoon tea, opined such the gentlemen as still held by that almost explo superstition, a taste for ladies’ society. The more culine spirits preferred to smoke their Trabucas or fantas by the harness-room fire, with the chance of ting the “straight tip ’’ out of,somebody else’s gro James Wyatt was the only member of the p whose spirits were not somewhat unduly elated, then Mr. Wyatt was an outsider, only admitted on s ferance into that chosen band, as a fellow who might bi useful] on an emergency, and whom it was well to “square ’’ by an occasional burst of civility. He was one of those dangerous men who are always sober, and find out every body else’s weak points without ever re- vealing his own. He was Sinclair’s ame damnee, how- ever, and one must put up with him. : Gilbert was driving, with Sir Thomas Houndslow, a gentleman ofturf celebrity, and late captain of a cay- alry regiment, next him, smoking furiously, while Mr. Wyatt sat behind the two, and joined freely in their conversation, which inclined to the boisterous. calm that smooth, level voice of his sounded after the strident tones of his companions, thickened ever slightly by Champagne and Kirschen Wasser ! "ey The chief talk was of horses—the sorrels Gilbert was now driving—the horses they had seen that morhing— with an inexhaustible series of anecdotes about horses that hac been bought and sold, and bred, and ex- changed, including the story of a rheumatic horse, which was a splendid goer in his intervals of good health, and was periodically sold by his owner, and taken back again at half-price when the fit came on. James Wyatt admired the landscape, an enthusiasm which his companions looked down upon contemptu- ously from the serene height of a stolid indifference to art and nature. : “There's a glade,” cried the solicitor, pointing to an opening in the undulating woodland, where the snow- wreathed trees are like a picture of tairy-land. “Pretty tidy timber,”’ assented Sir Thomas Hounds- low ; “but formy part Icould never see anything in trees to go into raptures about, except when you’ve sold ’em to a timber merchant. Shouldn’t like to see creamation come into fashion, by-the-by. It would spoil the coffin trade and depreciate the value of my elms and oaks,” As they approached Marchbrook Mr. Wyatt began tc How — « 4 1 Acs @
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18 WEAVERS AND WEFT. $$ ————— March- in time for my train. I should havo hac to walk the whole width of Davenant Perk and about «ile of high-road if I had left by the summer-hoi7s door,” “And you think ita geutleman-like thing so be in my neighborhood for a fortnight, to avoidmy house, and to meet my wife clandestinely in a lonely corner of my park?” «“ There was no clandestine meeting. You insult your wife by such a supposition, and prove—if proof were needed of so obvious a fact—your unworthiness of such a wife. My visit to the summer-house was purely ac- cidental. I heard Mrs. Sinclair singing—heard the bitter cry which grief—a mother’s sacred grief—wrung from her in her solitude, and followed theimpulse of the moment, which prompted me to consolea lady whom I knew and lcved when she was a child.” ‘« And afterward, when she had ceased to be a child— afew months before she became my wife. Your attach- ment was pretty well known to the world in general, I believe. It was only I who was left in ignorance.” “You might easily have known what the world knew —all there was to be known—simply nothing.” “You deny that you have done me any wrong ? that I have any right to ask you to fight me ?’ “Most emphatically, and I most distinctly refuse to make a quarrel on any ground connected with your wife. But you will not find me slow to resent an insult should you be so ill-advised as to provoke me. As the friend of Constance ClanyardeI shall be very ready to take up the cudgels for Constance Sinclair, even against her hus- band. Remember this, Mr. Sinclair, and remember that any wrong done to Lord Clanyarde’s daughter will be a wrong that I shall revenge with all the power God has given me. She is not left solely to her husband's ten- der mercies.” Even the dull red hue faded from Gilbert Sinclair’s cheeks as he confronted the indignant speaker, and left him livid to the very lips. There was a dampness on his forehead, too, when he brushed his large strong hand across it. “Ts the man @ craven ?”” aur Sir Cyprian, re- marking these signs of agitation and fear. “ Well,” said Sinclair, drawing a long breath, “ I sup- pose there is no more to be said. You both tell the same ane d seg innocent meeting, not preconcerted— mere accident. Yes, youhave the best of me this time. The unlucky husband generally has the worst of it. There’s no dishonor in lying to him. He’s out of court, poor beggar.” “Mr. Sinclair, do you want me to throw you out of that window ?” “JT shouldn’t much care if you did.” There wasa@ sullen misery in the answer and in the very look of the man as he sat there beside his enemy’s hearth in the attitude of dull apathy, only looking u at intervals from his vacant stare at the fire, whic touched Cyprian Dayenant with absolute pity. Here was aman to whom Fate had given vast capabilities of
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WEAVERS AND WEFT. happiness, and who had wantonly thrown away all that js fairest and best in life. A “Mr, Sinclair, upon my honor I am sorry for you,” he said, gravely. ‘‘ Sorry for your incapacity to be- lieve in a noble and pure-minded wife ; sorry that you should poison your own life and your wite’s by doubts that would never enter your mind if you had the power to understand her. Go home, and let your wife never know the wrong you have done her.” “*My wife! What wife? I have no wife,’” said Sinclair, with a strange smile, rising, and going to the door. ‘‘That’s what some fellow says in a play, I think. Good-night, Sir Cyprian Dayenant, and when next we meet I hope it may be on a better-defined foot- ing.” Hie left the room without another word. Before Sir Oyprian’s bell had summoned the smooth-faced valet, the street door shut with a bang, and Gilbert Sinclair was gone. Sir Cyprian heard the doors of the hansom clapped to, and the smack of the weary driver’s whip, as the wheels rolled up the silent street. “What did he mean by that speech about his wife?” wondered Sir Cyprian. ‘“‘ The man looked like a mur- derer!”’ He did not know that at this moment Gilbert Sinclair was half afraid that brutal blow of his might have been fatal. CHAPTER XIX. MRS. WALSINGHAM BREAKS FAITH. CrristMas, which, in a common way, brings life and bustle, and the gathering of many guests to good old country-houses, brought only gloom and solitude to Davyenant. Mr. Sinclair's visitors. had departed sud- denly, at a single flight, like swallows before a storm in autumn. Mrs. Sinclair was very ill—seriously ill— mysteriously ill. Her dearest friends shook their heads and looked awful things when they talked of her,, It was mental, they feared. “Poor dear thing! This comes of Lord Clanyarde’s greediness in getting rich husbands for all his daugh- ters.” “The old manis @ regular harpy,” exclaimed Mrs. Millamount, with a charming indifference to detail. And then these fashionable swallows skimmed away to fresh woods and pastures new—or rather fresh billiard-vooms and other afternoon’ teas, evening part: songs, and morning rides in rustic English lanes, where there is beauty and fragrance even in midwinter, Constance had been missing at afternoon tea on. the day of Gilbert’s sudden journey to London, but her absence in the cozy morning-room, where Mrs. Milla- mount amused the circle by the daring eccentricity of her discourse, was hardly a subject of wonder. “She has one of her nervous headaches, no doubt, poor child,” said Mrs. Millamount, taking possession of the tea-tray; ‘she is just the kind of woman to have nervous headaches.”’ “Tl give long odds you don’t have them,’’ said Sir Thomas Houndslow, who was lolling with his back against the mantle-piece to the endangerment of the porcelain that adorned it, “Never had headache but once in my life, and that was when I cameacropper in the Quorn country,” re- plied Mrs. Millamount, graciously. Vapors have given way to feminine athletics, and there is nothing now so dowdy or unfashionable as bad health. “ When. the dressing-bell rang and Mrs, Sinclair was atill absent, Melanie Duport began to think there was some cause foralarm. Her mistress was punctual and orderly in all her habits. She had gone to walk in.the park immediately after luncheon, quiee three hours ago. She had no idea of going beyond the park, Melanie knew, as she only wore her seal-skin jacket and a gar- den hat. She might have gone to Marchbrook, per- haps, in this bardiod attire, but not anywhere else ; pre her visits to Marchbrook were very rare. Melanie was puzzled. She went down stairs and sent &@ couple of grooms in quest of her mistress. The gardeners had all gone home at five o'clock. “You had better look in the summer-house by the fir plantation,” said Melanie; “I know Mrs. Sinclair spends a deal of her time there.” The young men took the hint, and went straight o to the summer-house together, too social to take differ- ent directions, as Melanie had told them todo. They had plenty to talk about—the way their master was going it, the bad luck which had attended his racing stable lately, an‘ so on. “T think there’s a curse on them buildings at New- market,’ said one of the men. ‘We hayen’t pulled off 80 much as a beggarly plate since they was finished.” “ There’s a curse on buying half-bred colts,” retorted the older and wiser servant. ‘ That’s where the curse is, Rogers—mistaken economy.” The classic temple was wrapped in darkness, and Rogers, who entered first, stumbled over the prostrate form of his mistress. She lay just as she had fallen at her husband's feet, felled by his savage blow. The elder man got a light out of ‘his fusee box, and then they lifted the senseless figure into a chair, and looked at the white face on which there were ghastly Streaks of blood. Mrs. Sinclair groaned faintly as they raised her from the ground, and this was a welcome sound, for they had almost thought her dead. There were some flowers ina vase on the table, and the elder groom dipped a handkerchief in the water and dabbed it on Mrs. Sinclair’s forehead. “Iwish I’d got a drop of spirit in my pocket,’ he said; “a sup of brandy might bring her round, per- haps. Look about if you can see anything in that way, ” Rogers.” Hogers looked, but alcohol being an unknown want to . Sinclair, there was no convenient bottle to be found in the summer-house. She murmured some- thing inarticulate, and the locked lips loosened and bled faintly as the groom bathed her fore- “ Poor thing, she must have had afit,” said the elder man. ** Apocalyptic, perhaps,’’ suggested Rogers. . “We'd better carry her back to the house between us. She’s only a feather-weight, poor little thing.” » So the two grooms conveyed Mrs. Sinclair gently and carefully back to Davenant, and contrived to carry her up to her room by the servants’ staircase without letting all the whole house into the secret. “Tf it was a fit, she won’t like it talked about,” said the head groom to the housekeeper, as he refreshed himself with a glass ot Glenlivet after his exertions. ‘* Master's gone up to London too,’’ said the house- keeper; “that make’s it awkward, don’tit? I should think somebody ought to telegraph.” Melanie Duport took charge of her mistress with a self-possession that would have done credit to'an older woman. She sent off at once for Doctor Webb, who came post- haste to his most important patient. a The doctor found his patient weak and low, and her mind wandering alittle. He was much puzzled about the contusion on thé fair forehead, but Constance could give him no explanation. “I think I fell,”she said. ‘It was kind of him ‘to come to me, wasn’t it, for the love of old.times ?’” “Tt must have been a very awkward: fall,’’'said. Dr; Webb to Melanie. ‘t Where did it happen?” Melanie explained bow her mistress had been found in the summer-house. : “She must have fallen against some piece of furni- ture, something wich a blunt edge. Jt was an awful blow. ‘She is very low, poor thing. The system has received a severe shock.’ : And then Dr. Webb enjoined ‘the greatest care, and questioned Melanie as to her qualifications for the post of nurse.. Mrs, Sinclair wasnot to be left all night, and someone else must be got to-morrow to relieve Melanie. It was altogether a serious case. Gilbert Sinclair returned next morning, haggard and gloomy, looking like aman who had spent bis night at the gaming table with fortune steadily adverse to him. He met Dr. Webb in the hall, and was told that his wife Was seriously il). “Not in danger?’ he asked, eagerly. “Not in immediate danger.” ‘ “T thank God for that.” It seemed a small thing to be thankful for, since the surgeon’s tone’ was not very hopeful, but Gilbert Sinclair had been weighed down by the apprehension of something worse than this. He found James Wyatt alone in the billiard-room, and learned from him that his guests were already on the wing. Three days later and My. Wyatt-had also left Dav- enant, but not for good. He had promised to run down again in a week or so, and to cheer his dear friend. who, although always treating him more or less de haut en bas, allowed him to see pretty plainly that he was indis- pensable to his patron’scontentment. And your mod- ern Umbra will put up with a good deal of snubbing when he knows his patron, is under his thumb. Unfashionable as was the season, Mrs. Walsingham was stillin town. She hadno rustic retreat of her own, and she was not in that charmed circle, patrician or millionaire, which rejoicesin country-houses, Futher- more, she abhorred the beauties of nature, and regarded winter residence in the country as an exile bleaker than Ovid’s banishment to chill and savage Tomis. If sho had been rich enough to have indulged her caprices, she would have generally begun the year in Paris; but she had an income which just enabled her to live ele- gantly without any indulgence of caprices. This win- ter, too, she had peculiar reasons for staying in town, over and above all other motives. She stayed in thesnug little house in Half-Moon Street, therefore, and was ‘at home” on Saturday evening just as if the season had been atits flood. The society with which she filled her miniature drawing-room was literary, musical, artistic, dramsatic—just the most delightful society imaginable, with the faintest soupcon of Bohemianism. She had chosen Saturday evening because journalists who were free on no other night could dropin, and Mrs. W ham adored journalists. On this particular Saturday, three days after the acene in the summer house, James Wyatt had made his appearance in the Half-Moon Street drawing-room just when most people were going away. He contrived to outstay them all, though Mrs. Walsingham’s manner was not go cordial as to invite him to linger. She yawned audibly behind the edge of her large black fan when Mr. Wyatt took up his stand in front of the chim- ney-piece with the air of # man who is going to be a fixture for the next hour, “Have you heard the news?” he asked, after a brief allonce. “From Davenant? courant.”’ “A sharp little thing, that Duport.”’ “e Very.” Silence again, during which Mrs. Walsingham surveys her violet velvet gown and admires the Venice point flounce which relieves its somber hue, ‘«Clara,”’ said James Wyatt, with a suddenness that startled the lady into looking up at him, “TI think I have performed my part of our bargain. When are you going to perform yours %’ 4 “T don’t quite understand you. “Oh yes, you do, Mrs. Walsingham. There are some things that will hardly bear to be discussed even be- tween conspirators. I am not going to enter into details. WhenI found you in this room three years ago, on Gilbert Sinclair’s wedding day, you had but one thought, one desire—your whole being was athirst for reyenge. You are revenged, and I have been the chief instrument in the realization of your wish. A wicked wish on your part; doubly wicked on mine, with less passion and weaker hatred, to be your aider and abettor. Sot. Iam content to bear the burden of my Yes, I ant kept pretty well au SSS uilt, but not to be cheated of my reward. WhatI ve done I have:done for your sake—to win your ove.’ “To buy me,’’ she said, “as slaves are bought, withse price. That's what you mean. You don’t suppose E shall love you for working Gilbert Sinclair's ruin ?’’ “ You wanted to see him ruined.’’ “Yes, when I was mad with rage and grief. Did you think you were talking to asane woman that evening after Gilbert’s marriage? You were talking to a woman whose brain had been on. fire with despair and j usy ere the long hours of that agonizing day. What should I long for but revenge, then ?’’ “Well, you have had your heart’s desire, andit seems to me tliat your conduct since that day has been pretty consistent with the sentiments you gave expression to then. Do you mean to tell me that you are going to throw me over now—that you are going to repudiate the promise you made me—a promise on which I have counted with unflinching faith in your honor?” “In my honor?” cried Mrs. Walsingham, with @ bitter sneer, all the more bitter because it was pointed against herself. ‘In the honor of a woman who could act as Lhave acted |’’ day “T forgive anything to passion; but to betray me would be deliberate cruelty.” : “Would it?” she asked, smiling at him, “I think it would be more cruel to keep my word and make your life miserable,”’ “You shall make me as. miserable as you please, if you will only haye me,” urged Wyatt. ‘Come, Clara, I have béen your slave forthe last three years. Ihave sacrificed sentiments, which most men hold sacred to serye or to please you. It would be unparalleled base- ness to break your promise.” “My promise was wrung from me, in amoment of blind ion,” cried Mrs. Walsingham. “If the Prince of Darkness had asked me to seal a covenant with him: that day;I should. have consented as freely as I con- sented to.your kargain.” “The comparison is flattering to me,” replied Ma, Wyatt, looking. at her darkly from under bent hrews. There is a stage at which outraged love turns to keen- est hate, and James Wyatt’s feelings were fast approach- ing thatstage. ‘“Inone word,do you mean to keep faith with. me? Yes, or no?” : “No,” answered Mrs, Walsingham, with a steady look that meant defiance. ‘‘No, and again no. ‘Tell the world what you have done, and how TI have cheated ou.’ Publish your wrongs if you dare.” Ihave never: oved but one man in my life, and his name is Gilbert Sinclair. And now good-night, Mr. Wyatt, or, rather, ood-morning, for itis Sunday, and I don’t want to be © ate for church,” , CHAPTER XX. Dr. HOLLENDORF, Twe new year began with much ringing of parish — bells, some genuine jovialty in cottages and servants’ halls, and various conventional rejoicings in polite so- ciety, but silence and solitude still reigned at Davenant. Lhe chief room--saloon and dining-room, library and | imusic-room—were abandoned altogether by the gloomy ~ master of the house. They might as well have put om _ their holland pinatores and shut their shutters, as in. | absence ofthe family, for nobody used them. Gilbert. Sinclair lived in his snuggery at the endof the long gal- lery, ate and drank there, read his newspapers and. wrote his letters, smoked and dozed in the dull winter evenings. He rode a good deal in all kinds of weather,. going far a-field, no one knew where, and coming home at dusk splashed to the neck, and with his horse in a. ee peculiarly aggravating to grooms and stable- ys. ‘Them there ’osses will ’ave mud fever before long,’”” seid the hirelings, dejectedly.. ‘‘There’s that blessed — chestnut he setsuch store by a month ago with ‘ardly a leg to stand on for wind-galls, and the roan filly’s over at knees a’ready.”’ “He” meant Mr. Sinclair, who was riding his finest horseswith a prodigal recklessness. Constance Sinclair lived to see the new year, though she did not know why the chureh bells rang out on t quiet of midnight. She started up from her pillow with a frightened look when she heard that joy peal, crying that those were her wedding bells, and that she must get ready for church. “To please you, papa,” she said. papa. Pity my broken heart.” There had been days and nights, at the end of the ol@ year, when Dr. Webb trembled for the sweet young life which he had watched almost from its beginning. A great physician had come down from London eyery day, and had | Fe) away with a fee proportionate to ‘his reputation, after diagnosing the disease in a most won- derful manner; but it was the little country apothecary who saved Constance Sinclair’s life. His watchfulness, his devotion, had kept the common enemy at bay. The life-current, which had ebbed very low, flowed gradually back, and after lying for ten days in an utterly prostrate and apathetic state, the patient was now strong enough to rise and be dressed, and lie on the sofa in her pretty morning-room, » while Melanie, or honest Martha Brides: who had come back to nurse her old mistress, read to her, to divert her mind, the doctor said; but, alas! as yet the mind seemed incapable of being awakened to interest in the things of this mortal life. When Constance spoke, it: was of the past—of her childhood or girlhood, of people. and scenes familiar to herin that happy time. Of her husband she never spoke, and his rare visits to her room had a disturbing influence. So much so that Dr. Webb. suggested that for the present Mr. Sinclair should refrain from seeing his wife. “ I can feel for you, my dear Sir,” he said, sympathet- ically. “I quite understand your anxiety, but you may trust me and the nurses, You will haye all intel- ey “For your sake,
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rs “ee ;4. 20» ligence of progress. The mind at present is somewhat “Do yon think it will be always so?” asked Sinclair. «‘ Will she never recover her senses ?” © ‘My dear sir, there is everyting to hope. She is so young, and the disease is altogether mysterious, whether the effect of the blow—that unlucky fall—or whether simply a development of the brooding melancholy which we had to fight before the accident, it is impos- sible to say. We are quite in the dark. Perfect seclusion and tranquillity may do much.” Lord Clanyarde came to see his daughter nearly every day. He had come back to Marchbrook from far more agreeible scenes on purpose to be near her. But his presence seemed to give Constance no pleasure. There were days on which she looked at him with a wandering that went to his heart, ora blank and stony look fat appalled him by its awful likeness to death. There were other days when she knew him. On those days her talk was all of the past, and it was clear that mem- ory had taken the place of intelligence. Lord Clanyarde felt all the pangs of remorse as he contemplated this spectacle of a broken heart, a mind wrecked by sorrow. “YetIcan hardly blame myself for her sad state, poor child,” he argued. “She was happy enough, bright enough, before she lost her baby.” he new year was a week old, and since that first rally there had been no change for the better in Constance Sinclair’s condition; and now there came a decided change for the worse. Strength dwindled, a dull apathy took possession of the patient, and even memory seemed & blank. Dr. Webb was in despair, and fairly owned his help- Jessaness. The London physician came and went, and took his fee, and went on diagnosing with profoundest acience, and tried the last resources of the pharmaco- poia, with an evident conviction that he could minis- ter toa mind diseased; but nothing came of his science, save that the patient grew daily weaker, asif fate and physic weretoo much for one feeble sufferer to cope ‘withal. Gibert Sinclair was told that unless a change came very speedily his wife must die. “Tf we could rouse her from this apathetic state,” said the physician; “any shock—any surprise—es- ecially of a pleasurable kind—that would act on the orpid brain might do wonders even yet; but all our attempts to interest her have so far been useless.” Lord Clanyarde was present when this opinion was ronounced. He went home full of thought, more deep- y concerned for his daughter than he had ever been LA yet for any mortal except himself. “ Poor little Connie !”” he thought, remembering her jn her white frock and blue sash; “she was always my fayorite—the prettiest, the gentlest, the most high-bred of all my girls, but I didn’t know she had such a hold upon my heart.” At Marchbrook Lord Clanyarde found an unexpected visitor waiting for hig—a visiter whom he received -with a very cordial greeting. Soon after dusk on the following evening Lord Clan- yarde returned to Davenant, but not alone. He took with him an elderly gentleman, with white hair, worn rather long, and a white beard—a person of almost patriarchal appearance, but somewhat disfigured by a pair of smoke-colored spectacles of the kind that are vulgarly known as ‘ gig lamps.” The stranger’s clothes were of the shabbiest, yet even in their decay looked the garments of a gentle- man. He wore ancient shepherd's plaid trowsers, and a bottle-green overcoat of exploded cut. Gilbert Sinclair was in the hall when Lord Clanyarde and his companion arrived. Mr. Wyatt had just come down from London, and the two men were smoking their cigars by the great hall fire, the noble old cavern- ous hearth which had succeeded the moro mediayal fashion of a fire in the center of the hall. “My dear Sinclair,’ began Lord Clanyarde, with a somewhat hurried and nervous air, which might be forgiven in aman whose fayorite daughter languished between life and death, “Ihave ventured to bring an old friend of mine, Dr. Hollendorf, a gentleman who has a great practice in Borlin, and who has had vast ex- rience in the treatment of mental disorders. Dr. ollendorf, Mr. Sinclair. I beg your pardon, Wyatt, how do ye do?’ interjected Lord Clanyarde, offering the solicitora couple of fingers, ‘‘Now, Gilbert, Ishould much like Dr, Hollendori to see my poor Constance. It may do no good, but it can do no harm ; and if you have no. objection, with Dr. Webb’s concurrence, of course, I should Jike ’”—— * Webb isin the house,” answered Gilbert. can ask him for yourself. I hayeno objection.” This. was said with a weary air, as if the speaker had ceased to take any interest in life. Gilbert hardly looked at the German, or Anglo-German, doctor, but James Wyatt, who was of amore observant turn, scrutinized him attentively. “Here is Webb,” said Gilbert, as the little doctor ’ “You _¢ame tripping down the great staircase, with the light- ome activity of his profession, rubbing his hands as ; Y ax came, Lord Clanyarde presented Dr. Hollendorf to the rural _ ‘practitioner, and stated his wish, Dr. Webb had no objection to offer. Any wish of a father’s must be sacred. “You will come up and see her at once ?”’ he said, in- E _terrogatively. * At once,’’ answered the stranger, with a slightly , guttural accent. The three men went up the staircase, Gilbert remain- ing behind. “ Aren’t you going ? asked Wyatt. “No; my presence generally disturbs her. Why should Igo? I’m not wanted.” “T should goifi were you. How do you know what WEAVERS AND WEFT. this man is? Animpudent quack, in all probability. You ought to be present.” “Do you think so?” “« Decidedly.” “Then I'll go.” “Watch your wife when that man is talking to her,” said Wyatt, in a lower tone, as Gilbert moved away. ‘ “What do you mean?” asked the other, turning sharply round. “What Isay. Watch your wife.” Mrs. Sinclair’s morning-room was a spacious, old- fashioned apartment, with three long windows, one opening into a wide balcony, from which an iron stair led down'to a garden, small and secluded, laid out in the Dutch style—a garden which had been always sacred to the mistress of Davenant. There were heavy oak shutters, and a complicated arrangement of bolts and bars to the three windows, but as these shutters were rarely closed, the stair and the balcony might be considered as a convenience specially provided for the benefit of burglars. No burglars, had however, yet been heard of at Davenant. There was a piano in the room. There were well-filled book-cases, pictures, quaint old china—all things that make life pleasant to the mind. that is at ease, and which may be supposed to offer some consolation to the care-burdened spirit. The fire blazed merrily, and on a sofain front of it Constance reclined, dressed in a loose white cashmere gown, hardly whiter than the wasted oval face, from which the dark brown hair was drawn back by a band of blue ribbon, just asit had been ten years ago, whem Constance was “little Con- nie,” flitting about the lawn at Marchbrook like a white and blue butterfly. “My pet,” said Lord Clarnyarde, in a pleading tone, “T have brought s new doctor to see you, a gentleman who may be able to understand your case even better than our friend Webb.” “No one ever knew her constitution as well as I do,” commented Dr. Webb, sotto woce. Constance raised her heavy eyelids and looked at her father with a languid wonder, as if the figures standing by her couch were far away, and she saw them faintly in the distance, without knowing what they were. The new doctor did not go through the usual formula of pulse and tongue, nor did he ask the old-established questions, but he seated himself quietly by Constance Sinclair's sofa and began to talk to her in a low voice, while Dr. Webb and Lord Clanyarde withdrew to the other end of the room, where Gilbert was standing by a table, absently turning over the leaves of a book. “You have had a great sorrow, my dear lady,” said the German doctor, in that low and confidential tone which sometimes finds its way to the clouded brain when louder and clearer accents convey no meaning. “ You have had a great sorrow, and have given way to grief as if there were no comfort either in earth or in heaven.” Constance listened with lowered eyelids, but a look of attention came into her face presently, which the doc- tor perceived. ‘ Dear lady, there is always comfort in heaven ; there is sometimes consolation on earth. Why can you not hope for some sudden, unlooked for happiness, some great joy, such as God has sometimes given to mourn- ers like you? Your child was drowned, you think. What if you were deceiyed when you believed in her death? Whatif she was sayed from the river? I do not say thatitisso, but you cannot becertain. Who can know for a certainty that the little ono was really Growned ?”’ , The eyes were wide open now, staring at him wildly. “What's the old fellow about so long?” asked Gil- bert, impatiently. “He's talking to her about her child,’ replied Lord Clanyarde. ‘‘He wants to make hercry if he can. He’s a great psychologist.” “Does that mean a great humbug?” asked Gilbert. “Tt sounds like it.” “Hope and comfort are coming to you, dear Mrs. Sin- clair,” said the German doctor ; ‘‘be sure of that.’ Again Constance looked at him curiously ; but at sight of the smoke-colored spectacles and tho sallow old face, half covered with white hair, turned away her eyes with asigh. If she could have seen eyes that looked honestly into hers, it might have given force to that promise of comfort, but this blind oracle was too mysterious. She gaye along sigh, and kept silence, The doctor looked at the open piano on the other side of the fire-place, and remainedin thoughtful silence for a few moments. “Does your mistress sing sometimes?’ he asked Martha Briggs, who sat on guard by the sofa. “No, sir, not since she’s been so ill; but she plays sometimes, by snatches, beautiful. It would go to your heart to hear her.’’ “Will you sing to me,” asked ths doctor, “if you are strong enough to go to the piano? Pray try to sing.’ Constance looked at him with the same puzzled gaze, and then tried to rise. Martha supported her on one side, the doctor on the other, as she feebly tottered to the piano. ai “Tl sing if you like,” she said, in a careless tone that told how far the mind was from consciousness of the present. ‘ Papa likes to hear me sing.” She seated herself at the piano, and her fingers wan- dered slowly over the keys, and wandered on in a dreamy prelude that had little meaning. The German doctor listened patiently for afew minutes to this tangle of arpeggios, and then, bending over the piano, played the few notes of a familiar symphony. : Constance gave a faint cry of surprise, and struck a ckord, the chord that closed the symphony, and began, ‘Strangers yet,” in a pathetic voice that had a strange hysterical power in curious contrast with the feebleness of the singer. She #ang on till she came to the words ‘child and _—. parent.’’ These touched a sensitive chord, and she rose suddenly from the piano and burst into tears. “That may do good,” said Dr. Webb, approvingly. “« My friend is no fool.’’ replied Lord Clanyarde. “Take your mistress to her room,’’ said Gilbert to Martha, with an angry look. ‘This is only playing upon her nerves. I wonder you can allow such folly, Lord Clanyarde.’”’ “Your own doctors have agreed that some shock was necessary, tomething to awaken her from apathy. Poor pet! those tears are a relief,”’ answered the father. He went to his daughter and assistedin arranging the pillows as she lay down on the sofa. Martha calmly ignored her master’s order. The German doctor bent over Mrs. Sinclair for » mo- ment, and whispered the one word “Hope,” and then retired with the three other gentlemen. “Would you like to prescribe anything ?”’ asked Dr. Ke taking the stranger into a little room off the ‘No; itis acasein which drugs are useless. Hope is the only remedy for Mrs. Sinclair’s disease. Shemust be beguiled with hope, even ifit be delusive.” = - “What?” cried Dr. Webb; “ would you trifle with her feelings, play upon the weakness of her mind, and let her awaken by-and-by to find herself deluded ?” “TI would do anything to snatch her from the jaws of death,” answered the German doctor, unhesitatingly. “Tf hope is not held out tohershe will die. You see her fading day by day. Do you think there is any eae in your medicines that will bring her back to 2” “I fear not, sir,’’ answered Dr. Webb, despondently. “Then you or those who love her must find some more potent influence. She is heart-broken for the loss of her child. She must be taught to think that her child is still living.’ “But when her mind grows stronger it would be a pn heavier blow to discover that she had been de- ceived.” “She would be better able to bear the blow whem health and strength had returned, and she might have formed an attachment in the meantime which would console her in the hour of disillusion.”’ ‘IT don’t understand,” faltered Dr. Webb. “T’ll make myself clearer. A child must be brought to Mrs, Sinclair, a little girl of about the age of her own baby, and she must be persuaded to believe, now while pee brain is clouded, that her own child is given back to her.”’ ‘A cruel deception,” cried Dr. Webb. “No; only a desperate remedy. Which are ner friends to do—deceive her or let her die? In her pres- ent condition of mind she will ask no questions: she will not speculate upon probabilities. She will take the child to her breast as a gift from heayen. A mind distraught is always ready to believe in the marvelous, to imagine itself the object of supernatural intervention.” Dr. Webb looked thoughtful and half convinced. This German physician, who spoke very good English, seemed to have studied his subject deeply. Dr. Webb was no psychologist, but he had seen in the mentally afflicted that very love of the marvelous which Dr. Hollendorf spoke about. And what hope had he of saving his patient? Alas!none. It would bea cruel thing to put a spurious child in her erms, to trifle with a mother’s sacred feelings; but if life and reason could be saved by this means and no other, surely the fraud would bea pious one. “Mr, Sinclair would never consent,” said Dr. Webb. “Mr. Sinclair must be made to consent, I have al- ready suggested this step to Lord Clanyarde, and he approves the idea. He must bring his influence to bear upon Mr. Sinclair, who appears an indifferent husband, and not warmly interested in his wife’s fate.” “There you wrong him,” cried the faithful Webb. “His manner does not do him justice. The poor man has been in a most miserable condition ever since Mrs. Sinclair's illness assumedan alarming aspect. Will you make this ce eat to him—propose our introducing a strange child ?”’ “J would rather the proposal should come from Lord Clanyarde,” answered the strange doctor, looking at his watch. “I must get back to London by the next train. Ishali tell Lord Clanyarde my opinion as he drives me tothe station. I think I have made my ideas sufficient- ly clear to you, Dr. Webb?” “Quite so, quite so,” cried the little man, whose mother was an Aberdeen woman. “It is a most extra- ordinary thing, Dr. Hollendorf, that although I have never had the honor of meeting you before, your voice is very familiar to me.” “My dear sir, do you suppose that Nature can give a distinctive voice to every unit in an over-crowded world? You might hear my voice in the Fejees to- poet There would be nothing extraordinary in at.” “Ofcourse, ofcourse. An accidental rese 4 assented Dr. Webb. ones The German would take no fee ; he had come as Lord Clanyarde’s friend, and he drove away in Lord pent oney & brougham without any further loss of ime. Gilbert Sinclair and his friend devoted the rest of the eyening to billiards, with frequent refreshment on Gilbert’s part in the way of brandy and soda. “ You talked the other day about finding a purchaser for this confounded old barrack,’ said Mr. Sinclair, “I hate the place more every day, and itis costing me no end of money for repairs—never saw such a rickety old hole, always some wall tumbling down or drain pething choked up—to say nothin of keeping up a large stable here as well as at Newmarket.” “Why not give up Newmarket?” suggested Mr. Wyatt, with his common-sense air. “Y’m Bot such a fool. Newmarket gives me some plessure, end this place gives me none.” “You must keep up a home for Mra. Sinclair. and a A
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London house would hardly be suitable in her present state.” ; : «‘Lcan take her to Hastings or Ventnor, or to my box at Newmarket, ifit comes to that.” “‘Isn’t it better for her to be near her father ?”’ “ What does she want with her father, an old twaddler like Clanyarde, without a thought beyond the gossip of his club? Don’t humbug, Wyatt. You told me you could put your finger on a purchaser, Was that bosh, or did you mean it ?”’ } “Tt was not bosh,” answered Wyatt ; ‘‘ but 1 wanted tobe quite sure you were in earnest before I pushed my proposal. any further. You might consider it an impertinence even for me to think ofsuch a thing.” ‘ “What are you driving at?” “Will you sell Davenant to me ?” Gilbert dropped his billiard cue and stood staring at his friend in blank amazement. Heré%was a new state of things indeed. The protessional man treading on the heels of the millionaire. * “You !’’ he exclaimed, with contemptuous surprise. “ T/did not think fifteen per cent. and renewals could be made so profitable.” “T’m too thin-skinned to resent the insinuation,’’ said James Wyatt, cushioning his opponent’s ball. ‘I oan afford to buy Davenant.at the price you gave for it. I’ve got just enough money disengaged. I sold out of Palermos the other day when they were up, to provide the purchase-money. I brought down a deed of trans- fer, and if you arein earnest, we can settle the business to-morrow morning.” *“You’re buying the place as a speculation,’’ said Gil- bert, suspiciously. “Not exactly. But what would it' matter to you if I were? You want-to get rid of the place.’ lam ready to take it off your hands.” “You have heard of a bid from somebody else.” **No, I have not.” ‘Well, you’re a curious fellow. Going to get mar- ried, I suppose, and turn country squire.” “Never mind my plans. Do you mean to sell?”’ “Yes.” «Then I’m ready to buy.”” The deed was executed next morning. Gilbert stipu- lated that he was not to surrender the house’ till the midsummer quarter, and that James Wyatt was to take the furniture at a valuation. ; Mr. Sinclair was much pleased at the idea of getting back five-and-thirty thousand pounds of ready money for a place’ the purchase of which had been a whim, and of the occupation whereof he was heartily tired. Those miners in the north were still- holding out, and money had not been flowing into his coffers nearly so fast asit had been flowing out during the last halfyear. He | had made unlucky bargains in horseflesh—squandered his money on second-rate stock, and on running small races that were not worth his people’s traveling ex- penses. Ina word, he had done all those foolish things which an idle man who thinks himself extremely clever and yet lends an ear to every new adviser is apt to do. “ Five-and-thirty thou’ will put me into smooth wa- ter,” he said, as he signed the contract with a flourish. The one suspicion as to Mr. Wyatt’s intentions, which would have prevented Gilbert Sinclair agreeing to the bargain, had never presented itself to his mind. James Wyatt went back to London that afternoon, promising to meet his client next day at the Argyle Street Branch of the Union Bank, and hand over the purchase-money. At eight o’clock that evening he pre- sented himself at Sir Cyprian Dayenant’s chambers. He found his friend sitting alone among his books, smoking an Indian hookah. . “Wyatt, old fellow, this is a surprise,”’ said Cyprian, as they shook hands. Have you dined?” “Thanks, yes; I took a chop at the Garrick. I’ve just come from Davenant,”” “Indeed! How is Mrs. Sinclair?’ “Pretty much the same, poorsoul. since you heard of her ?” “I saw Lord Clanyarde at his club about a week How long is it “Well, there’s been no change lately. Something wrong with the mind, you see, and a gradual ebbing away of strength. She’s not long for this world, I'm afraid; but she was too good for it. Angels are better off in heaven than they are with us. We don’t appreci- ate them.” “No more than swine appreciate pearls,’”’ said Sir Cyprian. Phat would you give to get Dayenant back?” asked Mr. Wyatt, without preface. “What wouid L give? Anything—half my for- tune.’”” “What is your fortuno worth ?”’ “ About a hundred and fifty thousand,” “ Well,then, I shan’t want so much as half of it,though your offer is tempting. Dayenantis mine.” “Yours !’” “Yes at the price you got forit, with an other five thousand asa sporting bid for the furniture and im- provements. Give me five-and-twenty per cent. on my purchase and Davenant is yours.” “Willingly. But how about Mrs. Sinclair? Will it not grieve her to lose the place ?” ; “Whether or no, the place is sold. I teJl you, Sir Cyprian, I stand before you the owner of Davenant and allits appurtenances. I did not buy it for myself, but on the speculation that, as I bought itcheap, you “would be glad to give meaprofit on my purchase. I knew Sinclair well enough to be very sure that he would let the roof rot over his head before he would consent to sell the place to you.” ' “You have done a friendly thing, Wyatt, and I thank you, I should hesitate, perhaps, in agreeing to such a gain were any other man than Mr. Sinclair in ques- tion, but Ido not feel myself bound to stand upon punctilio with him.” “Punctilio, man! Tnere’s no punctilio to stand WEAVERS AND WEFT. upon. Sinclair sold the estate tome unconditionally, and I have an indisputable right to sell it to you.” CHAPTER XXI. A RAPID THAW. Sm Crrrran Davenant had ridden to Totteridge sev- eral times after his discovery of Mrs. Walsingham’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 was’his habit to put up his horse at the inn, and go for a rustic stroll while the animal rested atter 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 Gerthan girl, tet-faced, good- natured and unintelligent. Sir Cyprian won her heart at the outset by addressing her in her native language, which she had not heard since she came to England, and in the confidence*tinepired by his kind manners and excellent German she freely imparted her affairs to the stranger. Mrs. Walsingham had hired her in Brussels, and brought her home as nurse to the ltttle girl, whose previous nurse had been dismissed for bad conductin that city. othe “Mrs. Walsingham’s little girl?’ inquired. Sir Cy- prian. No. The darling was an orphan, the daughter of a poor cousin of Mrs. Walsingham who had diedin Vienna, and the kind lady had brought the little one home, and was going to bring her wp as her own child. 4 Sir Cyprian heard and was doubtiul., 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 sone by-and- by. She was*s chubby rosy intant of about fifteen months old, with brown eyes and fair complexion, and hair that made golden-brown rings upon her ivory fore- head. She mado frantic efforts to talk, but at. present only succeeded in being loquacious in a language of her own. She was quite ready to attach herself to the wander- ing stranger, fascinated by his watch-chain and seals. “ What is her name?’ asked Sir Cyprian. “Clara, but we always call her baby.’’ “Clara? That's only her Christian name. surname, I suppos6 ?” The nurse-maid supposed as much alao, but hadnever heard any surname, nor the profession of her little dear’s father, nor any details’of the death of father and mother. Mrs. Walsingham was.a lady who talked very little, but she aeemed extremely fond of Baby. She came to see her twice a week, andsometimes staid all day, playing with her, and superintending her dinner, and carrying her about the garden. On the’ morning after that interview with James Wyatt Sir Cyprian rode to Totteridge and put up his horse, 28 usual, at the little inn. The nurse had told him that Mrs. Walsingham was’ to be at the cottage to- day, and ho 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 wag noon when he walked up and down the path- way before the cottage, waiting for Mrs. Walsingham’s arrival, a bright winter day, with a blue sky and a west wind. He had exchanged greeting with Baby already, that young lady saluting hini from her nursery window with vivacious flourishes of her pink arms. The church clock had not long struck twelve when Mrs. Walsingham’s neat brougham drove up. She epened 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 ifshe would haye gone back to her carriage, but Sir Cyprian advanced, hat in hand, to greet her. , “You have not forgotten me, I hope, Mrs. Walsing- am ?’” “Sir Cyprian Davenant, I think ?” “Yes; [had the pleasure of meeting you more than three years ago at the Star and Garter.” “Tremoember perfectly. You have been in Africa since then. Ihave read some notices of your adven- tures there. Iam glad to see you go 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 coachman, “Will you give me half an hour—a quarter of an hour's conversation, Mrs. Walsingham?” asked Sir Cyprian. She looked at him uneasily, evidently puzzled. “Upon what subject ?” “Upon a matter of life and death.”’ “You alarm me. Have you come here on purpose to waylay me? J thought our meeting was accidental.” “Waylay is a disagrooable word; but I certainly came here this morning on purpuse to see you. Iam going to make an appeal to your heart, Mrs. Walsing- ham. I want you todo a noble action.” “Tam 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. t “Shall we walk?” she asked, moving away from the garden gate. ; The wide high-road lay before them, destitute.of any sign of human life, the leafless limes and chestnuts standing up against the winter sky, the far-off hills purple in the clear bright air. They would be as much alone here as within any four walls, and Mrs. Walsing- ham was evidently disinclined to admit Sir Cyprian into Ivy Cottage, as the house with the green shutters was called. “Have you friends here? Do you often come?’ asked Mrs. Walsingham, carelessly. ( al “I take my morning ride here occasionally, and the other day, while resting my horse, I made the acquaint- She hasa ance of your German nurse and her charge. ‘ Baby is @ most fascinating little thing, and I take the warmest in- terest in her.”’ ‘ “ What a pity my small niece is not old enough to appreciate the honor |” sneered Mrs. Walsingham. Sir Cyprian ignored the sneer. ; “My interest in that sweet little thing has given rise to astrange idea—a wild one, you will say, perhaps— when Ihave explained myself, But I must begin at the beginning. Itold 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, “You have heard asmuch from some ome else, per- haps ?” . “T heard that she was seriously ill.’”’ “And mentally afflicted ?’’ : _ Yes. You donot expect me to be greatly shocked or grieved, I hope. I neyer saw the lady, except in her box at the opera. ae “And being a stranger you cannot pity her. That is not following the example of the good Samaritan.” — “TfTI found lier on the road-side I should try to suc- cor her, J dare say,”’ auswered Mrs. Walsingham: “but. as her distresses do not come in my pathway,and as I have plenty of nearer demands upon my pity, I can hardly be expected to make myself miserable on Mrs. Sinclair’s account. No doubt she has plenty of sym- pathy—a husband who adores her—and the chivalrous. devotion of.old admirers, like yourself.” “Spare her your sneers, Mrs. Walsingham. At no moment of her married lite has she been awcman to be | envied. In her present ccndition to, refuse her pity | would be to be jess than human. Constance Sinclair is dying of a Lroken heart,” | “Very sad,’ sighed Mrs. Walsingham: r “That is what you would say if one of your friends related the untimely death of a favorite lap-dog. Have you ever thought what that phrase means, Mrs. Wal- Singham? People useit lightly enough. A broken heart, theslow agony of @ grief that kills—a broken heart, not broken by some sudden blow’ that shatters ‘joy.and life together—happy those whom sorrow slays with such mercitul yiolence—but the slow wearing away, the dull, hopeless days, the sleepless nights, tle despair that,eats into the soul, yet isso slow .to kill— these are the agonies which we sum up lightly, in our conventional phraseology, when we talk about broken hearts.” “Is it theloss of her baby, which Mrs, Sinclair feels so deeply ?” asked Mrs. Walsingham, who had listened thoughtfully to Sir Cyprian’s appeal. She no longer Be affected a callous indifference to her rival’s grief. a “Yes. Thatis thegriet which is killing her. She > has never been really happy with herhusband, though = she has been a good and dutiful wife. The child — brought her happiness.. She gaveit all her love. She yer dk may haye erred, perhaps, in concentrating all her affec- tion upon this baby, but the:baby represented her world of loye. When that was taken from her—sud- denly—without a moment’s warning, she gave herself up to despair. I have talked toa faithful servant who was with her in that bitter time, who knew her meas- 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. Walsingham was mov: d. No softening tear vailed | the hard brizhtness of her dark eyes, but her lower lip worked nervously, and her increasing pallor told of a mind deeply troubled. “Tf her husband had by any act of his brought her to this condition, I should call him something worse than a murderer,” said Sir Cyprian; “but badly as I think of Gilbert Sinclair, L cannot blame him here. It ; is destiny that has been cruel—an inscrutable Provi- dence which has chosen to inflict this hopeless misery on the gentlest and most innocent of victims, It is very hard to understend why this should be.” ” “Mrs. Sinclair is not the first,’’ said Mrs. Walsing- ham, struggling against some i feeling. ‘Other women have lost children they loved—only children— the idols of their hearts.” “Other women haye had kinder husbands, perhaps, to sympathize with and comfort them. Other women have had sources of consolation which Mrs. Sinclair has not.’’ ; : “She has her piety, her church, her prayer-book. I should have thought so pure and perfect a woman would find consolation from those. I do not profess to be religious, or to have treasures laid up in heaven, and the loss of what Ilove most on earth might bring me to madness. But Mrs. Sinclair's: placid perfection should be above such human passions,” isis “She is human enough and weak enough to break her heart for the loss of her child,” answered Sir Cyprian, growing angry. ‘‘ But you seem to be incape- ble of pity, and I fear I haye been mistaken in appealin toyou. Yet I thought that your love for that child yonder might inspire some feeling of sympathy with an afflicted mother.” “My affection for my poor little orphan cousii—a _ waif thrown on my hands by misfortune—is nota very absorbing sentiment,” answered Mrs.Walsingham, with — languid scorn.’”* vege “So much the better,” cried Sir Cyprian, eagerly, — for in that case you will the easier fall in with my — plan for saving Mrs. Sinclair’s life and reason.’’ «You have a plan for saving her ?’”’ ¥ “Yes, a plan recommended by her physicians, andto which her husband and father have given their consent. __ In acrisisin which nothing but hope could save her _ she has been told to hope. It has been even hinted to her that her child is still eee Mrs. Walsingham started and looked at him wonder- ingly. : : “A cruel deception you think, but the case wae desperate, remember. This false hope has alread» £
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WEAVERS AND WEFT. ~ oe done something. I have heard this morning that there has been a faint rally—a flicker of returning intelligence. She remembers that she has been told to hope—remembers and looks forward to the realization of the promise that has been made. If we fail her now, despair wil] again take possession of her—more bitter because of this ray of light. The plan formed by those who love her best is to give her a child to love—a child whom she will believe at first to be her own, saved from the German river, but about which, in time to come,when reason and strength have returned, she may be told the truth. She will have 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? Why choose me for your confidante ?” “The little girl you haye adopted is about the age of Mrs. Sinclair’s baby. You admit that she is not very dear to you—acharge which you have taken upon your- self out of charity. Let Gilbert Sinclair adopt 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 choosing the trustees. Give me thut dear ebild, Mrs. Walsingham, and you will be the means of saying Constance Sinclair’s life.’’ “That child?” cried Mra. Walsingham, looking at him with wide-o eyes. “I give you that child to be Con- gtance Sinclair’s solace and consolation—to win Gil- bert’s wife back to life and happiness! J surrender that child! You must be mad to ask it.” “Did you not tell me just now that the child was not especially dear to you?” _ “@he is dear to me,” answered Mrs. Walsingham, ‘vehemently. “I have grown tolovo hor. She is all I have in the world to love. She reminds mo of one who once loved me. Why do you prate to me of Mrs. Sin- clair’s loneliness? She cannot bo lonelier than Jam. What is there but emptiness in my heart ?—yet I do not complain of a broken heart. J donot abandon myself to madness or imbecility. I bear my burden. Let her ‘bear hers. Give you that child, indeed! That is ask- ing too much.” “ Pardon me, Mrs. Walsingham ; I thought I was talk- ing to a woman with a noble nature, whose higher in- stincts only neaded to be appealed to.”’ “It is so long since people have left off appealing to my higher instincts that they have somewhat lost their use, Do 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 «you have lived all these years in this world without ‘knowing what kind of clay your fellow men and women are made of. I have the strongest reason to detest Mrs. _ Sinclair, and I do detest her frankly. She has done me mo wrong, you will say. She has done me the greatest wrong—robbed me of the man I love, of wealth, status, Dame, and place in the world. Do you think it matters to me that she was unconscious of that wrong? She has done it, and I hate her for it, and shall so hate her +i) 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 off on this distract- ed mother—some baby-farmer’s protegee.” “TI will find some respectably bor» child, be sure, . Walsingham, It was only a fancy, perhaps, which ed me to propose taking your little kinswoman. I counted too much upon the generosity of a disappoint- ‘ed rival.”’ 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 of inconsistency and contradiction, now hot; now cold. At alate hour that evening Sir Cyprian received a letter, delivered by a man-seryant. It was from Mrs. Walsingham. “Tam 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 shallI be as an old wo- man? Sendsome trustwerthy person to fetch thelittle girl to-morrow. I give her up to you entirely; but ‘upon condition that Mrs. Sinclair shall never know to whom she owes heradopted child. May the adoption prosper! ButasI hear that Mr. Sinclair is in a fair ‘way to ruin, I do not think you are giving my young kinswoman a very brilliant start in life. Be this as it may, I wash my hands of her. She has not broughtme happiness; and perhaps if I were to let her wind herself round my heart, it might prove by-and-by that I had taught a serpent to coil there. I have not too good an opinion of her blood, Yours truly, “CLARA WALSINGHAM, “‘HALF-MOOW STREET, Wednesday Night.” CHAPTER XXII, KILL OR CURE. Mr. Smycuate was told by Lord Clanyarde of the plan which had been devised by the German physician for _ his daughter’s cure, and, after a lengthy discussion, gave his sullen consent to the imposture, “I don’t like your German doctor—a thorough-paced charlatan, I'll warrant,’’ he said; “and I don’t like palm- ing off an imposter upon my poor wife. But if you see any chance of good from this experiment, let it be tried. God: knows I would give my heart’s blood to-morrow to bring Constance back to health and reason.” This was said with an unmistakable earnestness, and Lord Clanyarde believed it. He did not know what bitter reason Gilbert Sinclair had for desiring his wife's recovery in the guilty consciousness that his brutality was the chief cause of her illness. wi “You are not going to bring some low-born brat into my house, I hope ?’’ said Gilbert, with the pride of s man, whose grandfather had worked in the mines, and whose tather had died worth a million. ‘ ‘*No; we shall find a gentleman’s child—some orphan of about Christabel’s age—to adopt.” Gilbert shrugged his shoulders and said no more. The visit of 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—fiuttered 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 footfall. On 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 s ea sho had never done since the be of her il} like one who pours forth the gladness of her heart in melody. When Dr. Webb came that afternoon, he found his patient sitting in an arm-chair by the window, propped up with pillows, much to the disgust of Melanie Du- port, who was on duty at this time. “I kuow 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- manded a distant curve of the drive leading up to the house, and it was om this point that Constance Sin- clair’s eyes were fixed. ‘-What are you wai for, dear lady ?’’ asked Dr. Webb, in his bland voice, that caressing tone in which medical men address feminine and infantine patients. In Dr. Webb's came, the blandness meant more than it usually does, for ho really loved his patient. “Tam watching for my child. They will bring her to-day, perhaps. Thestrange doctor told me she was not drowned. It was true, wasn't it? He wouldn't deceive me, There was something in his voice that made me trust him—something that went to my heart. My darling was saved,and she is coming back to me. You won’t deceive me, I know. Sheis coming—soon —soon—soon. Dear, dearest, Dr. Webb, is it true?’ “ Dear Mrs. Sinclair, yon must not agitate yourselfin this way,’’ cried the doctor, flattered by this address. “Yos, yes, Lord Clanyardeis going to bring you the little girl, and you'll be very fond of her, I hope, and feel quite happy again.”’ “Happy!” cried Constance ; ‘I shall 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. On the following day the same idea was still paramount, but she was soime- what weakened by her excitement 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 heragain. 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 heavy. ‘If they don’t bring the child soon, it will be too late for their experiment,’’ thought Dr. Webb; ‘‘andif they do bring it, the excitement may be fatal. God guide us aright!” It was dusk when Lord Clanyarde’s brougham drove up to the Mea and his lordship alighted, carrying a child muffled 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 Clanyarde went straight to his daughter’s room, where Dr. Webb was sitting, too anxious to leave his patient till thecrigis 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 cheerfulness ; ‘‘ pray don’t agitate your- self, my dear Constance.” She had started up from her sofa already, and tottered toward him with ouvstretched arms. ‘IT havebrought you your baby. The little pot 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 difference 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 exclamations. The fire-light shone on the picture of mother and child clinging together thus—the little one submitting uncomplainingly to those vehement caresses. “Thank God!” ejaculated Lord Clanyarde within himself. ‘*She doesn’t ask a question, poor child. a hasn’t the faintest suspicion that we're deceiving er.”’ . “ 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 ina doubtful light. If first impressions were but. favorable, doubts would hardly arise atterwardin 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 face ; she only covered it with tears and kisses, and laid it against her bosom, and was happy. She accepted this baby stranger at once as her lost Christabel. Dr. Webb was delighted. Those tears, those caresses, those gushes of happy love—what medicines could work such cure for a mind astray ? “Upon my word I believe you have done the right thing, aid that your German doctor is not such a uack as I thought him,’’ whispered the little man to rd Clanyarde. He had still better reason to say this three or four hours later, when Constance was sleeping tranquilly— asound and healthy slumber such as she hadnot known pi many weary weeks—with the baby nestling at her side. Mr. Sinclair heard of the success that had attended the experiment, and seemed glad, or as glad aga man could be who had pressing cause for trouble. CHAPTER XXIII. ‘* EXCELLENT BASILISK! TURN UPON THE VULTURE.’® Ir Fortune in a general way is a capricious and un- certain divinity, assuredly that particular goddess who presides over the affairs of racing men is most given to tricks and starts, to sudden frowns and unexpected smiles. Gilbert Sinclair’s new stables had, up to the begin- ning of this present year, brought him nothing but ill luck. So unvarying had been his reverses that. his trainer and grooms gave full scope to their supersti- 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, somewheres 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 palpable hits. But this was not all. Mr. Sinclair had bought a colt at York two years before, with all his faults and all his engagements —the engagements being par- ticularly heavy and the faults including one which the veterinary authorities believed might be fatal to the animal’s career as aracer. The colt was of renowned lineage on both sides, and hada pared that went back to his great-grandsire and bristled 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 best purchase made in a regular way. : ‘‘He’sa 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?” argued Mr. Jackson, who had no exalted opinion of his employer's judgment, and did not trouble himself to pretend 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 aboutit. It'll bea fad forme, I ought to have my fancy sometimes. You have yours, and w# 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 <9 of touts. Mr. Jackson hadchildren—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 yoice when he spoke of Goblin, the bay colt, which his children had never been able to evoke. “TI want to win the Derby before I die,” he said, with a touch of sentiment, like Moses sighing for the land of Canaan, ‘“‘Itisn’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 “off 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 bert horse in the stable, secretly weighted Goblin in such amanuer 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 fritter away his strength in two- year-old races,”’ said Mr, Jackson, decisively; “I ain’t forgotten Bonnie Dundee.” Gilbert Sinclair submitted unwillingly, being at this time very low down in his luck as a racing man, and anxious for any success which might in some wise re- deem his position. Now came spring—violoets and Fai vpateupelt woodlands white with chestnut bloom and hawthorn; nightin- gales warbling their vesper love songs, and—much more important to gentlemen of Mr. Sinclair’s class— the Two Thousand Guineas, And now Goblin came forward to perform his first important engagement asa three-year-old, and Gilbert Sinclair was richly rewarded for his patience. Goblin—s 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 ole pretty sure about his expectations for the erby. It was the first great success Gilbert Sinclair had ever had upon the turf, and he left Newmarket that night al- most light-headed with excitement. Things had been oing much better with him since January. The men ad gone back to their work in the grimy north. In- dian steamers were pang Mr. Sinclair’s coal as fast as 6 golden tide was flowing in he could produce it,
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a ae ” WEAVERS AND WEFT. his exchequer again, and his banker’s book no longer presented a dismal blank upon its left-hand pages. The success at Newmarket was the crowning mercy. He felt himself a rich man once more, and laughed to ‘acorn the notion of surrendering Davenant at midsum- mer. Wyatt had bought and paid 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 of the little girl Lord Olanyarde brought her that winter evening with the child she had lost, She had readily accepted the story—a somewhat lame one—of the child’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 of 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- and-by to reveal the imposture. Even Martha Briggs —little 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 insand 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 been peace at Davenant during the early ring. Constance had been quietly happy in the little girl'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 had the woods and fields, the blue April sky and shining river, seemed so lovely in the eyes of Constance Sinclair as they appeared this year. Her love of music, of art, of all bright things, seemed inten- Sifled by that awful season of darkness, in which these ‘elights had been blotted from her mind. Her husband was tolerably kind to her, but spent much of his time away from Davenant, and did not trouble her repose by filling the house with his rackety companions. Mr. Wyatt came now and then fora day or two, but ae the only guest during this tranquil spring- 6. Thus stood matters early in May, when Goblin won the Two Thousand Guineas, and, in the trainer’s phra- seology, brought his owner a pot of money. Gilbert went up to London an hour aiter 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 in due course. 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 wedative for a man of hot temper. He talked about Goblin and his own cleverness in getting hold of Goblin all the way up to London, and arrived at Shoreditch with his pulse galloping and his blood at fever heat. “I’m not going to let that beggar have Dayvenant 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 shining in the setting sun, which was fading redly on the westward-facin windows of the grave oldsquare when Gilbert alighte at Mr. Wyatt’s door. ‘ It was a fine old house which the solicitor occupied, one of the oldest and largest in the square,and there had been no attempt to disfigurea 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. 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 architraves handsome enough for amodern palace. An old-fashioned oil lamp had just been lighted, and shed a sickly yellow light onsome of the panels, while others re- flected the crimson glow in the west, asifthey had been splashed with blood. “Your master at home?” asked Gilbert. “Yes, sir. He has justdined. Shall I show you into the dining-room ?”’ ' “Yes; and you can bring me something to eat, Btaples,” 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. That snug oval table of pollard oak had wguperseded the ponderous old mahogany twenty-two feet by six; at which Mr. Wyatt's father and grandfather had been wont to entertain their friends. James Wyatt wanted no twenty-two foot table, for he never ave large parties. Cozy quartettes, or even confiden- fa tete-a-tele banquets, were more to his liking, and he ve as elaborate and careful a dinner to a man who ed with him alone as other men provide for a gath- ering that includes all the magnates of their circle. Were pollard oak gifted with speech, that snug oval board could have told many a thrilling tale of thirty per cent. which had been made, in the initiative stage, to seem only seven; of clients in the city who had money tolvnd, and were so good-natured about lend- ding it, on a safe er es or otherwise ; and of that awful hour in which the same good, easy-going clients assumed quite another character, and were determined Peete or to get their money back by any means. But happily for the maintenance of the decencies, Mr. Wyatt’s table was not loquacious, and the grave old room, with a few fine pictures on the oak paneling, and some valuable bronzes on the tall chimney-piece, looked respectable enough to inspire confidence in the most suspicious mind Ifthe pictures had been daubs, or the furniture gaudy, the effect would have been different. But. the pictures looked like heir-looms and the furni- ture told of a chastened taste and a refinement that implied virtue and honor in the possessor thereof. “Back already !’’ exclaimed Mr. Wyatt. ‘‘ How did Goblin go? Got a place?” “Won in a canter,’”’ answered Gilbert, flinging him- self into a chair, and wiping his damp forehead. ‘‘ Never saw such @ 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. 1 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 fellow I should be ruined if Goblin lost. ‘He won’t lose,’ raved Jackson, dancing about like a maniac. ‘You don’t know what that hoss can do. I tried him last March against Lord Wildair’s Cowcumber, and put a hextra seven pound on him, and Cowcumber was nowhere. I felt sorry I hadn’t made it fourteen pound when I saw that blessed Cowcumber regular pumped.’ I was bound to believe in the horse after that, wasn’t I?” “ Yea, if you could believe in the trainer.”’ “Well, the result has shown that he told me the truth. Oh, here comes the dinner,” Gilbert made a weak attempt to eat some fish, and a still weaker attempt at a plate of lamb, but failed in both efforts. “I've no appotite,” ho said. a brandy-and-soda.” “How many brandies and sodas haye you had to- day ?” asked Wyatt, with an air of friendly anxiety, that tone of an easy-going mentor which long use had made natural tohim. 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 a friendly shake hands at the last, just before the dogs eat them. “Do you suppose I counted them?’ demanded Gil- bert, with alaugh. “The sun was hot, and I was ex- cited about Goblin. Ihad a pocket full of siver and it’s all gone, and I don’t think I’ve paid. for anything jy brandy and soda. That’s a rough way of calcu- ating.” “You've been drinking too much brandy, Gilbert.” “That's my lookout.” “Try some of that claret.’ “T'll have brandy or nothing.” Mr. Wyatt sighed and rang the bell, and then filled a large, cool-looking glass with the Lajitts, which he sipped in a calmly appreciative manner, with the air of aman who had never been thirsty in his life. “ Yes, Jim,” began Gilbert, harking back, ‘‘I’ye made a tidy haul to-day, and I expect a bigger haul on Wednesday fortnight. And now, old fellow, I want you to do me a favor.”’ ; ‘Find a good investment for your winnings? With pleasure. {can get you a safe seven per cont.” “ Thanks, that’s not the favor I mean. Ah, here’s the stuff,” as the man broughtin a spirit stand and a supply of soda-water. “I want you to let me have Davenant back, Jim,’”’ pouring brandy intoa small tum- bler, 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 alcoliol, “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 you will, but the odor of sixty per cent. will hang round 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 different thing. They wouldn’t cotton to you. They’re very fond of borrowing 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 place.as Davenant for thereception of a pack of young een from London, You can pluck such pigeons any- where.”’ er kind of youto be so interested in my busi- ness !’’ . BS mer like candor between friends,’ said Gil- ert. **And you want me to sell Davenant? That's curious. You were red-hot to sell a fow months ago.” “Iwas down in my luck just then. Things have changed for the better. And I find that Icare more for the place than I thought I did. And Ishouldn’t par- ticularly like my neighbors to crow over me. It would — as if I were ruined if I parted with such a place as at.’’ ** What a complete change of tone! I suppose your wife’s recovery has caused this alterationin your feel- ings.’’ Gilbert winced. It always stung him when James Wyatt spoke of his wife. The man’s tone implied some occult knowledge. Speak as courteously as he might, there was always a lurking sneer in his speech. “Come, Jim, I'll give you a handsome profit on your bargain. What more can you want? Name your own terms. I know you only bought the place as a speculation.” “Suppose I did, and that the speculation has answer- ed. How then?” 4 ‘You mean that you have sold it again?” “ Within four-and-twenty hours of my purchase.” ** By Jove, that’s sharp work |” cried Gilbert, bitterl wavepeiaed. “But perhaps the man who bought it would take a WS “You'd better give me profit on his purchase ae “ Not much chance ofthat. The man who bought it would have given me almost any money for the place, if I had been inclined to take auvantage of his eagerness to get it-back again.” “Back again!’ cried Gilbert, starting up with a ve- hemence that sent the soda-water bottles spinning across the table—‘ to get it back again! Then you've sold it to Sir Cyprian Davenant ?” “That's the man,” answered Wyatt, opening bir ci- gar-case and affecting an extreme deliberation in the choice of a cigar. *‘Jim Wyatt, you’re a scovndrel |” 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?” “Where is the wrong? You duped, you hood- winked me. You know howl hate that man. You know that I would rather cut my throat than give him any advantage. You know, or you ought to know, that my chief motive in buying Davenant was to bumiliate him, to give my wife the place he might have given her, to show her which was the better man of the two, to set my heel upon Sir Cyprian Davenant. And you swindle me out of my revenge; you put the winning cardinto my enemy’s hand. You, my professed friend. you, who have made thousands out of me |” “I grant the thousands,” answered James Wyatt, phage 2 up, and facing his accuser with a sparkle of de- fiance in his pale 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 ‘e, —— on that score. When have you ever treated me ke a friend, Gilbert Sinclair, or like anequal? When have you descended from the lofty standpoint of your coal-pits and your smelting-works to my level ? Not ence. “4:4 a , And you think because you have made a social doo: mat of me—because you have let me fetch and carry, and honored me with yourconfidence when you wanted to air your grievances, or get out of a diffiiculty—becau in one word, I haye been useful, you think I am to you my friend, and sacrifice my own interests to any amount in order to gratify your spite. You wanted to get rid of Davenant; I took it off your hands, and made a profit by the transaction. You don’t suppose I would speculate five-and-thirty thousand to oblige you!” “ Judas !’’ cried Gilbert Sinclair, seizing his quondom friend by the throat, mad with passion. The soberer and calmer man had the better of mere brute force. James Wyatt shook off his assailant as easily as if he had been the athlete, ahd Gilbert the thinker and plotter. “ Fool!” 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 influ- ence of her German physician. Haye you had many visits from that German physician, Mr. Sinclair? Per- haps he times his visits so as to avoid meeting you. You spend a good deal of your life away trom Davenant, you see.”’ “What do you mean?” gasped the other. “WhatIsay. Look at home tor 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 then?’ a “You saw how he—the strange doctor—could awaken intelligence which no one else could rouse. You saw how she sang at his bidding—how tears flowed—for him. A case of electro-biology, one would suppose.” “Wyatt, I shall strangle you if you don’t put your meaning into the very plainest words |” “And perhaps atrangle me ifI do. Imust risk that, Isuppose,” said Mr. Wyatt, with a laugh. “ Plainly, then, youshonuld 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 and beard, The man who came to your house with Lord Clanyarde was Sir Cyprian Davenant.” “It's a lie!’ cried Gilbert Sinclair. “ It’s as true as that your wife’s recovery dates from the hour of his visit.’’ “You knew this—you—my legal adviser—friend—and you sold my estate to that man—knowing this!’’ cried Sinclair, almost inarticulate with passion. “Again I must repeat that 1 never professed to be your friend. As your legal adviser, 1 had no right to interfere in your domestic affairs. As to thesale of the property, 1 cannot see how that affects your position with Sir Cyprian ”’ > If Gilbert could have flown at the man’s throat again and strangled him, there might have been some satis- faction in that act of savagery. To call him bad names, and to see his sardonic grin as he heard them, was a poor relief, but all that civilization allowed. Gilbert hurled some of the hardest epithets in the vocabulary of abuse at that smiling traitor, and then flung himself out of the room and out of the house. The hansom was waiting for him—meekly as your most spirited hansom will wait on a balmy evening for a safe customer. The young May moon was up in the soft opal sky. “Charing Cross Station—double fare,” cried Mr. Sinclair; and the cab-horse enlivened the shades of quiet Bloomsbury by the clatter of his poor chipped hoofs in a hand-gallop. i * * * * * * RR James Wyatt paced his room in the norris shadows, deep in thought. He had sent a poisoned barb to the heart of the man he hated, and he was glad. There was not a petty slight of days gone by, not a small insolence, for which he nan. not paid himself handsomely by to-night’s work; but it was not to avenge the millionaire's petty slights and) smal! inso- lences, not to uplift the wounded crest of his own self- esteem, viper-like, that he had strung hin enemy. a
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24 WEAVERS AND WEFT. hatred of Gilbert Sinclair had a deeper root than wounded pride. Disappointed love was its source. But for Gilbert Sinclairhe might haye been loved by the ome woman whose regard he valued. Clara Walsingham’s constancy to her old lover was the of- fense that made Gilbert loathsome to his quondam friend, anditwas to gratify his own jealousy that he had aroused the demon of jealously in: his rival’s breast. ‘He shall know the flavor of the anguish he has caused me,” thought Wyatt,‘ if his coarse soul can suffer as I have suffered for a woman’s sake. Whether his wife is guilty or innocent, matters. nothing to, me. The pain will behis. Ifhe were man enough to blow his brains out, now, there might be a chance for me with Clara. Solong ashe 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 wear- ing my life out for her sake ?”’ Mr. Wyatt had not seen Mrs, Walsingham since that interview in which shoe had refused to keep faith with him, flinging her promise tothe winds,. He had gone. to Half-Moon Street on the following Saturday evening, determined to make peace with her at any sacrifice of his own dignity, with the slavish pertinacity of a man ho passionately loves. ..He had driven up to the door, expecting to see the lighted windows shining out on the wintry street, to hear Herr Kiavierschlager pounding the Erard, and the hum and twitter of many voices, as he went up the narrow flower-scentsd stad case ; but to his surprise the windows, were all dark, andasleepy little maid-servant cameito the door with a guttering tallow candle, and informed him that, Miva. Walsingham had gone abroad, the maid-servant knew not whither. /‘ Was there no direction left for forwarding letters ?” asked Mr. Wyatt. ‘ ‘No, Sir, not as I knows of. The hagent, p’r’aps, _ .wot-has the lettin’ of the ’ouse might know.” _ Mr. Wyatt hunted out the house-agent on Monday - morning, but that useful member of society had re- ceived no information about Mrs. Walsingham’s destina- tion, whether she meant to travel or to be stationary. He was to let her house to a good tenant, and to com- municate with her through her solicitor, Mr. Wyatt went to the solicitor, who politely refused to give his client's address. I “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 * m% * * 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- able manner that was well worth his sixty pounds a year. Mr. Wyatt was a man who would not haye kept a bad servant a week, and never parted with a good one. The postman’s knock sounded on the ponderous door while Mr. Wyatt was sipping his coffee, and Staples came in with several letters on a silver waiter. James Wyatt spread them out before him thought- fully, as if they were cards and he were alate | their value. Handsome creamy envelopes, thick an aristocratic, with armorial bearings on tho seals ; others blue and business-like, and unpretendingly in- expressive. One narrow little envelope, thin, ‘green, and 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 scragginess in the y’s, a paucity of capitals. “Why do you not let me see you, or write tome? Is it not that it is cruel, after so much of promises? You leave me to languish, without hope. eam you that I shall content to be servant for always, after what you haye promised? But do not believe it. I have too much spirit. It must that I talk to youof all that at leisure, the eyes in the eyes, that I may see.if you are true,if you have good intentions to my regard. Write me,and very quickly, my friend, it must that I have of your news. Always your “ MBLANIE.”” This comes of an innocent flirtation—pour passer le temps—in a stupid country-house,” said Mr. Wyatt, crumpling the letter savagely. ‘This girl will worry my tite out. I wasa fool to amuse myself with such a dangerous little viper. And if I were to be frank with her, and tell her to go about her business, she might make matters unpleasant forme. The law comes down rather heayily on anything in the shape of conspiracy, and that little affair at Schonesthal might be made to assume that complexion. And the law never comes down so heavily as when it gets its hoof on a man who has plenty to lose. Your British jury, too, has no liking for a man who turns his superfluous capital to good ac- count by lending it to fools. No,I must keep that Schonesthal business out of the law courts at any cost. Melanie must be pensioned, and sent back to her native valley, or her native slum—forI should think such an artful young person must have been born in some festering city alley, rather than among vineyards or orchards.” Mr. Wyatt went to his writing-table and answered Mademoiselle Duport’s letter without delay—briefly and cautiously. ———_— CHAPTER XXIV. GILBERT ASKS A QUESTION. Clanyarde, finding himself at fifty years of age en- tirely. unfettered by domestic encumbrances, was indulging his natural frivolity among a more. agreeable people than his serious and business-like fellow- countrymen. Lord Clanyarde was eating ices and play- ing dominoes under the.colonnades of Venice, with thoughts of moving to Tyrolean mountains when the weather grew too warm in the fair sea-girt city. So Gilbert, not being able to get at Lord Clanyarde, nursed his wrath to keep it. warm, and went straight home to Davenant Park, whers 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 resogmined his familiar faee; the schoolmistress, the. old pupils, the gray old gamioners and the sunburned gamekeepers; the and goodies who had been old when she was a , 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 same apprecis- tien of tea. and. tobacco, half-crowns and new neeker- chiefs, the Psalms and the rector’s sermons. Never had spring seemed te ber so beautiful as it seenied this year, when she led her little girl through the woods and showed hér the newly awakened flowers, and told her the names of the birds, that poured out euch gushing songs. of gladness in the warm bright noon. The child's lips began to shape isolated words— mam, mam, and birc fowers for flowera—Divine lan- to the mother’s ear. Never was child happier or more fondly loyed, Martha Briggs, hothing doubting, hugged this little waif to her honest heart, and even Melanie, who had,a curious inward revulsion from the child, had to pretend a most 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 ‘:poisoninto her mistress’s cup ofjoy. “Do you feel quite sure there has been no mistake, ma’am ?”’ she asked. ‘I sometimes fancy our darling could not have been sayed. Isaw her carried away by the current, carried past me like astraw, and if 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?” she cried, clasping the baby to her breast. “Am I gure of my own name, of my life? Ifail the reat of life wera a dream or a shadow, I should know that Christabel was real and true. Who'can deceive a mother?” “You were so ill when the little girl was brought home,” suggested Melanie, with an air of conscientious doubt, “Not too ill to remember my Christabel. Wo knew each other, did we not, darling? Our lips clung to- gether as if we had never been parted. Not know my. own child, indeed! Never dare to mako such a sugges- tion again, Melanis.”’ After this Mademoiselle Dupors was discreetly silent on the subject of this present Christabel’s identity with the Christabel of the past; but the tiine was to come whén Constance Sinclair’s faith was to receive a ruder shock. Gilbert went home thst evening after the Two Thou- sand, savage, with his mind full of scorpions. .Goblin’s success was as nothing tohim, He hardly remembere/ that one of his horses had won a great race tor the Orat téme since he had kept horses.- He. had counted on James Wyatt's fidelity just as he had counted on his horse or his dog, a creaturo bought with his money, fei and housed by him. Wyatt bad profited by him ; Wyatt was bound to stand by him; and as to those various slights which he had put upon his confidential adviser at divers times, almost unconsciougly, it had never occurred to him that there could be any galling wound left by such small stings, the venom whereof was to react upon himself. If he had heaped favors upon the man, if he had been the moat unselfish and devoted of friends, he could not have felt Jamea Wyatt’s treachery more keanly. He was with himself for having been so‘easy a dupa, for h given any man power to got the better of him. “The whele thing is a planned revenge,” he thought. “Wyatt know how it would gall me, to see Sir Cyprian back at Davenant.”’ And Wyatt had flung a fire-brand into that reyolation about the pretended German doctor. Could it be, Gil- bert asked himself, or was it a malicious invention of Wyatt’s? Would Lord Clanyarde have lont himself to such a deception? Even Lord Clanyarde might have been hoodwinked by his daughter’s lover. «“T won’t accuse her, not yet awhile,’’ he seid to him- self. “It will be better to keep quiet and watch. I have been too often away. I have given her too much license. That innocent face of hers would deeeive Satan himself., And I have allowed myself to think that there was no guile inher ; that although she has never loved me, she has never wronged me. Hard to find, after all, that I have judged her too leniently.”’ It was after midnight when Mr. Sinclair arrived at Dayenant, and he had to ring up 6ne of the servants to let him in, his return being altogether unlooked for. He did not see Constance until the next day, and by this time had/‘regained the mastery of himself. The position of affairs between husband and wife since Mrs. Sinclair’s recovery had been a kindof armed neutrality. Gilbert had never alluded to that awful day on which he had raised his hand against his wife, nor had Con- stance. Doubtful whether she remembered that un- happy occurrence, and deeply ashamed of the brutality ence to her feelings, for which she was duly grateful. Gentle, submissive always, sho gave her husband no cause of offense, save that one rankling sore which had begun to gall him directly the triumphant sense of possession had lost its power to satisfy—the conscious- ness that he had never won her heart . This smoulder- ing fire needed but a spark of jealousy to raise a fatal ame, : 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 tete-a-tete in the spacious paneled room, which seemed so much too big for them, These cere- monious late dinners were Constance’s aversion. In her husband's absence she dined early with Christabel, and spent the long afternoons walking or driving, and. came home at twilight toa social tea party with Martha. Briggs and baby. ; “J didn’t think you cared) about race-horses,”’ said Gilbert, as if doubting the sincerity of his wife’s con- gratulations: “Notin 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—arti¢les of luxury. But I am very ‘glad your horse has won, Gilbert; on your ac- count.’”’ ‘ “Yes, it’s a greattriumph for me. If Ican 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 wholestud after Epson; and the new stablésimto the bargain, and then I shall im- prove that great barrack of a place in the north and set- tledown. I’m sick of this part of:the world. It’s too d—4d civilized,’’ added Mr. Sinclair, forcibly, “Do you mean that you would leave Dayenant?’”” asked Comutance, with astonishment. “Yes. T ought to have told you, by-the-way—Daye- nant ceases to be mino after Midsummer-day. I’ve sold it” “Sold Davenant !’* “Yes. Ihave never really cared for the place, and I had a good offer for it while you were ill. Things were not looking very well in the north just then, and 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. “To think that you should have sold Dayenant—the dear ‘old place !”” “T thought you did not care for it.” “Not just at first, perhaps. It seemed to big for me. T liked shabby old Marchbrook better. But I have been so happy here lately, and it isso niceto live among people one has known all one’s life.” “‘Yeu, 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 upbraiding—no wife so conscientious in the discharge of her duty as a good woman who does not love her husband. “I should bejust as happy in any cottage in the neighborhood,” “ Especially if you had an old friend settled here,’” said Gilbert. ‘You haven’t asked me the name of my suecessor ; bus perhaps you know.” ** How should I know?” ¥% “You might have moans of obtaining informa- on.” “Who is the person, Gilbert?” “Sir Cyprian Davenant.”’ He watched her closely. ‘as the announcement a surprise, or did she know all about it, and was that look of grave astonishment a touch of social comedy ? She looked at him earnestly fora minute, and grew somewhat paler, he thought, as if the very sound of his rival’s name wero & shock to her. “Indeed! He haa bought the old place again !"’ she said, quietly. “That ssems only right. But I thought he had gone back to Africa.” ' “Did you really?’ with a somewhat ironical eleva- tion of his eyebrows. ‘ Well, Lthoughtsotoo. But it seemes he is still in England. Oh, by-the-by, do you remember that Gorman doctor who came to sea you when you were ill?” . There was 8 purpose in the abruptness of this qties- tion. He wanted to take her off her guard ; if possible to startle herinte betraying herself. If there were any truth in Wyatt's assertion, this question must be a startling one. Her calm look told him nothing. She was either innosent of all guile or the most consummate hyp- ocrite. ; “Yes, Ican faintly remember. I can juet recall that night, like a dream. Papa and you coming into my room, and a curious-looking old man, with a kind yoice —a voice that went to my heart, somehow.” Gilbert started and frowned. “You, I remember. It seems likea picture as I look back ; your anxious looks, the fire-light shining on your faces. He asked me to sing. did he not? Yes, and the song made mecry. Oh, such blessed tears—they took & load off my mind. It was like the loosening of a band of iron round my head. And he spoke to me about Christabel, and told me to hope. Dear old man, I have reason to remember him.” “Has he never been since ?”’ “Never. How should he come, unless you or papa brought him ?” “No, to be sure. And you have no curiosity about him—no desire to see him again?” Zz fi “Why should Ibe curions or anxious? He did not a he Ir Lord Clanyarde had been within easy reach, Gil- bert Sinclair would have gone straightway to upbraid him with his treachery in bringing Sir Cyprian to ea Davenant disguised and in a false name; but Lord at a J ft / : as i Aan 4 . * om ; ¢ 4 : Sr aie oe Ree ee ee ee we! ca a ~_ -_— ———— —-- into which passion had betrayed him, Mr. Sinclair wisely kept his own counsel. To apologize might be to make a revelation. His remorse showed it- self by increased civility to his wife, and a new defer- deceive me with false hope. My darling was restored to me.” ; “And you thank him for that ?”” “TI thank God for having saved my child. I thank
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be good old. doctor for being the first to tell me to ope,’” : : This much and no more could Gilbert’s closest ques- tioning extort from his wife. What was he to think— that Wyatt was fooling him, or that Constance was past-mistress in dissimulation? He didnot know what to think, and was miserable accordingly. CHAPTER XXV. READY. FOR THE WORST. JUNE roses were opening in the flower garden at Da- venant, and Gilbert Sinclair had béen leading a iife of the purest domesticity for the last three weeks. It hung rather heavily upon him) that domestic life, for though he loved his wife after his own fashion, he was not fond of home joys or exclusively feminine society. But what will not a jealous man endure when once his suspicions are aroused? Patient as the spider watching his prey, he waits for the unguarded moment which shall betray the horrid secret he fears yet longs to dis- cover. Except to see Goblin win the Derby—a feat which that estimable animal performed with honor to him- self and satisfaction to every one save the book-men— Gilbert had not been away from Davenant since the Two Thousand. He had been told to look for treachery at home, and he was there ready to seize the traitor. No mouchard in the secret service of the Parisian police was ever acloser spy than the husband who doubts yet dotes, suspects, yet fondly loves. That he hadseen nothing in all this time to confirm his doubts was not enough to convince Mr, Sinclair that those doubts were baseless. He was willing to imagine profoundest hypocrisy in the wife of his bosom, a brazen. front under the semblance of a pure and innocent brow. Even that devotion to her child might be a cover for a guiltier love. Her happiness, her tran- quility, gave him new ground for suspicion. Was there not some secret well-spring of contentment, some hid- den source of delight, masked behind this fair show of maternal affection ? These were the doubts which ,Gilbert Sinclair was perpetually revolving in his mind during this period of domestic bliss, and this was the aspect of affairs up to the fifteenth of June. Ascot races wére to begin on the sixteenth, and Goblin was to fulfill his third great en- *" gagement. This was an occasion before which even a husband's jealous fears must give way, and Gilbert had made up his mind to see the horserun. He had not carried out his idea of selling Goblin after the Derby. Jackson, the trainer, had protested vehemently against such a breach of faith with him, who had made the horse. “That there ’oss is to win the Ledger,” said the in- dignant Jackson. “If he don’t, 1 eat him, pig-skin and all.” Gilbert felt that to part with such a horse, for ever so high a price, would be to cut up the goose that laid the golden eggs. “A horse can’t go on winning great races forever, though. There must come a turn in the tide,” sug- gested Gilbert, sagely. ‘“ We should get a pot of money for him now.”’ “A gentleman couldn’t sell a ’oss that had just won him the blue ribbon of the turf,’’ replied Jackson, with a burst of chivalrous feeling. ‘It would be too mean.” Gilbert gave way to the finer feelings of his trainer, and took no step toward short his career on the turf. ‘Things were looking livelier in the coal-pit district, he told himself, and a few thousand a year more or less could not hurt him. He would carry out his original idea, take a place somewhere near Newmarket, and es- tablish his wife and—the child there. Under ordinary circumstances he would have taken a house at Ascot during the race week for the accommo- dation of himself and a selection of choice spirits with sporting tastes, where the nights might have been en- livened by blind hookey, or poker, or some equally enlightening recreation. But on this occasion Mr. Sinclair ede no such comfortable arrangement, and determined to sleep at his hotel in town on the night after the great race, He was smoking his after-dinner cigar on the evening of the fifteenth, pacing slowly up and down the ter- race in front of the open drawing-room windows, when a servant brought him his letters. The first he opened was from his trainer, who was in high spirits about Goblin. The next two or three were business letters of no importance. The last was in a strange hand, a niggling, scratchy little hand, which, if there be any expression in penmanship, was sugges- tive of a mean and crafty nature in the writer. Gilbert tore open the envelope, expecting to find some insinuating ‘‘tip’’ from a gentleman of the genus *“tout;” but the letter was not even so honest as a tip; if was that snake in the grass, an anonymous warning : “Tf Mr. Sinclaire is away to-moro nite he wil mis an opportunitie to learn sumthing he ouht to kno. If he want’s to kno asecret let im wattch the balcone of is wif’s room betwin tenn and leven to-moro nite.—a FRIEND,” Such a letter falling into the hands of a generous- minded man would have aroused only contempt; but, coming to a man who had given himself up as a prey to suspicion and jealousy, who had long been on the watch for domestic treachery, even this yenomous scrawl became significant as the voice of Fate—an ora- cle to be obeyed at any cost. “She has taken advantage of my intended absence already, and has made an appointment with her lover,” thought Gilbert Sinclair. “This warning comes from one of my servants, I dare say, some scullery maid, who has found out my oo : and pitties the deluded WEAVERS AND WEFT. OO EE -~ -” husband. Rather hard to swallow’ pity from such achimney-picce—a costly collection, with all the latest quarter.” Then came the natural reaction. “Ts ita hoax, I wonder—a trick played upon me by some dismissed underling ? Yet how should any one know how to put his finger on the spot that galls? Uni- less it were that ubotind fel Wyatt, who hates me like poison. Well, at the least, Ican take the hint, and be on the watch. God help Cyprian Davenant if he crosses my threshold with evil intent! He may have deceived meonce. He sha’n’t deceive me again.” Mr. Sinclair went to Ascot next day as he had intend- ed. Any changein his plans would have put his wife upon her guard. He went to the races, looking uncom- monly glum, as his friends informed him ; so gloomy, indeed, were his looks that some of his intimates made haste to hedge their bets about Goblin, making very sure that the Derby winner had been seized by some sudden indisposition. The event rewarded their cau- tion, for Goblin, although brought up to the starting- post in magnificent condition, failed to get a place. Gil- bert bore his disappointment with suipremé stoicism. Goblin’s victory would not have made him smile’;. his failure hardly touched him. It was provoking, of course ; but Destiny and Mr. Sinclair had long. been at odds ; it was only another item added to an old ac- count. « He drove to the station directly Goblin’s race was over, and as there was another race to come, he got a place in the train easily. It started immediately, and | he was in London before seven o’clock, and on his way | to Davenant at eight. He had not stopped to dine. A biscuit and a glass of brandy and soda wereall he cared | to take in his present state of mind, It was striking nine as he left the quiet little Kentish | station, not quite clear as to what his next step ought to be. He had been told to watch his wife sroom between tenand eleven. To do this with any effect, he must get into the house unobserved, or find a safe post of observation in the garden. To annonnce his return home would be, of course, to destroy his chance of making any discovery: and by this time he had made up his. mind that there was domestic treachery to be discovered. As to the means, he cared little or noth- ing. To meet treachery with treachery could he no dishonor. It was dusk, the sweet summer dusk, when he entered the park through a gate seldom used by any one but gamekeepers or servants. The night- ingales were breaking out into sudden gushes of melody, calling and answering one another from distant clumps of chestnut or beach, but Mr. Sin- clair took no heed of the nightingales. In his happiest frame of mind that melodious jug-jugging would have made no particular impression upon his unsensitive ear; to-night all senses were more or less inabeyance. He found his way along the narrow foot- path mechanically, looking neither to the right nor the left, and only roused himself when he came within sight of the house. How to get in unobserved and reach his room with- out meeting any of the servants was the question. A moment’s reflection showed him that this ought tobe easy enough. Half past nine o’clock was the servants’ supper hour at Davenant, and meals in the servants’ hall are an institution whien even domestic convulsions leave unshaken. A funeral makes no dif- ference in the divine right of servants to dine and sup ata certain hour: a wedding may cause some sup- erogatory feasting, but canh y overthrow the regular | order of the daily meals. Mr. Sinclair had no fear, therefore, of any alteration in the routine of the household; and he knew by experience that his ser- vants liked to take their time at the social evening meal, It was twenty minutes to ten when he stopped for a minute or so inthe shrubbery to consider his plans. Between ten and eleven, said the anonymous letter. He had no time to lose. He skirted thelawn in front of the drawing-room windows, keeping in the shadow of the trees. The windows were all open, and he could see the whole of the room. Lamps were burning on the tables, candles on the open piano, but his wife was not there. He went in at one of the windows. The child’s toys were lying on the floor by Constance’s favorite chair, and an open work-basket, a little pile of books ona gipsy table, showed that the room had been lately occu- ied. ee She has gone to the balcony room to keep her ap- pointment,”’ he thought, savagely, for by this time he had accepted the anonymous warning as a truth. The hall was as empty as the drawing-room, the lamps burned dimly, being tho last invention ia lamps that do not illuminate. Gilbert went softly up the shallow old staircase to the corridor which ran the length of the house, and ended at the door of his own snuggery. He reached this door without meeting any- one, went quietly into the poom, and locked the door. The oriel-window of this room commanded the balcony room, which was recessed in the southern front between two projecting wings. There could be no better post of observation for the man who had been told to watch the garden approach to his wife’s rooms. There were matches and candles on the mantel-piece, but to strike alight would be to make his presence known toanyonein the balcony room, so Gilbert wait- ed quietly in the half darkness of a summer night, and found what he wanted easily enough by the sense of touch. There was no moon yet,butafew stars were shining faintly in the calm gray sky. The windows of the balcony room were-dark, and one stood open— the one nearest the iron stair. Gilbert observed this. “She is sitting there in the dark,” he thought, “wait- ing for him. at dark room, that open window, look like guilt. Why has she not her lamp lighted, and her music or her books? No, she has something else to think of.” ; His guns were arranged in artistic order above the | than the calmness ofa mind that realizes the weight improvements in sporting guns. His hands wandered here and there among the stocks till they came to a ta- vorite rifle, tie lightest in his collection, and one of the surest. ‘He had shot many a royal stag with it be, yond the Tweed. He took down this gun, went to a drawer where he kept ammunition, and selected his shot and loaded his gun in a steady, business-like man- ner. There was no faltering of the hand that dropped the cartridge intoits place, though that hand meant murder. ‘ rae “He refused to fight. me,” Gilbert Sinclair said to himself. ‘He lied to me until Iwas. fool enough. to believe his lies. I gave him fair warning. He has tricked and insulted mé in»the face of that. warning. He has entered my house once as an impostor anda liar. If he tries to enter it a second time as a thief and a educer, his blood be upon his own head.’ CHAPTER XXYI. CAUGHT IN THE, TOLLS, TeN o’clock struck with sweet and solemn chime from the old square tower of the parish church as Gilbert | Sinclair opened the lattice and stood by the open win- dow of his dressing-room waiting. There was not a ‘ leaf stirring in the garden, not a shadow save the mo- “ae tionless shadows of the trees. No light in the windows of the balcony-room. The stars brightened in the clear. gray, cndin the soft twilight of summer all things were dimly defined—not dark, but shadowy. fa The quarter chimed from the church tower behind the trees yonder, and still there was no movement in 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 windows of the balcony room. As the sound of the church clock of dwindled slowly into silence, a light appeared in the a center window, a candle held in a woman’s hand, and raised above her head. Gilbert could but faintly distinguish the dark figure in the feeble glimmer of that single candle before figure and light vanished. A signal, evidently, fora 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—stepped lightly across the garden, carefully keeping to the narrow Feel paths, leaying na tell-tale foot-print on flower bed or box border. He reached the iron stair, mounted it swiftly, had his foot on the bal- cony, when Gilbert Sinclair fired with the unerring . aim of a practised 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, and sank in a heap on the gravel path below. 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 away his gun as coolly as ifthe purpose for which he pias § just used it were the most ordinary business of daily lifo; but this mechanical tranquillity had very little signifi- cance. It was rather the stolidity of a sleep-walker and measure of itsacts. He went back to the. window. There lay the figure, huddled in a formless heap as it had fallen, hideously foreshortened from Gilbert's point of sight. The open hands clutched the loose gravel. No sound, no ee yet in the balcony room. “She does not_ know what has happened,’’ said Gil-, bert, grimly. _‘‘ I had better go and tell her.” sib He unlocked the door and went out in the corridor. His 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 empty, then opened the bedroom door and paused on the threshold, looking in, ! Impossible to imagine amore peaceful picture than that which met the husband’s eyes, A night-lamp — 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 herself to. sleep. The door of the inner room stood half open, and © Gilbert could see the little white crib, and the sleeping child. The mother’s face was hardly less placid in its repose than the child's, ; Gilbert Sinclair felt as if this world and this life were one inextricable confusion.. The anonymous letter had - told him where and when to watch—and the writer of that letter had kept faith with him so far, since he had not watched in vain—but this spectacle of innocent re- pose, the mother sleeping near the child, was hardly in keeping. Gilbert paused irresolute, and then went to his wife’s bedside, and roused her roughly with his ey % tae her arm. 4 e dar ue eyes opened suddenly and 1 ie Serr of bewilderment. 2 ee «« Gilber ack to-night? I didn’t. expec uu. Why Ey ,you look at me like that? What] — “re pene =} : *Can’t you guess? You didn’t expect me: You had made your plans accordingly. You had made an ap- pointment with your lover.” ¢ «Gilbert, are you mad ?” “He has not disappointed you—he is here. Get and come and see him. Quick. He is waiting.” “Gilbert, what have you been doing? where have you been ? Calm yourself, for Heaven’s sake.’’ She had risen and put on her slippers and dressing- gown, scared by her husband’s look and the words, not knowing whether to think him mad or drunk—recall- ing with ashudder that other scene in the summer- | house, and excepting some new violence. He would up
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2 ’ > Mouse and clung to him as he knelt by the motionless _. figure, and turned the face upward to the faint light of 4 ‘ et 6 Nv WEAVERS AND WEFT. a ST RT SSSI NOTE SE SE TT LI ES ee, | kill her, perhaps. She trembled a little, believing a in the power of a madman, but tried to be m. “Come,” he said, grasping her wrist, “I am too much @ gentleman to let your lover wait yonder—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. I will come any- where you please,” she said, gravely. From the balcony she saw that prostrate figure at the foot of the stairs, and gave a faint cry of horror. ‘Gilbert; what have you done?” ‘““My duty asa man. Ishould loathe myself ifI had ~ done less.” She followed him down the steps, trembling in every &@ new risen moon. A very familiar face, but not the one Gilbert Sinclair expected to see. The face of his ally, James Wyatt, gray with the dull gray of death, but not distorted. A mean, false face in life or death; but death brought out the dominant expression a little more forcibly than life n “4 had done. “Gilbert, what have you done?” repeated Constance, sobbing hysterically. “Murder,” answered her husband, with a stolid des- pair. “TI hated this fellow badly enough, but I didn’t mean to killhim. I meant to kill Sir Cyprian Dave- nant, 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 might not hear—you and allthe world. Your jeal- ously of him has been madness from first to last, and now it has ended in murder.” “T have been trapped sumehow. set a snare for me.” “What are you todo? Oh, Gilbert, is he dead ?” “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 on the premises ?— 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 be taken 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 Some enemy has No one knows “rere, and to the windows of your room? Constance, what does it mean? Do you know why this man blame ?” But Constance could not answer him, She had fallen, fainting, on the iron stair. 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 ransacked the dead man’s pockets, took out a bundle of letters, put them in his breast pocket, and left the gar- den by the little gate in the holly hedge. The church clock chimed the 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 todo. 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 phraseology, 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 at his old hotel—the place where he was known—and his rooms taken for to-night ? He would have to run for it, but it might be done; and there was an alibi established at once, provided no one Saw him at the station. He reached the rough little by-road leading to the station breathless, as the bell rang. He did not go into the station, where the porters might have recognized him, but scrambled up the embankment upon which the station-master grew his potatoes and strawberry plants, and was on the platform, at the end furthest from the bee abe es and ticket office, asthe train camein. It was full of market people, soldiers or militia, noisy ex- cursionists. He opened a crowded third-class carriage with his key and gotin among therabble. A sergeant inan advanced state of beer was inclined to resent the intrusion, a woman with a baby seconded the sergeant. The atmosphere was cloudy with the reek of bad tobac- ¢o. Not much chance o 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 to his hotel—a small house in{St. James’s, chiefly affect- ed by men about town. “Room ready, James? Yes, of courseitis. You got my telegram yesterday. Been dining with some fellows. ae bring me a brandy-and-soda up stairs. That’s “Sorry the horse lost, sir,” said the man, with re- spectful sympathy. . ‘* What horse ?’’ asked Gilbert, with a vacant look. - Beg your pardon, sir—Goblin, sir. ‘ Thought he was safe to win the Cup. Took the liberty tomake my little venture on him. You bein’ aold customer, you see, sir, and all of us feelin’ interested in him on that account:’’ “That was a good fellow. The ground was too hard for him—goes better in the dirt.’’ He went up to his bedroom after this brief colloquy, leaving the head waiter under the impression that Mr. Sinclair had been dining rather more ireely 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 feller, he’s ’it pretty ’ard to-day, you may depend.” Mr. Sinclair’s last order to the waiter who carried the brandy-and-soda to his bedroom was to be called at half- past six next morning. “You'll have a cab at the door at a quarter past seven,” hesaid; ‘‘I want tocatch the seven-thirty train into Kent. I ought to have got home to-night if I could have done it.” “Yes, sir—hali-past seven, sir, Anything particular you would like for breakfast?” “‘Oh, anything.” ““A bit of fish, sir,and a patch-cock, or a devil ?”’ sug- peaken: the waiter, pertinaciously. Nothing can subdue hat solicitude to obtain an order which is the waiter’s ruling passion. ‘‘ Fish—flesh—anything,”’ cried Gilbert, kicking off his boots. ‘A salmon cutlet, 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 some- how. Achild—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 andacoroner’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,I1l 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 letters out of his breast pocket. ° The first three or fuur he looked at were business letters, chiefly entreaties to ‘“‘renew’’ or carry over, or provide for some little bill just falling due, ‘‘like the best of good fellows.’’ These Gilbert laid aside after a glance ; but there was one at which he started as if he had touched asnake. It wasin the same hand as the anonymous letter that had made him a murderer, This, in plain words, was the gist of the letter—badly 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 méver meant to marry me. Rather hard to discover this after having nursed my delusion so long. Iwas tobealady. I was to take my place in the world. Bah! alllies! 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 tor—handsomely—with fifty pounds a@ year for life—whether I remain single or marry —an independence for a girl like me, you say: Sott, 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 yourown lips what. you mean. Your soft tongue is too strong for me. You could persuade me to do anything, to go anywhere, to serye and obey you as your slave ; but I cannot obey to your letters. Ido not understand. I want to see things clearly—to have your views explained to me. “ You say that Iam 8 orgie meatier that when last we met—and, ah! how kind it was of you to come here at my request !—my 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—comme ce sera loinde toi, mon ami—and you shall hear of me never again. “You tell me that you are ro longer friends with Mr. Sinclair, and that you cannot come to his house, and thatif I want to see you it must that I come to you. That isnot possible without throwing up my place al- together, for the housekeeper here is of the most ty- rannical, and givesno servant leaye to absent herself, andI willnot give up this service until I am assured of my future. Give me, then,a proof of your good faith by coming here. Give memy pittance a year in advance, and show me how it isto be afterward paid me, and I will trouble you no more. “It will be very easy for you to come on the evening of the 18th. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair are going to Ascot on the 15th ; they will be absentsome days. You know o your way to the balcony-room. I shall be waiting for you there between ten and eleven on Thursday eve- ning, and I will show alight in the center window as a signal that the coast is clear. «Come if you wish me to trust you. Come if you do not wish me to betray you. ** Yours, as you treat me, we Duporr.”” 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 face 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. “Tll risk it, and go back to Davenant,” he said. “How do I know what this wretch might do? She might lay her lover’s death at my wife’s door, drag my wife’s namein 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. CROWNER’S QUEST. Ir was between six and seven o’clock in the morning when one of the gardeners at Davenant, going with a barrowtul of bedding-out plants to the old Dutch gar- dener, found James Wyatt lying dead at the bottom of the iron staircase. He rushed into 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 for the police. The dead man was carried into a great disused brew-house at the back of the stables, as a place where he would not hurt any one’s feelings, as the butler remarked, considerately. “What a horful thing!’’ said one housemaid, and “Who could have done it?’ ejaculated another, as the news of the vatastrophe spread through the house. Who was to tell Mrs. Sinclair ? Martha Brigys 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. “Tl 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 good enough for her. She wanted to go by the first train to have a long day of it, she said. The first train goes at six. She must have left this house at half past five.” “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!” “It seems stranger that there should be anyone there to shoot him,’’ remarked the housemaid. Mrs. Sinclair heard of the morning’s discovery with a calmness which astonished her hand-maiden. “TI 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, examining the scene of the murder. The coroner wa wre three o’clock in the afternoon for his inquiry, which 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! Ithought you were miles away—across the channel by this time.’’ “No, Constance, Iam not such a poltroon, Wehave not been a very happy couple, you and I, and God knows I am heartily tired of my life in this country, but Iam not base enough to leave you in the lurch. Who can tell what scandal might arise against you? No, my dear, I shall stop, even if the end shali be a rope.” “Gilbert, for mercy’s sake! Oh, Gilbert!” she cried, b Aap her hands, “how could you do this dreadful ing?’ “How could I? I thought I was ree duty asa man. I was told that a man was to be here—your secret visitor. The man was here atthe very hour I had been told to expect him. Isaw him entering your room by stealth. at could I think but the worst? 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 of honor, and honor teaches every honest man to kill the seducer of his wife or daughter.” * * * * * * The inquest was held at three. Gilbert and several of his household, notably the gardener who found the body, were examined. Dr. Webb gave his evidence as to the nature of the wound, and the hour at which death must, in all probability have occurred. “Did you sleep at Davenant last night, Mr. Sinclair?” asked the coroner. “No; Lonly came up from Ascot yesterday evening, and spent the night in London.” ““ Where ?” “At Hildred’s Hotel, Jermyn Street.’ “Did you dine at the hotel ?”’ “No; I dined at Francatelii’s.”’ This was a yenture. Francatelli’s would, doubtl have been crowded on the night after Ascot, and
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WEAVERS AND WEFT. would be difficult for the waiters to assert that Mr. Sinclair had not dined there. “You dined at Francatelli’s. Where is that?’ asked one of the jury, with rural innocence. “Itis a hotel and restaurant in Piccadilly.” “How long were you at Francatelli’'s asked the cor oner. “T 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 ? “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 theught; 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 ?”’ “ T have a very clear idea,”’ “ Be kind enough to tell us all you can.” “Ooming 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 Park ?” “I Bund this letter addressed to Mr. Wyatt, which I conclude must have been dropped by him last night.” Gilbert handed the coroner Melanie's letter, which had now assumed a crumpled and dilapidated appear- ance, as of a 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 try- ings back, the jury hateneeer 4 open-mouthed, “ This clearly indicates that Mr. Wyatt came here by appointment,’’ remarked the coroner, sagely. “ Whois this Melanie Duport ?’’ “My wife’s maid.” “Why has she not been called ?” It was explained to the coroner that Melanie Duport eae ter this, the jury having duly viewed the body, or, at any rate, made believe to view it, the inquest was adjourned to give the local police time to make their investigatioas, though what they were to investigate seemed a somewhat puzzling question. “They'll bring some London detectives who will look into my room, see those guns, and then put two and two together,’ thought Gilbert. ‘I don’t suppose my alibi would hold water at the assizes. A jury would want some independent evidence to sustain my account of my time between seven o’clock and mid- night yesterday.” * * * * * * * The inquest was adjourned from Friday, the day after the murder, 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 nothing of his whereabouts. He had told Mrs. Sin- clair and his body-servant that he was going to New- market, and would be back in time for the inquiry on Monday ; but on an inquiry being telegraphed to his Newmarket establishment, the reply was to the effect that Mr, Sinclair had not been seen there. - The police had occupied the interval between Friday and Monday in the endeavor to ind Mademoiselle Du- port, but up to noon on Monday that young lady had not been heard of, nor did any new fact arise at the in- juest. ‘ Enlightened by Gilbert Sinclair’s disappearance, the police took a bolder flight. ‘they discovered that the oriel-window in Mr. Sinclair’s study afforded an excel- lent point of aim for the iron stair-case at the foot of which 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 the mode and manner of the act. Subsequent investi- ation showed that the deer-stalker’s rifle in that col- ection carried a bullet aa re oe in size and shape to the bullet extracted from James Wyatt's death-wound. Professional acumen led the inyestiga- tors further to perceive that Mr. Sinclair’s: own ac- count of his time on the evening of the murder was not supported by any other evidence, and that it was possible for him to have come back to Dayenant, and to haye 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 fellow-servants afterward. Suspicion thus aroused, the nextstep was to pursue the suspected man; but Gilbert Sinclair had been lucky enough to get away from England without leay- ing any trail behind him. It had been a particularly usy time on the Liverpool quay that June morning— halfa 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-looking man, with a single portmanteau, had taken his haven and giipped on board the Chimborazo without attracting special notice from any one; and for once in a way Scotland Yard was at fault. The coroner’s inquest dragged its slow length along. No new evidence was elicited to make the case stronger oe .,* against Gilbert Sinclair. The fact of his departure re- mained the one damning fact against him. There was also the fact of Melanie Duport’s disap- pearance on the morning of the murder, and opinions were divided as to which of these two was guilty, 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 Siaclair had the horror of knowing that she was the object of a morbid interest in the mind of the nation at large. She left Davenant almost imme- diately after her husband, and took up her abode at Marchbrook, with Martha Briggs and the little girl for her only companions, until the arrival of Lord Clan- yarde from the Continent. The gad before the coroner ended at last in an open yerdict. The deceased had been shot by some per- son or persons unknown, Davenant was formally taken possession.pf upon Mid- summer-day, not by Sir Cyprian Davenant, but by his lawyer, who installed some of the old family servants ascare-takers. Sir Cyprian had left England, atew days before James Wyatt’s death, on his long-talked-of African expedition. The year wore 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 off 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 tor nearly a year she had remained in ignorance of her husband’s fate. Then Pecan a letter, in a strange hand, but signed by Gilbert Sinclair: ‘DEAR CONSTANCE,—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 calla put-up’ business, and Wyatt was the Iago. He seta trap for me, and got snared himself in the end. “T 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 Christabel was really drowned, and the little girl brought to Davenant while you were ill is a child adopted for the purpose of bringing about your recov- ery. This plan was suggested to me by your father. He knows all about it. “Thave made my will, and sent it to my London lawyers. LIleave youeverything. So, 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 ground. Of course you will marry C.D. Well, I can’t help that. I ought never to have thrust myself between you and your first love. Nothing but misery has come of our marriage. **God bless you, and give you a happier life than you would ever have spent with me. “Your dying husband, ‘* GILBERT SINCLAIR. “P.8.—If I go, the man who writes this, Thomas Grace, tobacco grower, will send you certificate of death, and all necessary evidence. IfI live, you shall hear from me again.” CHAPTER XXVIII. ORUEL KINDNESS. THar 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. ‘There was the deep humiliation of knowing that she had been duped. They had taken advantage of her afflic- 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 a mother’s grateful heart overflowing with its wealth of joy—had been offered upin vain. She had no reason to thankful, Heaven and earth had conspired inill-treating her. God had taken way her reason, and man had imposed upon her folly. Whom 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 ot their receipt of his will, executed on his death-bed. She was sorry for the wasted life, the lonely death in a strange land; and Gilbert Sinclair was mourned with more honest tears than are always shed fora husband’s loss, even when the journey ot wedded life has begun in the rosy light of a romantic love. After those tears given to the untimely dead, her thoughts were full of anger. She could not 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 than to awake tosuch a disappointment as this,’’ she said. And then she thought of the river in the fair German valley, and that agonizing day which she had learned to look back upon as no more than a painful and pro- longed dream. She knew now that it had been no dream, but a hideous reality. While she sat with Gilbert’s letter open before her, abandoned to a tearless despair, the little one’s voice sounded in the corridor, and she heard the light swift footsteps which always made her heart thrill. To-day i ie ’ " é it struck her with an actual pain. She rose involun- tarily and ran to the door, as she had been accustomed to run to meet her pet, rejo’ at the child’s ap- proach ; but with her hand upon door, she stopped suddenly. ‘ , “No, 1 won’t see her—little en eee 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 oe oe in heaven, perhaps, for want of a mother’s love, and seeing her mother’s heart given to another.” The light-tripping steps came nearer, “Mamma! mamma!” called the glad young voice. Constance locked the door. “Go away,” she cried, hoarsely; “I don’t want you.’’ There was a pause—complete silence—and then a burst of sobbing. The strangeness of that tone had chilled the child’s heart. Lips that had hitherto o : breathed love, to-day spoke with the accents of h* Instinct told the child the greatness of the change. __ The little feet retreated slowly down the corridor—_ not so light of step this time—the sobs died away in — the distance. ‘*T will never see her face again,” cried Constanco. “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! No, I will send her away—settle asum of money—provide handsomely for her— 4 child, it is not her crime—but never see her ag f Yet, O God! I love her. And she is crying now, per- haps. The 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 am waiting for you yet.” She went to the little one’s nursery, and found her lying with her face buried in the sofa-pillow, sobbing piteously. To-day’s harsh tones ye her first exper- ience of unkindness. Constance threw herself on the sofa, and caught the child in her arms, drew the little onesie form to her breast, and kissed and cried over i “My pet, Llove you. Ishallloye 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 her, and was comforted, under standing the love, if not the words that told it. “Belle hasn’t been naughty, has she, mamma?” she asked, with innocent wonder, “No, pet, but mamma has been very unhappy. Mamma has had a sad letter. Oh, here comes Martha,’’ as that devoted nurse entered from the night nursery. “‘Do you know, MarthaI think Christabel wants change ofair. You must take her to Hastings for alittle while.” “Lor, mum, that would be nice. But you'll come rons of course. You wouldn’t like to be parted from er.”’ “I don’t know thatI could come, quite at first. i might come afterward, perhaps. Ihave 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 re- vealed to her. Martha had been as completely deceived. as she had, no doubt, Constance argued, for she knew it was not in the girl’s honest nature to assist in a decep- ba The likeness of the lost child had deluded them oth. “I suppose all children of thesame age and com- plexion are alike,” thought Constance; ‘and yet I mneigd my baby was different from all other chil- 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 &@. kind of treason against the beloved dead. The preparations for the journey were hurried over ; Martha was delighted to pack and be off. The child was pleased to go, but cried at parting from “ mamma.’ At two o’clock in the afternoon the 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 was out of the house, and there was no chance of he that light mesa that clear, sweet, childish voice. Yet how dreary the big old house seemed in its solitude, how gloomy the rooms, without that fluttering, changeful soul and all the busy life she made around her—the family of dolls—the of woolly ani- mals, all afflicted with the same unnatural squeak, an internal noise never heard to issue from any animal that ever lived in the realm of zoology. f “Tt would have broken my heart to keep her nea me,” thought Constance, “and I feel as ifit must poeake my heart to lose her.’’ y way of solace, or to sustain herin the nerans pride which revolted st this spurious child, she tried to: think of stabel in heaven. But her thoughts wandered back to the living child, and she found herself vendering whether Martha and her charge were at the end of their journey, and longing id R e telegram that was to announce their safe ar- rival. “What folly !’? she thought, angrily. ‘A stranger’s: child—a creature that is no more to me than any of the children at the infant school, and yet I cannot tear her from my h Fd She sent for 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 surgeon came briskly enough ex- cee to find a mild case of measles, a sound athex nfantile ailment, in the Marchbrook nursery. What was his astonishment when he found Constance pacing P24 oe" a. a. at oe
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be 28 WEAVERS AND WEED... thelong dreary drawing-room, pale, with two burning spots on ‘her cheeks, eyes bright with fevery ir bn.) «My! dear Mrs. Sinclair, what is the matter?’ >; ». yerything,”’ cried Constance... ‘My poor, husband is dead, and on his death-bed wrote me a letter tel- ing’ me the cruelctruths® Your wicked -plot,has been discovered. Yes, wicked; for alllies are wicked.,; You cannot dd evil! that good may ‘come of it, . You sayed my lite, perhaps, but-whatalife! »Lo find that Ihave lavished my love upon» an’ impostor; that when I thanked God upon my knees for His bounteous mer- cies, I had received no gracious gifts He had shown no pity formy sorrows ; but you—you and my father had played at Providence, andyhad pretended to perform a miracle:for tay: !sake. It was .a cruel, infamous de- ception.” os — ‘uit was designedoto save your life, and;:what is even moré precious: than life; your 'reason,’’ replied Dr. Webb, wounded by the harshness-of this attack.! ‘‘ But whatever blame may attach to the stratagem, you may spare me your censure. [I had nothing todo with it. Tke German physician, whom your father brought here, was the adviser from whom the suggestion came. He and your father ‘carried it out between them. I-had nothing to do but look on, and watch the effect, of the shock upon you. That was most happy.” “*The German doctor,” sdfd.Constance, wonderingly. “Yes, l remember him faintly, as it it were a dream— hat winter night. He made me sing, did he not? His voice had a mesmerical effect upon me.’ I obeyed him involuntarily. His presence seemed to give.me comfort, stranger though he was. It wasvery curious. And then he. bent over me and whispered hope, and from that instant I felt happier. And it was all a mockery afterall; it was a trick. Tell me who and what that child is, Dr. Webb.” “IT know- nothing of her’ origin. Lord Clanyarde brought her to Davenant. That is all I can telf you.” “« Fool! fool ! fool!’ cried Constance, with passionate aélf-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?” “You have great cause to be thankful for the res- soration of life and reason, Mrs. Sinclair,’’ said the doctor, reproachfully. “Not if lite 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; Lloved her because I believed she. was 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 tothe work-house ?” “Tam not so heartless ‘as that. Her futureshall be provided 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 everybody else’s affection.” -‘Dhere was'a spice of acidity in the doctor’s tone. He thad attended the child in various small illnesses, had met her .lmost daily riding hér tiny Shetland pony in the lanes, and entertained a warm regard for the pretty little winning’ creature who used to purse up her lips into arosebud for him to kiss, and had evidently: not the least idea that he was old and ugly. : _ “Since you can tell me nothing, I shall send for my father,’ said Constance: “he must know to whom the child belongs.” “T should imagine so,” replied the doctor, glad to feel himself absolved of all blame. It was a painful position, certainly, he thought. He had anticipated, this difficulty from the beginning of things. He was very glad to take his leave of his patient, after hazarding a platitude or two by way of consol- ABO is bere Lord Clanyarde was in Paris enjoying the gayeties of the cheerful season before Lent, and making himself. extremely comfortable in his bachelor room at the Ho- tel Bristol. He had married all his daughters advan- tageously, and buried his wife, and felt that. his mission had been accomplished, and that he was free to make his pathway to the grave as pleasant as he could. A we January to March he found his aged steps traveled asiest over the asphalt of Paris, and as poor Constance was happy with her adopted’ child, he felt no scruples against leaving her to enjoy life in her own way. Mrs. Sinclair's telegram informing him of her hus- band’s death, and entreating him to go to Marchbrook, disturbed the placidity of his temper. ~ * Poor Sinclair |” he muttered, with more fretfulness “Pity he couldn’t have died at a more éonvevient time. I hate crossing the Channel in an éequinoctial gale. And what good can I do at March- brook? However, I suppose I must go. Women are #0 helpless. She never caredmuch tor him, poorchild, and there’s Davenant still unmarried and devoted to her. Anexcellent match, too, since he came into old G@ryffin’s money. Providence orders all things for the best. I hope I shall have a fine night for crossing.” He was with Constance early on the following day, having lost no time in obeying her summons, but he as unprepared for the accusation she brought against than regret. “Upon my life, Constaneé, T was only a passive instru- ment in the whole affair, just like little Webb. It was put tome that this thing must be done to save your life, and I consented.” move 0G % “You let a stranger take my destiny into his hands ?” éried Constance, indignantly. “He was not a stranger. Hé loved you dearly—was 48 anxious for your welfare as even I, your father.” “The German physician, the white-haired old man who told me to hope? Why, he had never .seen me be- fore, in-his lite.” ‘<The man who told you to. hope, who persuaded me to agree to the introduction of a spurious child, was no German doctor, He was neither old nor’ White-haired, anid he had loved you dévotedly foryéars.* "He ‘heard -you were dyin ) of a broken heart, aid came to» you in disguise in order to see if love could devise some means of saving you. The German doctor was' Cyprian Deyen- anti’ ° ie ct This was another blow for Constance. The’ man whom she had believed in as the soul of honor was the originator of the scheme she had denounced as wicked and cruel, and yet she could find no words of blame for him.” She remembered the gentle voice which hadpen- etrated heréar and mind through the thick niist of madness, remembered thé tones that touched her with a wondering sense of something familiar and dear. He had come to herin hér apathy and despair, and from the moment of his coming ‘her life had brightened ana 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 regret. ‘ “You can atleast tell me who and what that child is, papa,” she said, after a long pause. “Indeed, my love, IT know nothing, except that Da- ‘yenant told me she belonged to decently born people, ‘and would never bé 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 fea- tures are so undeveloped—the nosé more like a morsel of putty than anything 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 alady 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 yourown, Youcan then relegate her to her natural position, and by-and-by get her respectably married, or portion her offin 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 reioin 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 beenin England Con- stance felt that there would be little 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 bo 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 tray- eled at so swift arate. 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. a ‘ Constance Sinclair found herself in a fair way to be- come a very rich woman, cpg. about as much for the money her husband had left her as for the withered leaves that fell from the Marchbrook elms 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 ? CHAPTER XXIX, - AFTER MANY DAYS. A COMMON specific for a broken heart when the patient happens to be a person of handsome fortune—for your pauper, hard work is your only cure—is foreign travel. Lord Clanyarde, who hated Marchbrook, now suggested this remedy to his daughter. He felt that it was his duty to afford her the benefit of his protection and society during the first period of her widowhood ; and it struck him that it would be more agreeable for both of them to lead’ a nomadic life than to sit opposite each other on the family hearth and brood upon the sorrows of this mortal life or read the family Bible. “It would be quite the right season for Rome, love, if we were to start at once,” said Lord Clanyarde, sooth- ingly. t He knew ‘several pretty’ women in Romemostly Americans—and it was just possible the hunting in the Campagna might not be over. And there were those Bohemian artists—French and German—with their long hair and velvet coats, and free and easy painting rooms, and wild amusing talk. Lord Clanyarde had just suffi- cient love of art to enjoy that kind of society. Alto- ether he felt that Rome was the place for Constance. he would see St. Peter’s at Easter, and the Colosseum by moonlight, and so on, and the: aching void in her heart would be filled. ‘ f Constance yielded. to. her father’s puagestion with a graceful submission that charmed him. She cared very little whither she went. The little girl was still at Hastings with) honest. Martha. She cried sometimes for mamma, 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 darling’s position. “Very well, dear,” said Lord Clanyarde. ‘‘You have only to get. your boxes packed ; and, by-the-way, you had better write to your banker for circular notes, Five hundred will do to start with.” as Father and daughter went to Italy, and Constance ‘| tried to find’ comtort in thosé Classic scéfes whivh are i. peopled with august shadowS } but her heart was tor: tured by separation from the ¢hild;and’ it was only a resolute pride which withheld’ Her’ from owning the truth—that the little one shé had believed her own was as'dear to her as the baby shé had Jost. “ ; Easter.came with all its religious splendors, its pomps and processions, and the Eternal City was crowded with strangers.. Lord Clanyarde insisted that his danghter should see everything worth seeing, so the pale fair facé in widow’s weeds was.an object.ofinterest and admira- tion for many among the spectators. ... : Lord Clanyarde and his daughter were driving on the Corso one sunny afternoon ‘im the: Easter week; when the gentleman’s attention was attracted by a lady who drove a phaeton with a pair of cobs caparisoned in a, fantastical fashion with silver bells-on their harness. The lady was’ past her first youth; but was still remark- ably handsome, and was’ dressed with an artistic sense 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 Clanyarde. “ Hér 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 a¢quaint- ance of the London clubs, and pulled up his horses on purpose to interrogate him about the unknown in the Spanish hat, ** Don’t you know her?’ asked Captain Flittér, with a surprised air. ‘‘Yes, she’s handsome, but passee ; sur le vetour.”” *“Who is she ?” repeated Lord Clanyarde. : Captain Flitter looked curiously at Mrs. Sinclair before he answered, “Her name is Walsingham—widow of a Colonel Wal- | singham—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 eeatioted 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 lounger. “She never stays long anywhere, I believe; very erra- tic ; likes artists and musical people, and that sort of thing; has reception every Saturday evening. Talways go. One meets people one doesn’t see elsewhere—not the regulation tred-mill, you know.” Lord Clanyarde asked no more. He would be sure to meet Flitter at one of the artists’ rooms, and could ask Lay as many questions about Mrs. Walsingham as he iked. The two men met that véry evening, and the re- sult of their conversation was Lord 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 socharmed himin 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 respect in that she had not invoked the aid of art to disguise 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 life. “Who was that lady in’ deep mourning you were driving with yesterday?’ Mrs. Walsingham asked presently, ““My youngest daughter, Mrs. Sinclair. her husband, I think, some years ago. dead,” “Yes, saw his death in the Times, in that dismal You knew He is lately column where we shall all appear in due course, I suppose.” ‘ ‘ Lord Clanyarde looked at the speaker thoughtfully. It occurred to him that it might not be long she too before Cape into that shadowy procession which is always ‘traveling through the columns of our favorite news- paper, the subject of a few careless exclamations. ‘*Dear me, who would have thought it? It was only the other day we saw her. I wonder who gets her money ?” “Yes, he died in South America.. You heard the story, I suppose. A most unfortunate business—his confidential solicitor shot in Sinclair’s own garden by a little French girl he had been foolish enough to get en- tangled with. Tho jealous little viper contrived to give the police the slip, and Sinclair saw himself in danger of being brought uhpleantly into the business, so he wisely left the country.” “You believe that it was Melanie Duport who shot Mr. Wyatt?” Mrs. Walsingham exclaimed, eagerly, “What, you remember the girl’s name ? Yes, there can hardly bea doubt as to her guilt. Who else had any motive for killing him? The creature’s letter luring him to the spot was found inthe park, and she disap- peared on the morning of the murder. Those two facts are convincing, I should think,’ concluded Lord Clan- yarde, somewhat warmly. He wanted to assoilzie his own race from the contam- ination of haying intermarried with a murderer. For the name of Sinclair, innocent or guilty, he cared yery little; but a man whose grandchildren were grow- ing big enough for Eton and ow had reason to be careful of the family repute. « Yes, she was a wicked creature,”’ said Mrs. Walsing- ’ | » * * » wt ees ae why.
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é WEAVERS AND WEFT. ae SSS eee ee SSS SS SS SS £ hd ; ye : ham, thoughfully; “she had a natural bent toward evil.” 708 ; ‘« You speak as if you had known her.” Mrs. Walsingham looked confused, “Tread the account of that dreadful business in the newspapers,” she said. 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 has had another trouble to bear. : “Indeed! Iam sorry,’ said Mrs. Walsingham, with a thoughtful look. : “Yes; we did all for the best. She was dangerousl ill, you know, about a year and a half ago, and we+well, it was foolish, perhaps, though the plan succeeded for the moment—we made her believe that her little girl had been. saved from drowning at Schonesthal, in the Black Forest. You may have heard of the circum+ stance.” “ Yes, yes.” : “It was quite wonderful. She received the strange child we introduced to her with delight—never doubted its identity with her own baby—and all went on well till poor Sinclair’s death; but on his death-bed he wrote her a letter telling her ’’—— «That the child was not her own!” exclaimed Mrs. baba 7 pert “That must have hit her hard.” “It did, poor girl. She has not yet recovered the blow, and I fear never will. What I most dread is her sink- ing back into the state in which shé was the winter before last.”” oy “Where is Sir Cyprian Davenant?’’ asked Mrs. Wals- ingham, somewhat irreleyantly. + “ At the other end of the world, Isuppose. 1 believe he started for Africa some time last autumn.” “Was there not some kind of early attachment be- tween him and Mrs, Sinclair? Pardon me for asking such a question.” “Yes. I believe Davenant would have proposed for Constance if his circumstances had permitted him to hope for my consent.’’ : “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 girlhood,” ' “T doubt if anything would reconcile her to the loss of the little girl. Her affection for that child was an infatuation.” , 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 offer of bringing Constance to the lady’s receptions ; for the memory of that old alliance between Mrs. Wal- singham and Gilbert Sinclair hung like a cloud over her reputation. No one had any specific charge to bring against her, but it was remembered that Sinclair ieadistones her devoted slave for a long time, and had ended his slavery by marrying somebody else. “She’s a charming woman, you know,” said Lord Clanyarde to the friend who had presented him to Mrs. Walsingham, “ but)I, feel a kind of awkwardness about asking her to call upon my daughter. You see, I don’t exactly understand her relations with poor Sinclair.’’ Fortunately Mrs. Walsingham made no suggestion about calling on Mrs. Sinclair. She welcomed Lord Clanyarde graciously whenever he chose to go to her Saturday evenings. He had heard the best music, met the nicest people, eat Neapolitan ices in cool, dimly lighted rooms, and admired the tading beauties of the hostess. Shereminded him of an autumn afternoon, The same 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 struggle in that broken heart. She would not go back to England and the spurious Christabel, though her heart yearned for that guiltless impostor. She would not suffer another woman’s child to hold the place of her lost darling ; no, not even though that strange child had made itself dearer to her than life. Mrs. Sinclair’s doctor informed Lord Clanyarde that Rome was getting too warm for his patient, whereupon that anxious parent was fain to tear himself away from the pleasures of the seven-hilled city and those delight- ful evenings at Mrs. Walsingham’s. eGts i “Our medical man threatens me with typhoid fever and all manner of horrors if I keep my daughter here any longer,” he said; ‘‘so we start for the Engardine almost immediately. You will not stay much longer in Rome, I suppose ?” “J don’t know,” answered Mrs. Walsingham, care- lessly; “the place suits me better than any other... I: am tired to death of London and Paris. Thereis some pleasure in life here; and I should like to be buried in the cemetery wheré Keats ‘lies.’’ : “Yes, it’s a nice place to: be buried in, if we must be: buried at all; but that’s rather a gioomy consideration. {should strongly advise you to spend the summer in a healthier climate, ane leave the burial question to ehance.’’, : “Oh, I dare say Ishall soon get’ tired of Rome. I ‘Elways get tired’ of Wo before I ‘have been’ very | long in them; andi See ee bad, Rae TG Naa Re ‘left at te end of Lord Clanyarde aughter a end o nea: There were fever cases talked of already, and all the American tourists had fled. Lord Clanyarde ‘felt he was not getting awayjan hour too soon. ‘They ,dawdled about about among Swiss mountains, living a life of rustic simplicity that was wondrously beneficial to Constance, but somewhat painful to Lord Clanyarde, ' ')&E the beginning of July they had established them ' selves at @ lonely little village in the shadow of white, the artists go away, L. shall go | 80 passed beyond the region of actual life into a state of “T hope Mrs, Sinclair has quite’ m mountains, and here Constance felt as ifshe had | th: Pe Mae repose, a kind of painless purgatory. She had done | | {He gave the direction to the’ driver, and the mam with the “world and worldly interests and affections. Even the little stranger’s heart must have been weaned from her by this time. Lord Clanyarde saw the gradual decay of his daugh- ter’s strength, and trembled for the issue. She had grown dearer to him in this time of close, companion- ship than she had ever been since the far-off days when she was little Connie, the youngest and loveliest of his daughters; He told himself that unless somethin, occurred to'rouse her from:this 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, Lord Clanyarde / prayed more earnestly than’ he had ever done. before in his, self-indulgent life; and a feomgad to him that Providence heard his cry for elp. One morning there came a letter from Rome which | startled father and daughter alike. It was from Mrs. Walsingham, written in a tremulous hand, and-ad-, dressed so Lord Clanyarde. — . : ““They tell me Iam dying, and the near approach of death has melted the ice about my heart. Ihave been a very wicked woman, and now conscience urges me to make you what poor reparation I can fora most cruél and treacherous revenge—not upon the man who wronged me, but upon the innocent girl for whose sake I was deserted. ; “Ihave deeply injured your daughter, Lord Clan- garde, and I meant to carry the secret of that wrong to he grave—to leave her desolate and childless to the end. But the long lonely nights, the pain and weariness of decay, the dreary seclusion from the busy outer world’| ary —these have done their work. Conscience, 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 ive your daughter back the years that have been rkened by sorrow—her wasted tears, her vain regrets. But I may do something. Let her come'to me—let her stand beside my deatbh-bed,and I will whisper the story of my crime into her ear. I will not write it, She must come quickly if she wishes to hear what I have to tell, for death stares me in the face, and.this letter may be Tong reaching you. Every day drifts me further down the dark river. How swiftly it rushes sometimes in the dreary night-watches! I can fancy I hear the ripple of the tide and the hollow moan of the great ocean that lies before me—the unknown sea of death 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 had been more than a week on the road, and was re-addressed from the hotel where Lord Clan- yarde and his daughtér had stayed at the beginning of their tour. “Tt’s a curious business,” said Lord Clanyarde, doubt- fully, after he had given Constance the letter. “I be- lieve her mind is affected, 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 init, 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 pahenny lady could tell. “This letter bears the stamp of truth,” said Con- stance, firmly. ‘‘I shall go, papa. Pray get a carriage, and let us start/as quickly as possible.” “But, my love, consider the unhealthiness, of Rome at this time of year. We might as well go and live in a fever hospital. The Pontine Marshes, you know, steam- ing with malaria, We should be digging our, own graves.’’ ‘You need not go there unless you like, papa, but I shall not lose an hour. She has something to confess —some wrong done me—something about Christabel, perhaps,”’ cried Constance; trembling with excitement. “My dear, girl, be calm.; What can this lady know about Christabel ?’’ “IT don’t know, but I must hear what she has to tell. ‘ Wasted tears—vain regrets,’ That must mean that I have grieved needlessly. O God, does it mean that my darling is still alive?” “Tf you go on like this, Constance, you'll be in a burning fever before you get to, Rome,”’ remonstrated Lord Clanyarde, ; : - He saw that the only wise course was to yield to his daughter's wishes, att lost no time in making arrange- ments for the journey back to Rome, The ‘apathy which had made him so anxious about Constance was quite gone.. She was full of-eagerness.and excitement, and insisted on traveling as quickly as possible, forego- ing all rest upon the journey. oa ey entered Rome in the summer. sunset,) the city looking beautiful as. a dream... The pimoapngre was cool and balmy, but Lord Clanyarde looked witha shudder at the silvery mists floating over the valleys, and fanciodhe!saw the malaria fiend..grinning at him behind that.diaphanous yail. . Constance thought of nothing but the Aad sed for which she’ had come. | “Tell the man to drive straight to Mrs. Walsingham’s, papa,” she'said; eagerly. ©, it-a3v0 Te “But, my love, hadn’t he better take us to the hotel? We had nothing but an omelet for breakfast, and a basket of peaches and a cup of Ghocolate on the road. I’m thoroughly exhausted. We won’tstop for an elab- orate dinner. A cutlet and a bottle of Bordeaux will be enouw h.” AW : se NW * WIOW OF “You can Jeave me at Mrs, Walsingham’s,.and)go on t6 the hotelito dine.” 5 4 Bootie als “ Never mind me, my loye,’” said ‘Lora Clanyarde, re- signedly. ipoobiaay first; but a death-bed confession, you know, that must be a4 long business,” -..;. .., “Since you’re 80 anxious, we'll ‘govand-see | pulled up his tired horses before one of the stately pal- aces of the past.’’ od 4 Constance and her father ascended to the first floor. The house was full of shadows at this tranqnil evening hour, and the stair¢ase was dimly lighted bya lamy burning before a statue of the Virgin. An Italian man-servant admitted them :to an ante room lavishly decorated with pictures and bric-a-brac- aroom in which Lord Clanyarde had eaten Neapolitan ices or sipped coffee on those Saturday evenings whicl Mrs. Walsingham had’made so agreeable to him, He had never seen the room empty before to-night, and it ‘had a sinpularly desolate look to his fancy in the. flick- ering light of a pair of wax candles that had burned down to the sockets of the Pompeian bronze candle- sticks on the velvet-draped mantel-piece. - abe is your mistress?” Lord COlanyarde. asked, erly. ; he Italian shrugged his shoulders. “Alas, Excellency, it goes always the same. She still exists, that is all.’’ ; “Tell her Mrs Sinclair has'come from Switzerland in the hope of seeing her.” ‘ The Italian summoned Mrs. Walsingham’s maid, who requested Constance to come ationce to the sick-room. ‘She was expected, the woman said. . But she must prepare herself to be shocked by. Mrs. Walsingham’s. appearance. Her end seemed mear:) «> ; “You had better go to your hotel, papa,’’? said Con- stance. “I may’ have! to’ stay herealong time. You can come back for me by-and-by.’”’ _ On reflection Lord Clanyarde considered this the best ment, He really wanted his \dinner. Indeed, he had never yet found any crisisin life so solemmas to. obliterate that want. : ‘ ss bi The servant led the way through a suit of reception- rooms to a tall door at the end of.a spacious saloon, This opened into Mrs. Walsinghami’s bedroom, which was the last room on this side of the house; a noble: chamber, with windows lopking two ways—one toward the hills, the other over the stately roofs. and temples: of thé city. Both windows were wide open, and. there wae no light in the room save the rosy glow of sunset. The bed was in an alcove, voluminously draped with amber damask and Roman lace. Mrs. Walsingham was. ina sitting position, propped up with pillows, facing the sun-glow beyond the purple hills. ‘ There was a second door opening on to the.staircase, and as Constance entered, some one—a man—lett 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,” gaspedithe dying woman, ‘ thank God! You can go, Morris,” to the maid; “I will ring if I want you. Come here, Mrs. Sinclair, Sit down by my side. There is no time to lose. My breath fails me very often. You must excuse—be patient,” “Pray do not distress yourself,’’ said Constance, seat- ing hérself in the chair beside the bed; ‘‘I can stay as long as you like.” “How gently you speak to me! hut you. don’t know. You will look at me differently presently—not with those compassionate eyes. I am an awiul apecteciignn Inot?—living death. Would you believe that I was once a beauty? Sant painted my portrait when we were both at our best ’’—with a bitter little laugh. “T have not lost an hour in coming to you, said Constance. “If you have done mea wrong that you can by any means atone for, pray do not lose time.” “Death is waiting at my door. Yes, must be quick. But it'is so’horrible to talk of it, such, mean, low treachery. Not a great revenge; a pitiful, paltry act. of spitefulness. Oh, ifyou knew howI loved Gilbert. Sinclair, how firmly I believed in his love—yes, and he was fond of. me, until the luckless day you crossed his. path and stole his heart from me.” “TI never knew”’—falteéred Constance. : “ No, you wronged mé ignorantly; but that did not make my loss lighter to bear: I hated you for it: Yea, I measured my hatred for you by my love for him. Life was intolerable to me without him, and one day I vowed that I would make your life intolerable tovyou. I was told that you were making an idol of your child, that your happiness was bound up in that baby's exist- ence, and I resolved that the child should be taken’ from, oy 0 hg ee , 4 y “Wretch |” cried Constance, starting up in sudden horror, ‘‘ You were there—at Schonesthal—you pushed her down the slope—it was not accident’ —— - “No, no, I was notquite so bad as that—not capable of taking that sweet young life, ‘To take her from you, ee was enough. To make your days miscrable—to make you drink the cup of tears; as I had dome—because of you. That was my end and aim, Ifound awilling ool in’ your h nursemaid) a ‘skillful coadjutor in ames Wyatt.’ Everything was well planned.” The girl had learned to swim, ‘the year before, at Ostend, and was not afraid to ‘plunge into the river ;when'she saw some one coming, This gave # look of) reality'to the. business. I met Melanie Duport at the ruins:that Sep- tember morning} ahdtovk your baby from-her; I car- ried her'away in my own arms:to the place:where’a car- riage was waiting forme, and: drove:straight to Baden, ‘and from Baden traveled ‘as fast!as Ix could to Brussels, keeping the baby in my own charge all theawhile.” — “She was not; drowned; then. Thank God! thank God?” cried Constance, sinking on her knees — the bed, and liftin Upeher heart in praise and th Of Mrs. Walsingham’s guilt—of the vain sor- t in this mo- giving. Tec REM NCMC AE “Where is 8 kdadi bb ? What have you done with her? Where have you hidden her all this time?” _Awan smil¢ crept over therashen face ef|the dying sinner, . bey t tr vl oyskerod tearn} a ae “We are ‘strange creatures, we Wo: ‘en —hiyeterien % a 7 u
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30 , even to ourselves.” she said. ‘I took your child awa from you, and hearing qe were dying broken-hearted, gave her back to you. Your old lover pleaded strongly. I gave the little one into Sir Cyprian Davenant’s keep- ing. I know no more.” “Then I was not deceived. My Christabe]—it was my Christabel they brought back tome. The instinct of a mother’s heart was nota delusion and a snare.’” “Can you pity—pardon?” faltered Mrs. Walsing- ham. “ Yes, I forgive you for all—for months of blank, hope- sess grief—all—because of what you have told me to- night. If you had taken this secret to the grave—if I had never known—I should have gone on steeling my heart against my darling; I should have thrust her from me, left her motherless in this cruel world, and thought that I was doing my duty. Yes, I forgive. You have wronged me cruelly ; and it was heartless, treacherous, abominable, what you did at Schonesthal ; but I forgive you all for the sake of this blessed moment. May God pardon and pity you, as I do!” “You are an angel,” sighed Mrs. Walsingham, stretch- ing out a feeble hand, which Constance pressed tenderly in both herown. Deathis @ great healer of by-gone ‘wro! js And will you forgive the friend who brought you your own child, believing that he waa bringing upon you 4 stranger, and who experimentalized with your maternal love in the hope of winning you from the ve » gam “You mean Sir Cyprian Davenant?’’ said Con- atance, “Yes.” “I felt very angry with him when my father told me what he haddone; but Iam sure all he did was. done out ofaffection for an old friend. I have nothing to forgive.” y “Tam glad to hear you say that. Sir Cyprian hag re- thet: turned from Africa after a succesful expedition. Ho is in Rome.” Constance’s pale cheek grew a shade paler. “He isin Rome. and has paid me many visits in this sick-room. He has talked to meof your gentleness— our divine compassion. But for that I do not think t should ever have had the courage to send for Ou facts % “Tthank 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. ; ‘ §$he struck the bell three times, and at the third i chime the door opened and Cyprian Davenant canie in. f it was he who had withdrawn quietly at Mrs. Sin- clair’s entrance, and whom she had mistaken for the > doctor. “She has forgiven all,’ said Mrs. Walsingham. ‘You were rizht when you called her an angel. And now let ia 3 me do one good thing on my death-bed. Let me be gure that the rest of her life will be bright and happy, that there will be a strong arm and a true heart between her and sorrow. It will help to lift the burden trom my conscience if I can be sure of that.” : L _. Constance spoke not a word, She stood before her ' first lover blushing like a schoolgirl. She dared not : lift her eyes to his face. Happily 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,” hhe said. “May he never part us any more! I think ; ‘He meant us to live and die together.” Constance did not question this assertion. Her heart qmutely echoed her lover's words. 7 * * * * * * * 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 fat and sleek F during their period of comparative idleness, rejviced and made merry at the coming home of 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 . persanat elevation, Even the neighboring villages had their share in the gladness, and there were more bonfires and triumphal arches be- tween the railway station and the park gates on the evening of Sir Cyprian’s return with his beautiful wife, 4 Lord Clanyarde’s daughter, than had ever been seen be- fore by the oldest inhabitant. Baby Christabel 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 gamekeeper, resented as s personal affront, “Bar one, Patty,” he remonstrated. ‘“Ishould think vyour own wedding-day 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 esa consent to get married if my mistress ln oe as “Set you the example,” cried James, with a guffaw. ey: And a very good example itis, too. Sir Cyprian has » a promised me the new lodge at the south gate—five mint cbr scullery. That’s the missus’s doing, I’ll , [TRE BND.) THE STRUGGLE. "Twas a strange scene! A dark, weird, le- poe forest bordered by precipitous rocks, be- w hich murmured an arm of the sea. EES THE STRUGGLE. The moon was a beautiful crescent, and the mr 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’en! the very name is associated with the wild revels of fairies, and we seem to hear their low, tinkling laugh. Elfs, 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 forms, 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 ineffable peace, adoration, and gratitude shone on their features, that one would have thought the angel had kissed their brows and left an aureola of splen- dor. And is it not our angel nature that loves? Does not the pureand entire love of two hearts emanate from the White Throne, and partake of the essence of that pure ether 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 vast and silent plain, filled with sleeping seraphs, who dream for aye 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 +o look upon ’twould make the heart glad, and a beauty of the soul which threw an exquisite grandeur over her. She had a strange, dreamy look, 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 ome, 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- 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 allelse that makes man the grand being he should be. He had wan- dered over the world, seen every type of beau- 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 Rock, he beheld a form of beauty standing there, her face glowing with inspira- 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 herhome. Percy gazed upon her as one wouldat 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. Long 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 seraph, stayed in its wander- ings at the humblest lodge. But every being 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. Why are such stars permitted to veil their splendor, 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 secréts 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 eyen then hanging its rainbow-hued curtains’ all around her. ““Do, William, jest look at Edith, standin’ in the door, gazin’ at nothin’, with those great, strange eyes of hers. She's always peerin’ at somethif’ 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 he how humble it was? That bright creature was there. Edith’s parents readily consented to take the stranger, and here, for a time, at least, Percy found rest. Who/doubts that two such beings, brought to- gether, would love? They read, conversed, 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 vales. They loved nature and worshiped each other. They never thought of dissembling. From the first flash of the eye, the flash of the soul’s splendor met each being, they were one, had always been one. He had been her ideal—the beautiful invisi- ble that ever soothed her; he had come to her in the shadowy vale of dreamland; it was his
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> i THE STRUGGLE. —— 7 presence she had felt 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 fritter 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 they had wandered to the trysting place—the Sybil’s Rock. ‘*They, too, felt the influence of the place and time. They were talking of their great love, when Percy suddenly exclaimed: ‘*To-night, Edith, pledge me your affection. Name the day when I shall say to the world, you are mine ; when I shall call thee wife.” Edith spoke not for some time- then taking his hand she said : ‘* Let us kneel.” They knelt down, these two strange beings, and with clasped hands and upturned faces they prayed to Him who guided all things—prayed that their life and love might be pure; and 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 yearfrom then heshould 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 hopes. Even while they were penciling a golden future a cloud of dense opaqueness ob- secured the light of the moon, and 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. * * * ok * * * 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. Cold to others, to his boy he was ever gentle and loving. Percy, who had never known a mother’s love, fully re- turned his father’s affection. They had always traveled together till the last tour of Percy’s. It isstrange 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 moments.” ‘‘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 pledged to her,” ‘‘You will, you must marry her!” shrieked the father; ‘‘swear it now!” And he rose up in terrible agony. j Percy felt as if a hand of iron was crushing his very being. . Still a hand clenched his, and a voice cried : “Swear it now!” ‘“‘T swear it, and the Lord forgive me for the wrong I am forced to do her.” ‘‘ Now, my son, I shall die in peace: I have talked with Maude , she has long loved you, and you will marry her and be happy. You will see in my private desk the dark history which you ew. Iam dying; come nearer, my son.” A few more words, a last kiss, and the soul of the proud man was borne to the unknown. Percy knew nothing, felt nothing. In one short hour he lad felt that intense ? 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 his 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 pall, heavy and black, draped his soul. 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—prayed to die! : If he could only die, then she would meet him in Heaven. But to live on—to call another wife—to loo 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 reality, 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 her truest friend; and when she died he swore he would 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 lostidol; her innocent beauty only added to his pain. She was shocked by his appearance; he seemed years older. He told her all, gently, but would oft press her wildly to him, as er 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 silently into each other’s faces, then those two impassioned natures met in a last embrace. “Tt 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, hoping that her woman’s nature would revolt against such a hollow marriage ; but he knew her not. Maude was an orphan, proud and self-willed. She had never had a wish crossed. She who hadscorned suitor after suitor—was she now tobe mocked? She loved Percy as deeply as one of her selfish nature could, and she would marry him, even if he despised her. The poetical, dreamy Edith to be preferred to a And then, was he not sworn to marry r? But Percy lingered, and long delayed the evil day ; he could 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 oL aniversary of that day was over, then plunge into the doomed whirlpool. Edith, 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, Edith!. I declare, child, you scare me with your white, mournful face; and you look like a shadow. I do believe the girl is breaking her heart after thathandsome, proud fellow that was here boardin’ last summer! Why don’t you marry Will Dawson? He loves you. Come, forget that high-minded upstart! I could have told you all such smooth-voiced people are deceitful. Why don't you be plucky and— But what ails you, child?” she ex- claimed, as a sharp cry of pain broke from the lips of Edith. ‘ ‘Mother, mother! don’t’ speak to me now; kiss me once more.” And ete her mother knew it she was gone. On, on she sped till she reached the Sybil's Rock, then she threw herself down, and none but He knew her fierce struggle. ‘*Father, Father!” she prayed, ‘‘if it be thy will, let the cup pass from me to-night. Oh, Father, let the angel take me home !” gentle Edith, it was sad to see her. Long she wrestled, till darkness shadowed the __ earth, and a strange peace filled herheart. Ere — long the tide would rise, but still she lingered. She heard a step. Nearer and nearer it came; she-felt a breath upon her cheek, and still she could not speak. On looking up an exclamation of joy burst from her lips; they met in a wild embrace, and to- gether they mingled tears of gratitude. ‘‘Edith, to-day I thought of last Hallowe’en. To-night, you were to stand beside me at the altar. Oh, Edith, it was too much for me. I had to visit once more the sacred rock ere I 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. ‘Tt is near the hour we were to be married,” Percy whispered. Just then the moon broke out from under a heavy cloud, and shone calm and_beantiful over a grand and awful scene. Edith grasped Percy’s arm, pointed below, and cried : «Percy, 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 ineffable 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 happy that at last they would find rest—at last realize 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 pointed to the star- spangled arch above, their lips met, and the waters closed over them. There was rustling of pinions, the glitter of a even then they felt the white robe, a low, soft voice, a halo of celestial glory passed over the waters, and two souls were borne to infinitude, and the waves sighed and heaved on. The morning dawned on two white faces. Very beautiful they looked 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 added to the pearly ranks of immortality. ath out, which was over ~ \ >
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