"Why, Rue, darling," exclaimed her sister, "what is it?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," she cried hastily, wiping her eyes and

cheering up. "Only one of my foolish fits, Sagey. There, there, good

night."

"But you are ill," said Sage, anxiously.

"Ill, dear? No; it is only a little hysterical feeling that I have

sometimes," and wishing her sister good night in the most affectionate

manner, Sage left her bending over the little bedstead where her

children slept, and as Sage closed the door she saw Rue sinking down

upon her knees.

It was not a pleasant time, for Cyril had grown short and sulky whenever

Frank came, and seeing this, Frank laughed, and became unpleasantly

attentive to his brother's young wife.

"If he won't be polite to you, Sage, I will," he cried. "I want you to

have pleasant memories of me when I am gone."

"But are you going soon?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, I shall go soon," he replied; "I'm tired of this narrow

country. Ah, Portlock, you should come with me."

"No, no," exclaimed Mrs Portlock, excitedly. "My husband could not

think of such a thing."

The Churchwarden, who was puffing away at his pipe when this was said,

gave Frank Mallow a peculiar look, to which that gentleman nodded and

stroked his dark beard.

"Well, I don't know, mother," he said; "farming's getting very bad here,

and those who emigrate seem to do very well."

"Oh, no, Joseph; I don't believe they do," cried Mrs Portlock, plaiting

away at her apron, so as to produce the effect since become fashionable

under the name of kilting.

"Why, look at young Luke Ross," said the Churchwarden; "he's emigrated

to London, and they say getting on wonderful."

"Home's quite good enough for me, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock, "and I

wouldn't go on any consideration."

Frank Mallow took up the ball here, but the Churchwarden saw that Sage

had turned pale and was bending over her work, so he stopped, and Frank

went on painting the pictures of Australian life in the most

highly-coloured style.

This visit became an extremely painful one to Sage, for, to Cyril's

great annoyance, Frank came more and more, bantering his brother on his

ill-humour, taking not the slightest notice of Mrs Berry, who had

turned very cold and reserved to him now, and evidently trying to pique

her by his attentions to Sage.

The latter began to look upon him with horror, and dreaded Cyril's

absences, which were very frequent, there always being something to

shoot over at Gatley, or a trip to make somewhere; and at last it became

almost a matter of course, as soon as Cyril had gone, for Frank to come

sauntering in to have a chat with the Churchwarden upon sheep.

As a rule the Churchwarden would be absent, and Mrs Portlock would

begin to exert herself to make the visitor's stay comfortable, always

contriving a little whispered conversation with him in the course of his

visit, and begging him not to induce Portlock to emigrate. For it would

be such a pity at his age, she whispered. And then, as soon as he got

free, he would begin chatting to Sage, who sat there afraid to seem

cold, but all the time being ill at ease, for a horrible suspicion had

come over her, and fight against it how she would, she could not drive

it away.

A great change had come over Rue, and it seemed to Sage so horrible,

that she reproached herself for harbouring the idea that her sister's

affection had come back for her old lover; that he was trying all he

could to win her from her duty as a wife and mother; and that she, Sage,

was being used as a blind to hide the real state of the case from her

aunt and uncle. As for John Berry, there was no need to try and blind

him, for in his simple, honest fashion he had the fondest trust in his

wife; and if any one had hinted that she was falling away from him, if

it had been a man, he would have struck him down.

A fortnight passed, and the frost still lasted. The Churchwarden, in

his genial hospitality, said that it was a glorious time, but to Sage it

was one of intense mental pain. Cyril had gone back to London, but was

to come back and fetch her; but even if he had been there, Sage would

have shrunk from speaking to him, seeing what a horrible accusation she

would be making against her own sister and his brother; and she shrank

from it the more from a dread of saying or doing anything to estrange

Cyril, who had certainly been of late colder than his wont.

"Should she tell Julia?"

No, she seemed ill, and to avoid her now, and Sage was too proud to

attempt to force herself upon her sister-in-law if she wished to keep

away.

It was a terrible time for her, as she realised more and more, from

various little things she saw, that Frank Mallow had, from old

associations, regained his old power over Rue, and to her horror she

felt certain that they had had stolen interviews.

"What should she do?" she asked herself; and now she wished that Cyril

was back, for suddenly, just as Sage was praying that John Berry would

make up his mind to go home, he announced his intention of going alone.

"It's bitter cold there after the place has been shut up, Churchwarden,

and if thou does not mind I'll leave Rue and the little ones, and come

over and fetch them in about a week's time."

Frank glanced at Sage, and their eyes met, sending a thrill of horror

through the latter, as she felt more and more sure that her sister was

growing weaker; and Sage closed her eyes, and bitterly reproached her

husband for leaving her alone at such a time.

She formed a dozen plans, but rejected them all, and tried to invent

others. She felt that she could not speak to her uncle and aunt; she

dared not accuse her sister, for she was not sure, and hour after hour

she was praying that she might have been deceived; but all the same she

felt bound to act, and finally she determined that she would never leave

Rue alone when Frank Mallow was in the house.

Sage's plan was good, but she could not keep to it; and one day, as she

was about to enter the dining-room, where she had left her sister alone

for a few moments, she heard her say, in a piteous voice--

"Oh, Frank, spare me! I cannot--I dare not?"

"It is too late now," he said. "All is arranged. You must!"

Sage did not enter the room, but stood there trembling as she heard her

aunt go in by the farther door, and begin chattering to them both; but,

with her blood seeming to run cold, she hurried up to her own room, and

threw herself on her knees to pray for strength and wisdom at this

crisis.

If she told her uncle or her aunt, the consequences seemed to be

terrible. If she spoke to Rue, she foresaw that her sister would deny

all.

She now determined what to do. She would attack Frank himself, and

insist upon his leaving the house at once, never to return; but on going

down to put her plan into effect, she found that he was gone, and he did

not return.

To her surprise, Rue seemed to have grown calmer now, and as the evening

wore on she was almost cheerful, as if a load was off her mind.

Her equanimity almost disarmed Sage, and about eight o'clock, as they

were sitting with their aunt and uncle, listening to the roaring of the

wind, the precursor of a snow-storm, Sage sat quite still as her sister

rose and said that she wanted to go up and see if the children were

asleep.

Taking a candle, Rue lit it, and her face seemed very bright as she

stood for a moment looking at the little party in the room.

"Let me see," said the Churchwarden; "I forgot to tell you, my dear. I

saw the parson this afternoon. He had had a letter from Cyril."

"From Cyril?" cried Sage, eagerly.

"Yes, my dear; and he said it was just possible that he might be down

to-night."

"And he did not write and tell me," thought Sage, as her sister left the

room.

"It will be a roarer to-night," said the Churchwarden, as the wind

howled in the broad chimney, and the soft dull patting noise of falling

flakes could be heard upon the window-panes. "Shouldn't wonder if we

had a power o' snow."

"And he did not write and say he was coming," thought Sage again, as a

curious pang seemed to be followed by a dull aching in her breast.

"Ah!" continued the Churchwarden, tapping his pipe on the great

dog-irons, and meditatively putting the burning wood together with his

boot, "I thought it was coming, mother. We shall be snowed up safe. If

Cyril Mallow is under a good roof anywhere, he'll stay there for the

night, if he's got the brains I give him the credit for."

Just then a curious wailing noise made by the wind fell upon Sage's ear,

and it seemed to her as if she had received a sudden shock, for from old

associations with this her youthful home she knew what caused that

sound--the side door had been opened and softly closed.

Sage sat there for a few moments motionless, and felt as if turned to

stone, for she knew, as surely as if she had seen it all, that her

sister had opened that door and had gone to join Frank Mallow somewhere

close at hand.

The terrible nightmare-like feeling passed off as quickly as it had

come, and, how she hardly knew, Sage left the room, went straight to the

side door, catching down her hat and cloak from the pegs, and passed out

into the bitter night.

The wind nearly snatched the cloak from her as she flung it on, and then

ran along the path towards the lane, for there were fresh footprints in

the newly-fallen snow; and so quickly did she run that at the end of ten

minutes she was within sight of a dark figure hurrying on before her

with bended head, and the driving snow rapidly making it invisible as it

hurried on.

The storm was rapidly increasing, and the wind and drifting snow

confused her; but she ran on now, and with a despairing cry flung her

arms round the figure, crying--

"Rue--sister! Where are you going? Oh, for heaven's sake, stop!"

"Sage!" she cried, hoarsely, and she struggled to free herself; but Sage

clung to her tightly, and she stumbled, slipping on the hard ground

beneath the snow, and sinking to her knees.

Sage knelt beside her upon the snow, and, clasping her waist, she

sobbed--

"Yes, yes, upon your knees, Rue--sister, pray, pray with me--for

strength. God hear our cry, and save my sister from this sin!"

For a few moments, as she heard the passionate cry, Rue knelt there

trembling, but she began to struggle again.

"Don't stop me. It is too late now. I cannot help it, Sage; I must

go."

"You shall not go. I know all. He has tempted you to do this wrong,

and you are mad; but think--for God's sake, think. It will break John's

heart."

"Oh, hush, hush!" Rue cried, with a shiver. "Hush, hush! I must go

now!"

"You shall not; I will never leave you. Rue, dear, there are two little

children lying there in their bed, silently calling you to come to them

and avoid this sin. Sister--mother--wife, will you leave them for that

cruel, reckless man?"

"Oh, hush!" cried Rue, struggling with her fiercely. "You do not know.

You cannot tell. He's waiting for me, and I must--I will go."

"Never while I have breath," Sage panted, and then she uttered a shriek

of affright, for Rue made an effort to escape her, running for some

distance, and then falling heavily in the snow.

This was her last struggle, for as Sage overtook her, the weak woman

rose, and, trembling and moaning, to herself, she allowed her sister to

lead her back towards the farm.

How Sage managed to get her sister along she never afterwards knew, but

by degrees she did, and up to her room unheard, hiding away all traces

of the snowy cloaks and boots before summoning Mrs Portlock to her

help, for as soon as Rue reached the bedroom she threw herself upon her

knees by her sleeping children, moaning, sobbing, speaking incoherently,

and passing from one terrible hysterical fit into another that seemed

worse.

"Go and tell uncle she's better now," said Mrs Portlock, at last; "I

can hear him walking up and down like a wild beast. There, there, now,

my child," she said soothingly to Rue, "try and be calm."

Sage went down to find the Churchwarden buttoned up and with the old

horn lanthorn lit, ready to walk over to the town and fetch Doctor

Vinnicombe.

"I'm afraid it's no use to put a horse to, my dear," he said; "the

snow's drifting tremendously."

"I don't think you need go, uncle," said Sage, and here she stopped

short and clung to him, for there was a sharp knocking at the front

door, and in her confused, excited state Sage's heart sank, for she felt

that it was Frank Mallow grown impatient, and come to insist upon Rue

keeping her word.

"There, there, my pretty, don't you turn silly too," said the

Churchwarden. "By jingo, what a night!" he cried, as the outer door was

opened, and a rush of snow-laden wind swept into the hall and dashed

open the big parlour door.

The sound of a rough voice gave Sage relief, for it was John Berry who

had arrived.

The relief was but momentary, for Sage's conscience said that the

husband had gained some inkling of the intended flight, and had come to

stop it.

Just then the broad-shouldered, red-faced farmer entered the room.

"How are ye?" he cried in a bluff tone that set Sage's heart at rest for

the moment. "I scarcely thought the mare would have got me through it,"

he continued. "It's a strange rough night, master, and if you've any

sheep out, I'd have 'em seen to. Eh? what? My darling ill?" he cried,

as he heard the Churchwarden's announcement. "Then thank the Lord I did

come."

"No, no; don't go to her now," panted Sage, as John Berry took off his

coat and threw it out into the hall.

"Not go up to her? Nay, lass, that I will," he cried, and Sage followed

him up-stairs.

"Why, Rue, my lass," he cried, tenderly, "what's wrong wi' you?"

At the sound of his voice Rue started from the bed and flung herself

into his arms.

"Jack, Jack!" she cried, "take me--hold me--husband, dear. God have

mercy on me! I must be mad."

Sage stayed with them in obedience to a sign from John Berry, and stood

there trembling as she saw her sister's fair brown hair tumbled upon her

husband's breast, to which she clung in an agony of remorse.

Over and over again Rue kept raising her head, though to gaze piteously

at her sister, and then hide her face again.

A couple of hours went on like this, but when at last Sage found her

opportunity, and clasping her sister to her breast, whispered--"Rue, may

I trust you now?"

"Yes, oh, yes," she sobbed. "I pray God I may never see his face

again."

"Then that is our secret, Rue," Sage whispered. "It is for ever buried

in our breasts."

She left them after some hours, Rue lying upon the bed, sobbing at

times, and seemingly asleep, while John Berry sat beside her, holding

her little white hands.

Sage went down softly, but began to tremble as she heard voices in the

room; but summoning up her courage, she entered, to find Morrison, the

wheelwright, standing there, with the Churchwarden placing a glass of

hot spirits and water in his hand.

"Go back, go back, my darling," cried Mrs Portlock, excitedly.

"No, no, my dear," said the Churchwarden, firmly; "Sage is no coward,

and she must know. My darling, try and be firm, and hope for the best.

The cart will be here directly, and were going to force our way through

and bring him in. Yes, there it comes."

"What--what is it?" panted Sage. "Is--is Frank--"

"Oh, pray be silent, Joseph," sobbed Mrs Portlock.

"Why?" said the Churchwarden, firmly. "She must know the worst. Get

hot water and blankets ready, my dear, and we'll soon bring him round.

Come, Morrison," and hurrying out, the door was pushed to, forcing back

with it a quantity of the soft white snow.

"For heaven's sake tell me, aunt!" sobbed Sage.

"But am I to?" said the old lady, trembling before her niece.

"Yes, yes," cried Sage. "I must know. Is he dead?"

"No, no, my darling," said Mrs Portlock, piteously. "Tom Morrison was

going home, but he could not get round by the ford. The cutting in Low

Lane was full, so he came round our way; and--oh, dear me! oh, dear me!"

"For heaven's sake, aunt, go on," cried Sage, half fiercely now.

"Yes, my darling," sobbed Mrs Portlock; "and they'll be here directly,

I hope and pray. And he came upon Cyril."

"Cyril!" shrieked Sage.

"Lying buried in the snow, just at the corner where he fought Luke

Ross."

Sage stood gazing at her with a blank white face, shivering violently as

her aunt went on in a voice choked with tears.

"Tom Morrison tried to carry him on here, but he could not get him

through the snow, so he came for help, and--heaven be thanked, here they

are!"

The room seemed to swim round Sage as she heard the sound of voices

above the roaring of the wind, and going with her aunt and the two

affrighted servants to the door, they stood their ground in spite of the

beating and driving snow, till a stiffened white figure was borne into

the great parlour and laid before the fire, the Churchwarden giving

orders in all directions.

"We could never get Vinnicombe across to-night, so we must bring him

round ourselves. Quick, every one. Hot blankets, and let's get these

snowy things away. Why in God's name don't some one shut that door?" he

roared, as the wind and snow followed them into the room, making the

fire roar furiously and the sparks stream up.

"Don't be downhearted," cried the Churchwarden, setting the example, as

John Berry came in to see what was the matter.

"Hey, and what is it?" he said, laying his hand upon the wheelwright's

arm.

"Mr Cyril Mallow, Master Berry; we found him in the snow."

It was just as Sage's heart gave a great bound of relief, for as the

mist cleared from her eyes and the giddiness passed away, she found

herself kneeling beside her husband's brother, frozen stiff where he had

been waiting for hours at the trysting-place. And as Sage gazed with a

strange feeling of awe at the stern white features set in death, the

Churchwarden said softly, "Nay, Morrison, thou'rt wrong, my lad; it is

Mr Frank. He must have been coming here."

PART TWO, CHAPTER ELEVEN.

LOVERS' WORDS.

Time flies.

Not an original remark this, but perfectly true.

Decorous mourning had been worn for Frank Mallow, the invalid mother had

grown more grey, and the lines in her forehead deeper, while as the

Rector thought of the fate of his firstborn, and shut his ears to little

bits of scandal that floated about, he sighed, and turned more and more

to his daughters, for Cyril, fortunately for himself, had quite forsaken

Lawford since his brother's death, having troubles of his own to contend

with, while his wife had hers.

Rue Berry's adventure remained a secret between the sisters, and though

at the weekly-meetings at the King's Head there were a good many nods

and shakes of the head as to the reason why, on the night of his death,

Frank Mallow had engaged a fly and pair of horses, such matter was never

openly discussed, Tomlinson sagely remarking that when a man died there

was a thick black mark ruled across the page of his ledger, and it was

not worth while to tot up an account that there was no one to pay.

Then, as time went on, the inquest was forgotten, and the tablet placed

in the church by the Rector, sacred to the memory of Frank, the beloved

son, etcetera, etcetera, only excited notice during one weekly meeting,

when Fullerton wondered what had become of the fortune Frank Mallow had

made in Australia.

His fellow-tradesmen wondered, and so did Cyril Mallow to such an extent

that he borrowed a hundred pounds from Portlock the churchwarden to pay

for investigations and obtain the money.

"Seed corn, mother," said Portlock, grimly; "seed corn for Cyril Mallow

to sow; but hang me, old lady, if I believe it will ever come to a

crop."

As soon as possible after the terrible shock Mrs Mallow had received,

the Rector took her abroad, and for eight months they were staying at

various German baths, changing from place to place, the Rector now and

then--handsome, grey-bearded, and the very beau ideal of an English

clergyman--drawing large congregations when he occupied the pulpit of

the chaplain at some foreign watering-place.

It was a pleasant time of calm for him, and he sighed as he thought of

returning to England; but this return was fast approaching for many

reasons. One reason was the Bishop. Certainly the Rev Lawrence

Paulby was indefatigable with the business of the church, but the Bishop

seemed to agree in spirit with the meeting at the King's Head, that it

was not quite right for one clergyman to draw fifteen hundred a year

from a parish and not do the duty, while another clergyman only drew

ninety pounds a year and did do the duty, and did it well.

Another reason was, both Lord Artingale and Perry-Morton had been over

again and again, and after a decent interval had pressed hard for their

marriages to take place.

The last visit had been to a popular place of resort, where poor Mrs

Mallow was, by the advice of the German physician, undergoing a process

of being turned into an aqueous solution; at least she was saturated

daily with an exceedingly nauseous water, and soaked in it hot for so

many hours per week as well. The same great authority recommended it

strongly for Julia, who drank the waters daily to the sound of a band.

He also advised that the Fraulein Cynthia should take a lesser quantity

daily also, to the strains of the German band, at intervals of

promenading; but Cynthia merely took one sip and made a pretty grimace,

writing word afterwards that the "stuff" was so bad that if the servants

at home had been asked to use it to wash their hands there would have

been a revolt.

There were other reasons too for calling back the Rev Eli Mallow, and

he sighed, for it was very pleasant abroad, and he foresaw trouble upon

his return--parish trouble, the worry of the weddings, contact with

Cyril, with whom he had quarrelled bitterly by letter, refusing to

furnish him with money, a fact which came hard upon Churchwarden

Portlock, who bore it like a martyr, and smoked more pipes as, for some

strange reason, he raked up and dwelt strongly upon every scrap of

information he could obtain about the progress of Luke Ross in London,

even going over to the marketplace occasionally to have a pipe and a

chat with old Michael his father.

There was no help for it, and at last the luggage was duly packed, and

after poor Mrs Mallow had been carefully carried down, the family

started for home, and settled for the time being in one of a handsome

row of houses north of the park.

"Yes, my dear, it is--very expensive," said the Rector, in answer to a

remark, almost a remonstrance, from the invalid; "but we must keep up

appearances till the girls are married. Then, my dear, we shall be

alone, and we will go down to the old home, and there will be nothing to

interfere with our quiet, peaceful journey to the end."

Mrs Mallow turned her soft pensive eyes up to him as he leaned over the

couch, and he bent down and kissed her tenderly.

"Well, my darling, who can say?" he whispered. "If more trouble comes,

it is our fate, and we will try and bear the burden as best we can."

"But you will go down now and then to Lawford, Eli?" she said, and the

Rector sighed.

"Yes, my dear, I will," he said; "but at present we must stay in town."

And he placed his hands behind him and walked up and down the room,

wishing that he could understand the Lawford people, or that they could

understand him, and looking forward with anything but pleasurable

anticipations to his next visit.

Just then Julia, looking very pale and dreamy in her half-mourning,

entered the room, to come and sit with and read to the invalid, a

visitor being below, and her presence not being in any way missed.

Henry, Lord Artingale was the visitor, and as soon as she had left the

room Julia became one of the principal topics, for she had seemed of

late to have fallen into a dreamy state, now indifferent, now reckless,

and Cynthia declared pettishly that she gave her sister up in despair.

"I don't know what to make of her, Harry," said Cynthia one morning

after they had been back in town some time; "one day she will be bright

and cheerful, another she seems as if she were going melancholy mad."

"Oh, no; come, that's exaggeration, little one."

"It is not," cried Cynthia, "for she is wonderfully changed when we are

together."

"How changed? Why, she looks prettier than ever."

"I mean in her ways," continued Cynthia. "We used to be sisters indeed,

and never kept anything from one another. Why, Harry, I don't believe

either of us had a thought that the other did not share, and now I seem

to be completely shut out from her confidence; and if it were not for

you, I believe I should break my heart."

Of course Harry Artingale behaved as a manly handsome young fellow

should behave under such circumstances. He comforted and condoled with

the afflicted girl, who certainly did not look in the slightest degree

likely to break her heart. He offered his manly bosom for her to rest

her weary head, and he removed the little pearly tears from under the

pretty fringed lids of her large bright eyes. There were four of

them-- tears, not eyes--and Harry wiped them away without a

pocket-handkerchief, the remains of one damaged tear remaining on his

moustache when the process was over, and poor little Cynthia seemed much

better.

"Well," said Artingale, "there is one comfort, Cynthy: we did scare away

the big bogey. She has not seen him any more?"

"No--no!" said Cynthia softly, "I suppose not. She has never said

anything about him since we were at Hastings. I have fancied sometimes

that she has seen him and been frightened; but she never mentions it,

and I have always thought it best never to say a word."

"Oh, yes, far the best," said Artingale, who was examining Cynthia's

curly hair with as much interest as if it was something he saw now for

the first time. "Didn't you say, though, that you thought she saw him

that day the mare bolted with you?"

"Nonsense! she did not bolt with me, Harry. Just as if I should let a

mare bolt with me. Something startled her, and she leaped the hedge,

and as we were off the road, and it was a chance for a gallop, I let her

go across country. But you know; I told you."

"Yes, dear," said Artingale, one of whose fingers was caught in a sunny

maze. "But now, Cynthy, my pet, _revenons a nos moutons_."

"Very well, sir," she said shyly, "_revenons a nos moutons_."

"So the wedding is to be on the fourth?"

"Yes," said Cynthia, with a sigh, "on the fourth--not quite a month,

Harry. Where's James Magnus?"

"Shut up in his studio, splashing the paint about like a madman. He

never comes out hardly. He has cut me, and spends most of his time with

that barrister fellow who was to have married Sage Portlock."

"Luke Ross! Oh! Are they friends?"

"Thick as thieves," said Artingale. "I suppose they sit and talk about

disappointed love, and that sort of thing."

"Do they?" cried Cynthia.

"Oh, I don't know, of course. By Jove, though, Cynthy, that Ross is a

splendid fellow; no one would ever have thought he was only a tanner's

son."

"I don't see what difference it makes whose son a man is," said Cynthia,

demurely. "I've always noticed though that poor people's sons are very

clever, and noblemen's sons very stupid."

"Horribly," said Artingale, laughing. "Why, you saucy little puss!"

Matters here not necessary for publication.

"I don't want to say unkind things," said Cynthia, pouting now, "but I'm

sure poor Sage Portlock would have been a great deal wiser if she had

married Luke Ross; and if you were in your right senses, Harry, you

would never think of marrying into such an unhappy family as ours."

"Oh, but then I've been out of my mind for long enough, Cynthy. The

wise ones said I ran mad after the Rector's little daughter."

"When you might have made a most brilliant match or two, I heard," cried

Cynthia.

"Yes, pet, all right," he said, laughing; "but you're in for it. I

won't be pitched over."

"I'm sure the state of Cyril's home is disgraceful."

"I dare say, my darling; but we are not going to live there."

"Don't be so stupid," cried Cynthia. "But tell me, Harry, has James

Magnus cut you?"

"No. Oh, no; only I am so much away now that instead of being regular

chums we don't often meet. Hah! what jolly times I used to have with

him, to be sure!"

"I hate him," cried Cynthia, angrily. "He's a great stupid coward."

"No, you don't, Cynthy; and you don't think he is a coward."

"Well, perhaps I don't hate him very much, and perhaps I don't think him

a very great coward; but, oh! Harry, if I had been a man, do you think

I would have allowed that miserable--miserable--"

"Design for a wall-paper or fresco?" suggested Artingale.

"Yes, yes, yes," cried Cynthia, laughing and clapping her hands with

childlike delight. "That's it: what a grand idea! Oh, Harry, how

clever you are!"

She looked up at him admiringly, and he smiled, and--Well, of course,

that was sure to follow. Young lovers are so very foolish, and it came

natural to them to tangle one another up in their arms, and for

Cynthia's nose to be hidden by Artingale's moustache.

Then they grew _sage_, as the French call it, once more, and Artingale

spoke--

"That's right, little pet, think so if you can; but I wish, for your

sake, I were--"

"Were what, sir?"

"Clever. Do you know, Cynthy, I often think what a good job it was that

nature had the property valued before I was launched."

"Why, you dear stupid old boy, what do you mean?"

"What I say, pet: had me valued. Then he said, `Well, he's got no

brains, and he'll never do any good for himself if he is left alone; so

I'll make him a lord and give him an income.'"

"Oh, Harry, what nonsense!"

"And then, to help me on a bit farther when I had grown to years of

indiscretion, she gave me, or is about to give me, the dearest and best

and sweetest and most beautiful of little women to be my wife."

Which was, of course, very stupid again; and more resulted, after which

Artingale said quietly--

"Cynthy, dear, you believe in me thoroughly?"

"Thoroughly, Harry."

"You know I love you with all my heart?"

"Yes, Harry," she replied, with her hands in his.

"Then you will not think me strange if I say to you I don't want to be

married yet?"

"N-no," said Cynthia, with just a suspicion of hesitation.

"Then I'm going to speak out plainly, darling. I'm stupid in some

things, but I'm as sharp as a needle concerning anything about you, and

I couldn't help seeing that the Rector and mamma thought that our

wedding might take place at the same time as Julia's."

"Ye-es," faltered Cynthia.

"Well, then," said Artingale, "I would rather for several reasons it did

not."

He waited for a few moments, but Cynthia did not speak.

"I'm not going to talk nonsense about being like brothers," he

continued, "and loving James Magnus; but, Cynthy, dear, I never yet met

a man whom I liked half so well, and--and I'd do anything for poor old

Jemmy. Well," he continued, "for one thing, it seems horrible to me to

make that the happiest day of my life which will be like that which

kills his last hope."

Cynthia did not speak, but nestled closely to him.

"Then it gives me a sensation like having a cold douche to think of

going up the church with that fellow, for I know he'll be dressed up

like a figure in an old picture, with his sisters and friends like so

many animated pre-Raphaelites in an idyllic procession attending the

funeral of a fay."

"I say, Harry," cried Cynthia, "that's not your language, sir. Where

did you pick it up?"

"Oh, out of Perry-Morton's new poems, as he called them. 'Pon my word,

you know, I should feel as if it was a sort of theatrical performance.

Oh, Cynthy, I should like to have you in white, and take you by the

hand, and walk into some out-of-the-way little church in the country,

where there was a nice, pleasant old parson, who'd read the service and

say God bless us both; and then for us to go away--right away, where all

was green fields and flowers, and birds singing, and all the confounded

nonsense and fuss and foolery of a fashionable wedding was out of my

sight; and Cynthy, darling, let's make a runaway match of it, and go and

be married to-morrow--to-day--now; or let's wait till poor Julia has

been sold. There, pet, hang it all! it makes me wild."

He jumped up and began to pace the room, and Cynthia went up to him and

put her arm through his.

"Harry, dear," she said softly, "you've made me very happy by what you

have told me. Let's wait, dear. I should not like to be married then.

I should like--should like--" she faltered, with her pretty little face

burning--"our wedding to be all happiness and joy; and on the day when

Julia is married to Perry-Morton, I shall cry ready to break my heart."

PART TWO, CHAPTER TWELVE.

LAMBENT LOVE.

A certain small world, of which Mr Perry-Morton was one of the shining

lights, was deeply agitated, moved to its very volcanic centre, and gave

vent to spasmodic utterances respecting the approaching marriage of

their apostle to Julia, eldest daughter of the Rev Eli Mallow, Rector

of Lawford. There were no less than four paragraphs in as many papers

concerning the bride's _parure_ and _trousseau_, and the presents she

was receiving.

"But I thought it would have excited more notice," said the Rev Eli,

mildly, after a discussion with the invalid, wherein he had firmly

maintained his intention not to invite Cyril and his wife to the

wedding.

The papers devoted to art gave a description of the interior of Mr

Perry-Morton's new mansion in Westminster, and dwelt at great length

upon the artistic furnishing, and the additions being made of art

tapestry, carpets, and curtains manufactured by the well-known firm of

Gimpsley and Stough, from the designs of Smiless, A.R.A., and the

wealthy bridegroom himself. The golden beetle conventionally treated

was the leading _motif_ in all the designs, and a yellow silk of a

special orange-golden hue had been prepared for the purpose, the aniline

dye being furnished by Judd, Son and Company. The carpets were so

designed that on at-home nights the guests would be standing in the

midst of gorgeous bugs, as an American friend termed them--beetles whose

wings seemed to be moving beneath the feet of those who trod thereon.

But the great feature of the salon was the central ottoman, which was a

conventional rendering of a bank of flowers supporting golden beetles,

amidst which were a few places upon which the so-inclined might rest and

fancy the insects were alive.

Columns of chat were written in praise of Perry-Morton and his place,

and copies of the papers in which they were, somehow found their way

into a great many houses through the length and breadth of the land.

There was only one drawback to the joys of the stained-glass sisters, as

they showed their friends through the house, and posed in graceful

attitudes all over the carpets and against the hangings, in whose folds

they almost wrapped themselves in their sweetly innocent delight--there

was only one drawback, and that was, that another season was gliding by,

and they were still on the matrimonial house-agents' books--these two

eligible artistic _cottages ornees_ to let.

Stay: there was another drawback. When dear Perry was married they

would have to go, for unless dearest Julia pressed them very, very much

indeed to continue their residence there, of course they could not stay.

These were busy times for Perry-Morton, who, in addition to the almost

herculean labours which he went through in planning and designing, so as

to make his home worthy of his goddess, had to beam every evening in

Parkleigh Gardens.

This beaming was a very beautiful performance. Some men love with their

eyes and look languishing, dart passionate glances, or seem to ask

questions or sympathy from the fair one of their worship. Others, more

manly and matter-of-fact, love with their tongues, and if clever in the

use of this speaking organ, these generally woo and win, for most women

love to be conquered by one who is their master in argument and

pleading. There are others, again, who do not woo at all, but allow

themselves to be fished for, hooked, and--and--what shall we say?

There--cooked, for there is no more expressive way of describing their

fate.

But Perry-Morton was none of those. He was like the Archduke in the

French comic opera, nothing unless he was original; and it was only

reasonable to suppose that he would bring his great artistic mind to

bear upon so important a part of his life as the choice of an Eve for

his modern-antique paradise. He did his wooing, then, in a way of his

own, and came nightly to beam upon the object of his worship.

This he did in attitudes of his own designing, while Cynthia felt as if,

to use her own words, she should like to stick pins in the man's back.

For Perry-Morton's love seemed to emanate from him in a phosphorescent

fashion. He became lambent with softly luminous smiles. His plump face

shone with a calm ethereal satisfaction, and of all men in the world he

seemed most happy.

He did not trouble Julia much, only with his presence. He would lay a

finger on the back of her chair, and pose himself like a sculptor's idea

of one of the fat gods in the Greek Pantheon--say Bacchus, before too

much grape-juice had begun to interfere with the proper working of his

digestive organs. Or before the first wanderings of his very severe

attacks of D.T., which must have caused so much consternation and dismay

in Olympus' pleasant groves, and bothered Aesculapius, who applied

leeches, because he would not own to his ignorance of the new disease.

He never kissed Julia once, so Cynthia declared. It is open to

doubt whether he ever pressed her hand. His was the

kiss-the-hem-of-the-lady's-garment style of love, and he once terribly

alarmed Julia by gracefully reclining at her feet, with one arm resting

upon a footstool, and gazing blandly in her face.

At other times he seemed to love her from a distance--getting into

far-off corners of the room, and gazing from different points of view,

standing, sitting, lying on sofas--always gracefully and in the most

sculpturesque fashion. In fact, Artingale in great disgust wondered why

he did not try standing on his head: but that was absurd.

As the day fixed for the wedding drew near, Perry-Morton was most

regular in his visits--most devoted, and his lambent softness seemed to

pervade the parental drawing-rooms.

Meanwhile Julia went about like one in a dream. She was less hysterical

and timid than she had been for many weeks past, and finding that her

lover troubled her so little, she bore his presence patiently,

delighting him, as he confided to Cynthia, by her "heavenly calm."

"I don't think she's well," said Cynthia, shortly.

"Not well?" he said, with a pitying smile. "My sweet Cynthia, you

cannot read her character as I read it. Do you not see how, for months

past, our love has grown, rising like some lotus out from the cool

depths of an Eastern lake till it has reached the surface, where it is

about to unfold its petals to the glowing sun. Ah, my sweet child, you

do not see how I have been forming her character, day by day, hour by

hour, till she has reached to this sweet state of blissful repose. Look

at her now."

This conversation was going on in the back drawing-room, on the evening

preceding the wedding-day, every one being very tired of the visitors

and congratulations, and present-giving, the Rector especially, and he

confided to Mrs Mallow the fact that after all he would be very glad to

get away back to Lawford and be at peace.

"Yes," said Cynthia, rather ill-humouredly, for Harry had not been there

that evening, "I see her, and she looks very poorly."

"Poorly? Unwell? Nay," said Perry-Morton serenely, "merely in a

beatific state of repose. Ah, Cynthia, my child, when she is my very

own, and Claudine has imparted to her some of the riches of her own

wisdom on the question of dress, I shall be a happy man."

Cynthia seemed to give every nerve in her little body a kind of snatch,

but the lover did not perceive it; he only closed his eyes, walked to

the half-pillar that supported the arch between the two rooms, leaned

his shoulder against it, crossed his legs, gazed at poor listless Julia

for a few moments from this point of view, and then turning his

half-closed eyes upon Cynthia, beckoned to her softly to come.

"Oh," whispered the latter to herself, as she drew a long breath between

her teeth, "I wish I were going to be married to him to-morrow instead

of Julia. How I would bring him to his senses, or knock something into

his dreadful head, or--there, I suppose I must go. Julia must be mad."

"Yes," she said, as she crossed to where her brother in prospective

stood.

"There," he said; "look now. Could there be a sweeter ideal of perfect

repose? Good--good night, dear Cynthia, I am going to steal away

without a word to a soul. I would not break in upon her rapturous calm;

and the memory of her sweet face, as I see it now, will soothe me during

the long watches of the peaceful night. Good night, Cynthia. Ah, you

should have changed names. Yonder is Cynthia in all her calm silvery

beauty. Good night, sweet sister--good night--good night."

There was something very moonlike in his looks and ways as he softly

stole from the room and out of the house, leaving Cynthia motionless

with astonishment.

"I want to know," she said to herself at last, "whether those two are

really going to be married to-morrow, or whether it is only a dream.

But there, I wash my hands of it all; I feel to-night as if I hate

everybody--papa, mamma, Harry for not killing that horrible jelly-fish

of a creature. Oh, he's dreadful! And Julia, for letting herself be

led as she is, when she might have married dear James Magnus, and been

happy. No! poor girl, I must not blame her. She felt that she could

not love him, and perhaps she is right."

"Good night, Julia darling; I'm going to bed," she whispered, and,

seating herself by her sister, she clasped her waist, and placed her

lips against her cheek.

"To bed? so soon?" said Julia, dreamily.

"Soon! It is past eleven. Will you come and sit with me in my room, or

shall I come to you?"

Julia shook her head.

"Not to-night--not to-night," she said softly; and she clasped her

sister in her arms. "Good night, Cynthia dear. Think lovingly of me

always when I am gone."

"Lovingly, Julie, always," whispered Cynthia; "always, dear sister."

"Always--whatever comes?" whispered Julia.

"Always, whatever comes. Shall I come and sit with you, Julie; only for

an hour?"

"No," said Julia, firmly, "not to-night. Let us go to our rooms."

They went out of the drawing-room with their arms round each other's

waists, till they were about to part at Julia's door, when the final

words and appeals that Cynthia was about to speak died away upon her

lips, and she ran to her own chamber, sobbing bitterly, while, white as

ashes, and trembling in every limb, Julia entered hers.

"Poor, poor Julie!" sobbed Cynthia; and for a good ten minutes she wept,

her maid sniffing softly in sympathy till she was dismissed.

"Go away, Minson," cried Cynthia; "I don't want you any more."

"But won't you try on your dress again, miss?" said the maid in

expostulation.

"No, Minson, I only wish it was fresh mourning, I do," cried the girl,

passionately; and the maid withdrew, to meet Julia's maid on the stairs,

and learn that she never knew such a thing before in her life--a young

bride, and wouldn't try on her things.

Cynthia sat thinking for a few minutes, and then a bright look came into

her eyes.

"He didn't come to-night," she said. "He was cross about Julie. I

wonder whether I could see the bright end of a cigar if I looked out

over the gardens. Oh, the cunning of some people, to give policemen

half-sovereigns not to take them for burglars, and lock them up."

As she spoke, Cynthia drew up her blind softly, and holding back the

curtain, ensconced herself in the corner, so that she could look down

into the gardens, her window being towards the park.

It was a soft, dark night, but the light of a lamp made the objects

below dimly distinct, and she rubbed the window-pane to gaze out more

clearly, saying laughingly to herself--

"I wonder whether Romeo will come!"

Directly after she pressed her face closer to the glass.

"There he is," she said, with a gleeful little laugh. "No it isn't, I'm

sure. What does it mean? What is he doing there?"

PART TWO, CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

AN EVENTFUL NIGHT.

"I can't go, and I won't go," said Artingale. "It's bad enough to have

to be at the church to-morrow and see that poor little lass sacrificed,

with everybody looking on smiling and simpering except, the bridesmaids,

who are all expected to shed six tears.

"Six tears each, and six bridesmaids; that's thirty-six tears. I'd

almost bet a fiver that those two pre-Raphaelite angels will each be

provided with an antique lachrymatory designed by their dear brother,

and they'll drop their tears therein and stopper them up.

"Oh, dear! This is a funny world, and I'm very fond of my pretty

Cynthy, who's a regular little trump; but I'm getting deuced hungry.

I'll go and hunt up old Mag, and we'll have a bit of dinner together,

and then go to the play. Liven him up a bit, poor old man. Hansom!"

A two-wheeled hawk swooped down, and carried him off to the studio of

James Magnus, where that gentleman was busy with a piece of crayon

making a design for a large cartoonlike picture, and after a good deal

of pressing he consented to go to the club and dine with his friend.

"I'm afraid you'll find me very dull company," said Magnus, sadly.

"Then I'll make you lively, my boy. I'm off duty to-night, and I feel

like a jolly bachelor. Champagne; coffee afterwards, and unlimited

cigars."

"What a boy you are, Harry!" said the artist, quietly. "How you do seem

to enjoy life!"

"Well, why shouldn't I? Plenty of troubles come that one must face; why

make others?"

"Is--is she to be married to-morrow, Harry?" said Magnus, quietly.

"I say, hadn't we better taboo that subject, old fellow?" said

Artingale, quickly.

"No. Why should we? Do you think I am not man enough to hear it

calmly?" Artingale looked at him searchingly. "Well, yes, I hope so;

and since you have routed out the subject, I suppose I must answer your

question. Yes, she is, and more blame to you."

"We will not discuss that, Harry," said the other, sadly. "I know well

enough that it was not in me to stir a single pulse in Julia Mallow's

veins, and I have accepted my fate. Are you going to the wedding?"

"Yes: I feel that I must. But I hate the whole affair. I wish the

brute would break his neck. Ready?"

"Yes," was the reply; and going out to the waiting hansom, they were

soon run down to the club, where the choicest little dinner Artingale

could select was duly placed before them.

But somehow, nothing was nice. Artingale's hunger seemed to have

departed, and he followed his friend's example, and ate mechanically.

The dry sherry was declared to be watery, and the promised champagne,

though a choice brand and from a selected _cuvee_, was not able to

transmit its sparkle to the brains of those who partook.

Artingale talked hard and talked his best. He introduced every subject

he could, but in vain, and at last, when the time had come for the

claret, he altered his mind.

"No, Mag," he exclaimed, "no claret to-night. We want nothing calm and

cool, old fellow. I feel as if I had not tasted a single glass of wine,

but as if you, you miserable old wet blanket, had been squeezing out

your drops into a tumbler and I had been drinking them. What do you say

to a foaming beaker of the best black draught?"

"My dear Harry, I'm very sorry," said Magnus, laughing. "There, I'll

try and be a little more lively."

"We will," exclaimed Artingale, "and another bottle of champagne will do

it."

Magnus smiled.

"Ah, smile away, my boy, but I'm going to give you a new sensation.

I've made a discovery of a new wine. No well-known, highly-praised

brand made famous by advertisements, but a rich, pungent, powerful,

sparkling champagne, from a vineyard hardly known. Here, waiter, bring

me a bottle of number fifty-three."

The wine was brought, and whether its virtues were exaggerated or no,

its effects were that for the next two hours life seemed far more

bearable to James Magnus, who afterwards enjoyed his coffee and cigar.

Then another cigar was partaken of, and another, after which it was

found to be too late for the projected visit to one of the theatres, and

Magnus proposed an adjournment to his own room.

To this, however, Artingale would not consent, and in consequence they

sat till long after ten, and then parted, each to his own chambers.

Artingale's way of going to his own chambers was to take a hansom, and

tell the man to drive him to the Marble Arch, and then along the

Bayswater-road until told to stop.

This last order came before Kensington Gardens were reached, when the

man was dismissed, and the fare wandered down the nearest turning, and

along slowly by the backs of the Parkleigh Gardens houses--or their

fronts, whichever the part was termed that faced north.

Up and down here he paraded several times--not a very wise proceeding,

seeing that he might have come sooner in the evening, and the doors

would have flown open at his summons. But it has always been so from

the beginning. A gentleman gets into a certain state, and then thinks

that he derives a great deal of satisfaction in gazing at the casket

which holds the jewel of his love. When the custom first came in it is

of course impossible to say, but it is extremely probable that Jacob

used to parade about in the sand on moonlight nights, and watch the tent

that contained his Rachel, and no doubt the custom has followed right

away down the corridors of time.

When Artingale had finished the front of the house he went round to the

back, made his way by some mysterious means into the garden, where he

fancied he saw some one watching; and concluding that it would not be

pleasant to be seen, he beat a retreat, and after a glance up at

Cynthia's window, where he could see a light, he contented himself by

walking slowly back, so as to get to the other side of the lofty row of

houses.

"Just one walk up and down," he said to himself, "and then home to bed."

It was some distance round, and as he went along he made the following

original observation:--"This is precious stupid!" And at the end of

another fifty yards--"But somehow I seem to like it. Does one good.

'Pon my soul, I think the best thing a fellow can do is to fall in

love."

He sauntered on from gas-lamp to gas-lamp, till he was once more at the

front, or back, of the great houses, with their entrance-doors on his

right, and a great blank-looking wall on his left.

He went dreamily on along the pavement, past the furnished house that

the agent assured the Rector he had obtained dirt cheap, which no doubt

it was, but it was what a gold-miner would call wash dirt. When about

midway, Artingale passed some one on the other side, close to the wall,

and walking in the opposite direction.

But the presence of some one else in the street did not attract

Artingale's attention, and he sauntered along until he reached the end,

and stopped.

"Now, then," he said, "home? or one more walk to the end and back?"

He hesitated for a moment, and then turned beneath the lamp-post, with a

smile at his own weakness, and walked slowly back.

"I should have made a splendid _Romeo_," he said. "What a pity it is

that the course of my true love should run so jolly smooth. Everything

goes as easy as possible for me. Not a single jolly obstacle. Might

have been married to-morrow morning if I had liked, and sometimes I wish

I had been going to act as principal; but it is best as it is."

He was nearing the Rector's residence once again.

"Now with some people," he continued, half aloud, "how different it is.

Everything goes wrong with them. Look at poor old Magnus--The deuce!

Why, Mag!"

"I thought you had gone home!"

"I thought you had gone home!"

"I thought I would have a walk first," said Magnus, quietly.

"So did I, old fellow. But oh, I say!"

"Don't laugh at me, Harry," said the artist, sadly. "It is like saying

good-bye. After to-morrow I shall settle down."

"I don't laugh at you, old fellow," said Artingale, taking the other's

arm. "It's all right. I might just as well ask you not to laugh at me.

Have a cigar?"

Magnus nodded, the case was produced, and they both lit up, and instead

of going straight back east, continued to promenade up and down, and

then right round the great block of houses over and over again, for

quite an hour, saying very little, but seeming as it were attracted to

the place, till coming to the front, for what Artingale vowed should be

the last time, he saw a couple of figures apparently leave one of the

doors, and go right on towards the other end.

"Somebody late," he said, feeling a kind of interest in the couple that

he could not account for.

"Yes," said Magnus, quickly, "very late. Come along."

Artingale involuntarily quickened his steps, and they followed the two

figures without a word, seeing them sometimes more, sometimes less,

distinctly, according to the position they occupied relative to the

lamps.

Why they took so much interest in them was more than they could have

explained, for a couple of figures going late at night along a London

street is no such very great novelty; but still, they quickened their

steps, feeling ready at the slightest hint to have increased the pace to

a run.

There seemed no sufficient reason though for such a step, and they

continued to walk on fast, till they came to the end of the row of

houses; and turning sharply they were just in time to hear the jangling

noise of the door of a four-wheeled cab slammed to, then what sounded

like a faint wailing cry.

"There's something wrong, I think," said Artingale; but as he spoke the

glass was dragged up, the horse started off at a rapid trot, the cab

turned into the road by the Park railings, and was gone.

The two friends stood hesitating, and had they been alone, either would

have run after the cab. But as they hesitated from a feeling that such

a proceeding would have been absurd, the vehicle was driven rapidly

away.

"What made you say there was something wrong?" said Magnus at last, in a

hoarse voice.

"I don't know, I can't tell: where did those people come from? I hope

no one's ill."

"From one of the houses near Mr Mallow's," said Magnus.

"I think so; I couldn't be sure. Let's walk back."

They hurried back past the series of blank doors, till they were about

half way along, when as they reached the Rector's they found that a

policeman had just come up, and he made them start by flashing his

lantern in their faces.

"Oh, it's you, sir," he said to Artingale. "Were you coming back here?"

"No. Why?"

"Because you left the door open."

"Then there is something wrong, Magnus. Here, let's run after the cab."

"It's half a mile away by now," said the other hoarsely. "You'd better

see, constable."

"It's a crack," said the policeman, excitedly, "and the chaps must be in

here. Will you gents keep watch while I get help, and put some one on

at the other side in the Gardens?"

"Yes--no--yes," exclaimed Artingale. "I'm afraid some one's ill. We

saw two people come away hurriedly and take a cab at the end."

"They wouldn't have took a cab," said the constable. "There's a doctor

at the end there close by. We're too late, for a suverin. Or no; stop.

There's something else up. Look here, sir, I've had you hanging about

here and on the other side ever since the family has been in town. Now

then, who are you?"

"There is my card, constable," said Artingale, shortly. "You know why I

came."

"Yes, sir--my lord, I mean. But why did that big hulking rough chap,

like a country gamekeeper, come? He's been hanging about--"

"Stop!" cried Artingale. "Was it a big black-bearded fellow above six

feet high?"

"That's the man, sir. I set him down as from the country house, and

after one of the maids."

"When--when did you see him last?" cried Magnus.

"To-night, sir."

"To-night?"

"Yes, m'lord. But while I'm stopping here they may be getting out at

the other side and be off."

"I'll watch here," said Artingale.

"Right, sir. I'll soon have some one on at the other side. You, sir,

watch at the area,"--to Magnus. "If any one comes out and tries to run,

you lay hold and stick to 'im. I'll soon be back."

"Quick, then; for heaven's sake, quick!" cried Artingale; and the man

went off at a run.

"Let's go after the cab, Harry," cried Magnus, excitedly.

"Let's run after the moon, man. It would be madness. If anything is

wrong they are far away by now. But we don't know yet that anything is

wrong. Wait a few minutes. We shall soon find out."

"And meantime?" panted Magnus.

"We can do nothing but act like men, and remain calm. Go to your post,"

exclaimed Artingale; and he spoke in a sharp, decisive way, that showed

that the service had missed a good officer.

Five minutes--ten minutes--a quarter of an hour of torture, during which

all inside was as still as death. Then as Artingale stood in the open

doorway he fancied he heard a slight sound, and as he stood upon the

_qui vive_, ready to seize the first man who presented himself, he heard

steps outside, and saw that a policeman was coming.

Steps inside, too, and then from the hall a bull's-eye lantern flashed

upon him.

"All right, sir," said a familiar voice; and he saw that it was the

first policeman. "The dining-room window was open facing the Park. I

come in there. I've got a man watching. That you, sergeant?"

"Yes. You stop here with this gentleman; get out your truncheon, and

don't miss 'em, whatever you do. Roberts will be along here directly."

"What are you going to do first?" said Artingale.

"Rout up the butler and one or two more, sir, directly," said the

sergeant, opening his lantern; and as they entered the hall he made the

light play about the perfectly orderly place, before going softly into

the great dining-room.

"Don't quite understand it yet, sir," he said. "The dining-room

shutters here had been opened from the inside. Window was open. Seen

anything?" he said to some one in the shadow. "No."

"There's plate enough on that sideboard," continued the sergeant, "to

have made a pretty good swag, if it ain't 'lectrer."

"No, no, those are all silver. It is a presentation set."

"Then we're in time," whispered the sergeant. "I expect the servants

are in it."

A terrible dread was oppressing Artingale, but he did not speak, only

followed the sergeant as he tried the breakfast-room door, to find it

fast and the key outside; the library the same.

"All right there," he said softly. "Joe, here. Stand inside and keep

your eye on the staircase; we're going below."

The constable at the entrance obeyed his orders, and softly opening a

glass door, the sergeant, who seemed quite at home in the geography of

the place, led the way down a flight of well-whitened stone steps to the

basement, the bright light of his lantern playing upon a long row of

bells, and then upon a broad stone passage and several doors.

"Butler's pantry," he whispered, after a good look round. "You stop

here, sir."

Artingale stopped short, guarding the foot of the steps, and the

sergeant tried the door, to find it fast, but as the handle rattled a

man's voice exclaimed, "Who's there?"

"Police! Open quickly."

There was a scuffling noise, then the striking of a match, and a light

shone out from three panes of glass above the door. The hurried sound

of some one putting on some clothes, and then a peculiar monitory

_click-click_!

"Mind what you're at with that pistol," said the sergeant gruffly. "I

tell you it's the police. Open the door."

"How do I know it's the police?" said the butler firmly.

"Come and see then, stupid."

"Open the door, Thompson," said Artingale. "I'm here too."

"Oh, is it you, my lord?" said the butler, and he unlocked the door, to

be seen in his shirt and trousers, with a cocked pistol in his hand.

"I've got the plate here, my lord, and I did not know but what it was a

trick. For God's sake, my lord, what's the matter?"

"Don't know yet," said the sergeant. "But the plate's right, you say?"

"Yes; all but the things in the dining-room."

"They're safe too. We found the front door open. Now then, who sleeps

down here?"

"Under-butler, footman, and page," said the butler quickly; and taking a

chamber candlestick, he led the way to a smaller pantry where the light

showed a red-faced boy fast asleep with his mouth open.

"Where are the men?" said the sergeant laconically; and the butler led

the way to a closed door, which opened into a long stone-paved hall, in

the two recesses of which were a couple of turned-up bedsteads, in each

of which was a sleeping man, one of whom jumped up, however, as the

light fell upon his eyes.

"Get up, James," said the butler. "Have either of you fellows been up

to any games?"

"No, sir. We came to bed before you," was the reply.

"You'd better get up," said the butler.

Then following the sergeant the basement was searched, and they

reascended to the hall.

"I've been all about here," said the sergeant quietly. "They must have

meant the jewels and things up-stairs. Next thing is to go up and wake

your guv'ner."

"What, alone?" said the butler blankly.

"Come along, then, and I'll go with you."

"I'll come too, sergeant," said Artingale. "Don't alarm the ladies if

you can help it."

And together they mounted the thickly-carpeted stairs.

PART TWO, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

GONE! WHERE?

If one could but bring oneself to the belief, there is only a slight

difference between day and night, and that difference is that in the

latter case there is an absence of light--that is all; but, somehow, we

people the darkness with untold horrors. We ignore it, of course; we

should ridicule the impeachment, but the fact remains the same, that

probably nineteen people out of every twenty are afraid of being in the

dark--perhaps more so than they were when children.

Possibly we grow more nervous than when we were young, or gas may have

had something to do with it; certainly more people seem to burn lights

in their bedrooms than used to be the case before a gas-burner or two

had become the regular furniture of a well-ordered bedroom in town.

In our fathers' days, people who were invalids burned long, thin, dismal

rushlights in shades, with the candle itself in the middle of a cup of

water; or else they had a glass containing so much oil floating on

water, and a little wick upon its own raft, sailing about like a

miniature floating beacon in the oil. But still these were the

exceptions, and a light in a bedroom was an uncommon thing. At the same

time, though, it must be allowed that there is something fear-exciting

about the dark rooms, and that sounds that are unnoticed in the broad

daylight acquire a strange weirdness if heard when all else is still.

People have a bad habit of being taken ill in the night; burglars choose

"the sma'" hours for breaking into houses; sufferers from indigestion

select the darkness for their deeds of evil known as sleep-walking; and

the imps attendant on one's muscles prefer two or three o'clock in the

so-called morning for putting our legs on that rack known as the cramp.

It is perhaps after all excusable then for people to indulge, in

moderation, in a little nocturnal alarm; and it may also, for aught we

know, be good for us, and act as a safety-valve escape for a certain

amount of bad nerve-force. No doubt Priam was terribly alarmed when his

curtains were drawn in the dead of the night--as much so, perhaps, as

the mobled queen; and therefore it was quite excusable for the Rector to

answer the summons of the head of his wedding staff of servants in a

state of no little excitement.

"Dreadful! extraordinary! most strange?" he faltered. "You were

passing, Henry, eh?"

"Yes: Mr Magnus and I were going by, and we found the policeman had

discovered that the door was open."

"Then the place has been rifled," exclaimed the Rector; "and many of the

things are hired," he cried piteously. "Everything will be gone! What

is to be done?"

"Hush, Mr Mallow! we shall alarm the whole house," said Artingale,

hastily. "I fancy I saw some one leave the place as we came up. Will

you send and see if--if--"

He hesitated, for he saw Magnus with a face like ashes, standing holding

on by the balustrade.

"Yes, yes," exclaimed the Rector. "Speak out, please. Do you mean see

if all the servants are at home?"

"I don't know--I scarcely know what to say," whispered Artingale, going

close up to him. "We want to avoid exposure, sir. Go and knock at

Cynthia's door, and send her to see if her sister has been alarmed."

"There is no occasion to frighten her. Let the place below be well

searched, and the servants examined."

Just then Mrs Mallow's voice was heard inquiring what was the matter,

and the Rector thrust his head inside the door to tell her that she was

not to be alarmed.

"Is any one ill?" said a voice just then, which made Artingale thrill,

and he ran to the door from which the voice had come.

"Dress yourself quickly, Cynthy," he whispered, "and go and tell Julie

not to be alarmed. We--we are afraid there has been a burglary."

The door closed, and just then the Rector, who had been compelled to go

back to his room to quiet Mrs Mallow's fears, came back.

"I will speak to the young ladies," he said, looking pale and troubled,

and going along the landing, he tapped lightly at Julia's door.

"Julia, my dear! Julia!"

He tapped again.

"Julia, my child! Julia!"

Still no answer.

He tapped a little louder, a little louder still--but no answer; and

Artingale and Magnus exchanged glances.

"Dear me, it is most embarrassing. How fast she sleeps," said the

Rector, looking round apologetically. "Really, gentlemen, I do not

think we ought to disturb her."

All the same, urged by a strange feeling of alarm, he tapped again, but

still without result; and once more he looked round at the strange group

gathered upon the broad landing--the police in great-coats, and

lantern-bearing; the butler with his candlestick and pistol; the two

gentlemen in evening dress, with their light overcoats and crush hats in

hand.

Just then a door opened, and every one drew back to allow the pretty

little vision that burst upon their sight to pass them by.

The figure was that of Cynthia, with her crisp, fair hair lightly tied

back, so that it floated down loosely over the loose wide _peignoir_ of

creamy cashmere trimmed with blue, which formed a costume, as it swept

from her in graceful folds, far more becoming than the most ravishing

toilet from a Parisian _modiste_. She held a little silver candlestick,

with bell glass to shade the light, and as she came forward, looking

very composed and firm, though rather pale, Artingale felt for the

moment as if he could have emulated Perry-Morton, and fallen down to

kiss her pretty little slipper-covered feet.

"Ah, my dear!" exclaimed the Rector, "I am glad you have come. I cannot

make Julia hear."

Cynthia darted a quick glance at Artingale, full of dread and dismay,

and then without a word she passed on and laid her hand upon the china

knob of Julia's door. Then she hesitated for a moment, but only for a

moment, before turning the handle and going in, the door swinging to

behind her.

Cynthia held her candle above her head and gave one glance round, the

light falling on Julia's wedding dress and veil; the wreath was on a

table, side by side with the jewels that had been presented to her.

Over other chairs and in half-packed trunks were travelling and other

costumes, with the endless little signs of preparation for leaving home.

Cynthia gave one glance round her with dilating eyes; ran into the

dressing-room and back looked at the unpressed bed, and then she let

fall the candlestick as she sank on her knees uttering a loud cry, and

covering her face with her hands.

It was no time for ceremony, and at the cry the Rector rushed in,

followed by Artingale, Magnus stopping at the door to keep back the

police and the servants, who would have entered too, both the men from

below having now joined the group.

As the Rector ran in with Artingale, Cynthia started up once more.

"Oh, papa! oh, Harry!" she cried, piteously, "Julie has gone!"

"Gone!" gasped the Rector. "Gone! Where? Are you mad?"

"Mad? no, papa, but she is. Oh, Harry! I saw that dreadful man

to-night outside in the garden, after we had gone to bed; but I thought

she would be safe; and now I know it--I am quite sure. Oh, Harry,

Harry! what shall we do? He has taken her away!"

PART TWO, CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE BIRD AND THE SERPENT.

Unmistakably. There could be no doubt of the fact; Julia Mallow had

fled from her home that night--half willingly, half forced, always drawn

as it were by the strange influence that the man who had been the evil

genius of her life had exercised over her.

For months past she had fought against it, and striven to nerve herself

to conquer the force that seemed to master her; but always in vain. For

often, unseen except by her, Jock Morrison was on the watch, turning up

where least expected; and when not present in the flesh, seemingly

always there in spirit, and haunting her like her shadow. Again and

again he had come upon her alone, taken her in his arms, and in his

coarse fashion told her that he loved her, and that she should belong to

him alone. Nothing, he told her, should keep them apart, for if he

could not get her by fair means he would by foul; laughingly showing her

the great spring-bladed dagger-knife he carried, and saying that he kept

it sharp for any one who got in his way.

Julia trembled at the thought of seeing him; she shuddered and closed

her eyes when he appeared before her, and then grew nerveless and weak,

fascinated, as it were, like some bird before a serpent; and the

scoundrel knew it. He felt the power of his words, and he repeated them

to his shivering victim, glorying the while in the power he felt that he

exercised over her.

Sometimes she had fancied that she was mastering her fear, but as she

overcame that dread, she found, to her horror, that there was another

occult influence at work which refused to be overcome; for as in the

solitude of her own chamber she strove with it, she found that she was

only riveting her chains more stoutly. It was not love for him. No,

that was impossible; for she shuddered and shrank from him as from some

monster. But, to her horror, she found that her feelings towards the

great overmastering ruffian were something near akin. The thoughts of

his great muscular figure, his bold bearing, and brown picturesque face

were always before her; and even when her own were closed, his fierce

black piercing eyes were fixed upon hers, reading her weakness,

insisting upon his mastery over her more powerfully even than his words,

though they were burned into her memory; and at last, after fighting

with all her mind against the current of what she felt to be her fate,

she had begun to drift.

Once she had allowed that terrible idea--that it was her fate--to obtain

entrance, and she was lost, for it produced a weak submission that

stifled every hope. Drift, drift, drift--resigning herself to what she

thought was the inevitable. Some day, she told herself, Jock would come

and order her to leave home and all she loved, and follow him

wheresoever he willed; and she would have to go. He was her master, her

fate; and mingled with her horror of him there was that inexplicable

fascination that exercised upon her will the power of the mesmerist upon

his patient, and she could fight no more. When it would be she knew

not, thought not; only she knew that the time would come, and when it

did she could no more resist, no more battle with it, than against that

other inevitable point that would end her weary life--when the angel of

death would overshadow her with his heavy wings, touch her with icy

finger, and bid her away.

Always brooding now over these two fixed points in her career--the

coming of Jock Morrison and the coming of the end; and so she drifted

on. She heard the talk of the wedding that she knew would never be; for

if the day did come, and she were taken to the church, she felt that her

fate would pluck her from the very altar, or even from her husband's

arms.

She knew of the love of James Magnus, and she felt a curious kind of

pity for one whom she liked and esteemed; but she closed her eyes with a

weary smile as she thought of him, for she knew that she was drifting

away, and that even to look at him was to give him pain.

Drifting still when taken to see the talked-of home, asked opinions upon

decorations, and taken by father and sister where she was prepared to be

decked for the sacrifice. Drifting, too, at party or ball, where she

met Perry-Morton, who always seemed to her like some nebulous mist, that

was absorbed and died away in the presence of the giant ever filling her

imagination.

Go where she would, she felt that she would see him somewhere, though

often it was but imagination. Still it kept Jock Morrison always in her

mind, and he knew that he was secure of his prize, waiting patiently

till she came back from abroad.

At first she had felt a kind of sorrow for Perry-Morton, and wanted to

warn him of what her fate would be; but the pity gave place to contempt,

the contempt to disgust, the disgust to dread; for she felt that if she

warned him he would take steps to assert himself, and if he did, she

knew in her heart that her fate, as she called him, would not stop at

taking his life.

And so by slow degrees Julia drifted from active opposition into a

morbid belief that resistance was vain, nursing her horror in her own

racked breast, and waiting for the fulfilment of her fate. As Cynthia

had complained, she had grown reticent, and made no confidante of her

sister; in fact, there were times, after seeing Morrison, when she felt

with a sigh that she should be glad when all was over, and she need

think no more. For she was weary of thinking, weary of this keeping up

appearances, weary of Perry-Morton, of his sisters, of home, of her own

life.

There were times when she looked from her window longingly towards where

she knew the long lake lay in the hollow of the Park, and wondered

whether it would not be better to flee from the house some evening, go

down to the bridge, and throw herself in. She shuddered as she formed

the idea; not from dread of death, which would have been like rest to

her; but because she felt that she would be only hastening her fate, and

that she did fear. For so surely as she left the house to cross the

Park, so surely she knew that Jock Morrison would start up from the

grass and take her away.

And so it had come to the wedding-eve, and the great burly form had

shown itself in the garden. She had seen it early in the evening, and

she had felt that it was there hour after hour, till Perry-Morton had

left, and she had gone to the window, drawn there in spite of herself.

Later on she had obeyed Jock's signals, feeling as if he were speaking

to her--telling her that the time had come, and dressing herself in her

plainest things, she had sat down and waited by the open window, acting

mechanically, till the deep voice came up to where she sat, bidding her

come down now.

She felt no emotion, for it was all as if she were in a dream. She

obeyed, however, going out on to the landing, after closing her window,

to find that all was very silent in the house. Then for a moment she

went and kneeled down upon the mat by her sister's door, laid her cheek

against it, sighed heavily and kissed the panel that separated them, and

slowly descended the stairs, entered the dining-room, and, still as if

drawn by her fate, unfastened the shutters and window, which latter was

thrown open, and Jock Morrison stepped boldly into the room.

"Good girl!" he said, clasping her in his embrace. "I've got a cab

waiting, for you shall ride to-night. Didn't you think it was time I

came?"

She did not answer, but acted still like one in a dream, as he watched

from the door, withdrawing more than once with a muttered oath as

Artingale and Magnus kept parading about the place.

He was about to start again and again, but he always seemed to hesitate

till their steps were heard once more, when he would close the door and

stand listening, with the trembling girl clasped tightly in his arms.

At last he seemed to be satisfied that the ground was clear, and with a

smile of triumph on his lip he stepped out, drawing Julia after him; but

as he reached the pavement he heard the steps of the two gentlemen once

more, and uttering a fierce oath he hurried his prize along faster and

faster, as he felt that their evasion had been seen.

"Quicker, my lass, quicker!" he said, gruffly; and she had to obey him.

But she was growing faint. She held up, though, till she reached the

cab, into which he hurried her. And now for the first time the reality

of her position seemed to force itself upon her, and she started up with

a wild cry.

Too late! With one hand he thrust her back into the seat as with the

other he drew up the window, and her next feeble cry was drowned by the

noise of the jangling panes.

In his agony of grief and horror the Rector could hardly believe in the

possibility of that which Artingale reluctantly told; for when he

appealed to his child he could not get a word from her, but hysterical

cries for her sister, whom she accused herself of having neglected and

allowed to go.

It was impossible, the Rector declared, and after a long discussion he

insisted upon the matter being kept quiet, refusing to take any steps in

the way of pursuit till he had seen his son.

It would all come right, he was sure, he said; and finding that nothing

could be done, Artingale left the house, after hearing from the doctor,

who had been sent for, that he need be under no apprehension concerning

Cynthia.

"What next?" he said to Magnus.

"To find her," said the artist, "wherever she is, and to bring her

back--poor lost lamb! Oh, Harry, they have driven the poor girl mad!"

"I'm with you, Magnus," said Artingale, "to the end. Come on; we have

lost much valuable time, but I could not stir till I saw what her father

intended to do."

He hailed a cab.

"Scotland Yard!" he shouted, and the man drove on. "If it costs me all

I've got I'll have her back. I look upon her as a sister. Poor girl!

poor girl! she must have been mad indeed."

"Harry," whispered Magnus, "what are you going to do?" and his voice

sounded hoarse and strange.

"Put the best dogs to be had upon the trail to run them down."

"And then?"

"Get the scoundrel transported for life. And you?"

"I'm going with you to-night, or this morning, or whatever it is;

to-morrow I'm going to buy a pistol."

"And blow out your brains?" cried Artingale. "Bah! what's the use of

that?"

"No," said Magnus, turning his haggard face to his friend, "to shoot him

as I would a rabid dog."

"And be put on your trial for murder. No; my plan's best."

"Your plan!" said Magnus, fiercely. "What can you do? You forget the

circumstances of the case. Before we can reach them the scoundrel will

have married her. You cannot touch him."

Artingale ground his teeth as he seemed to realise the truth of what was

said. Then, turning, he urged the man on to greater speed.

All was quiet and orderly in the great office at Whitehall, and a quiet,

thoughtful official heard their business, raised his eyebrows a little,

and then made a few notes.

"You will keep the matter as quiet as possible," said Artingale, "for

the sake of the young lady's family; but at all costs she must be

brought back."

"We'll soon find the scoundrel, my lord; but from your description he is

not a London man."

"London, no; he is one of those scoundrels who live more by poaching

than anything."

"All right, sir. I'll take your address--and yours, sir. Can I find

you here--at what time?"

"Time!" cried Artingale; "I have no time but for this affair. I'll stay

here with you and your men--live here--sleep here. Damme, I'll join the

force if it will help to bring the poor child back. It is horribly bad!

She was to have been married this morning."

"All that can be done, sir, shall be done," said the officer, quietly.

"And now, gentlemen, if you'll take my advice you'll go home and have a

good sleep."

"What!" cried Artingale. "Go and sleep? No, I want to be at work."

"Exactly, sir; then go and have a rest, and be ready for when I want

you. If you stop here you can do no good--only harm, by hindering me."

"But, damn it all!" cried Artingale, furiously, "you take it so coolly."

"The only way to win, sir--my lord, I mean. But we are wasting time.

By now I should have had the telegraph at work, and the description

flying to every station in London."

"In God's name, then, go on," cried Artingale, "take no notice of us,

only let us stay."

The officer nodded, and in an incredibly short space of time it was

known all over London and the districts round of the elopement or

abduction, and a couple of the keenest officers were at work to track

the fugitives down.

It took some time; but a clever net was drawn all over London. The

early morning trains were watched, the yards where the night cabs were

housed were visited; the various common lodging-houses had calls, and

every effort was made to trace Jock Morrison, and had he been a known

London bird the probabilities are that the police would have placed

their hands upon him; but they had to deal with a man whose life had

been one of practised cunning, and he had so made his plans that the

police were at fault.

They found the cabman in a very short time, and he testified to having

driven the great fellow and the lady with him to Charing Cross.

That was all.

The net spread over London missing that which it was intended to catch,

its meshes were lessened, and it was stretched out wider, and from every

police-station in the country, and in every provincial town, the

description of the fugitives went forth; but still they were not found.

So cleverly had the scoundrel made his plans that no tidings whatever

were obtained, and by degrees the pursuit waxed less hot. First one and

then another _cause celebre_ took the attention of the police. Then

Artingale grew less keen, for the months were gliding by, and he had

devoted himself heart and soul to the cause for long enough without

result.

Then more months passed, and still no news. The strange disappearance

of Julia Mallow became almost historical, and it was only revived a

little as a topic of conversation, when it was announced that Mr

Perry-Morton had returned with his sisters from their long sojourn in

Venice, and soon after it was rumoured in paragraphs that the talented

leader of a certain clique was about to lead to the altar the daughter

of a most distinguished member of the artistic world.

Luke Ross had been consulted by Magnus and Lord Artingale, and had

helped them to the best of his power, counselling the enlistment of Tom

Morrison and his wife upon their side; but he could do no more, and the

matter was pushed from his mind by the hard study and work upon which he

was engaged, till he read in the morning papers the announcement of

Cynthia's marriage to Lord Artingale, quite two years after Julia's

disappearance, the Mallows having again been a long time abroad.

Then, saving to a few, Julia was as one that is dead.

PART TWO, CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A MEETING--AND PARTING.

Three years passed away, and Julia's disappearance remained a mystery to

all, and it was calmly put away upon the dusty shelves of the past--by

all save one.

Father had mourned for her, and time had somewhat assuaged his grief;

mother had wept in silence upon her weary couch; sister talked less

often now of `poor Julia'; brother, when he was seen, never mentioned

her name. The whole matter had grown misty and pale in the distance of

the bygone to all save James Magnus, and from that night he had never

rested. Detectives had grown cold; other affairs had taken their

attention; but nothing had checked the cold, stern, haggard man whose

one aim in life now was to stand face to face with the ruffian who had

made his life a wreck. Had Julia married Perry-Morton, he would have

borne it in silence; but this was an outrage to his feelings that he

could not bear, and taking sketching materials as an excuse, he had

started off to find them, though he rarely put brush to paper now, for

he was incessant in his searchings, and every likely nook and corner in

London and the great cities was visited by him in turn.

Now he was wandering in the country, having had news that seemed to

promise success; now away off to some out-of-the-way spot in the New

Forest, or Herefordshire, where gipsies made their home; always on the

scent, but never successful. He had tracked out scores of burly

ruffians, but they were none of them the man he thought to meet.

Back again in London in the east, in the lowest purlieus of the south,

in common lodging-houses, on waste grounds where caravans were drawn up

for the winter; off to racecourses and fairs, and great markets where

such men as Jock Morrison were to be found, but always in vain.

Once he heard of him, as he thought, at Horncastle, at another time at

Newmarket, and again on Epsom Downs, but it was always some great idle

ruffian bearing a slight resemblance to Jock Morrison, never the man

himself.

And in all those solitary wanderings, James Magnus carried the pistol he

had bought, and practised with it in his lonely walks. Hundreds upon

hundreds of times those chambers were discharged, his marks being trees,

fingerposts, saplings rising out of hedges; and though the artist seemed

day by day to grow thin, careworn, and weak, his nerves were as if of

steel, and each bullet flew upon its course with unerring aim.

"The law cannot touch him," he muttered, with a strange smile; "perhaps

a bullet can."

It was on a bright afternoon in May that, seeing no beauty in the

verdant spring and the return of sunny days, James Magnus, heartsick and

worn out, crawled back to his chambers to find Burgess anxiously

expecting him, for he had been away longer than was his wont.

"Oh, I am glad to see you back, sir," he said. "Set down, sir, and let

me take off your dusty boots. You look worn out. Lord Harry has been

here--not an hour ago."

A faint smile came upon the face of Magnus, as he heard the name of his

friend, and taking up the card he rose to go.

"Going, sir, so soon?" exclaimed his man.

"Only to see Lord Artingale," said Magnus, wearily. "I'll soon be

back."

On reaching his friend's house in Lowndes-square, the servant told him

that his lordship had gone into the Park with her ladyship. They were

in the open carriage; and wondering at his own weariness, Magnus

followed, unconsciously walking straight to the very spot where, what

seemed a lifetime back, he and Artingale had leaned over the rail, and

first seen poor Julia's fate.

He did not recall the fact at first, but stood watching the carriages,

thinking how much he would like to meet his old friend; and his face lit

up with a smile that had been a stranger to it of late.

For a long time it seemed as if his journey had been in vain, and he was

listlessly scanning the long lines of vehicles, when suddenly he heard

his name uttered, and a carriage was drawn up close to the rails, with

Artingale and Cynthia therein, both looking, if not so young, as bright

and happy as ever.

"My dear old fellow," cried Artingale, grasping his friend's hand, as

Cynthia possessed herself of the other, "I can't tell you how glad I am

to see you. But jump in, and we'll go home at once. We'll have such a

dinner, and those dining-room curtains shall be incensed, and no

mistake, to-night."

"No, no, not now," said Magnus; and in spite of all his friend's

pressure he declined.

"Then I shall come with you," cried Artingale. "Cynthy, may I go?"

"I suppose you must," she said merrily. "Mr Magnus, you are the only

gentleman to whom I would give him up."

Then there was a pleasant chat for a time, the carriage drove on, and

Artingale and his friend were left standing by the Park rails.

"Not one word," said Magnus to himself; "Julia is indeed dead."

"Why, Mag, old man, this is the very spot where--"

"Hush! Look!" cried Magnus, grasping his friend's arm. "God, I thank

Thee. At last--at last!"

Artingale followed the direction of his eyes, and started, for there, on

the other side of the drive, was the great picturesque ruffian, slowly

sauntering along, quite unchanged, and with the same defiant air.

Artingale restrained his friend, who was about to leap over the

railings.

"No, no," he whispered, "let's follow him, and see where he goes. We

shall find her then."

It was a slow task, for Jock Morrison went first out on to the grass and

lay down for an hour, but the watchers did not quit their post for a

moment, but tracked him when he rose, step by step, and along the great

highway due east, till he turned up Grey's-inn-lane, and then up one of

the narrow courts.

It was as ill-favoured and vile as any there, and for the moment Magnus

thought he had missed his man, but as, in spite of the scowling looks

around, he hurried down the court, a heavy step on one of the staircases

acted as his guide; and, closely followed by Artingale, he bounded up to

the second landing, which he reached just as a door was slammed to, and

he turned a countenance upon his friend that made him shudder.

"At last, Harry," he said in a low whisper. "At last! God of heaven,

how I have prayed for this time!"

"Stop," cried Artingale, excitedly; "you shall not go in. Give me that

pistol, Magnus. You shall not go."

He clung to his friend's arm, but Magnus threw him off.

That there was no mistake was evident, for from beyond the filthy

paintless door came the hoarse bullying tones of the fellow's voice,

and, unable to contain himself longer, Magnus dashed open the door, and

stepped in.

He was greeted by a volley of oaths, and the great ruffian started up

from a bed upon the floor where he had evidently thrown himself down,

and as he did so, with a face like ashes and his teeth set, Magnus

covered him with his pistol.

Artingale was in the doorway, and saw it all, but stood paralysed at his

friend's act. But another moment, and the bullet would have sped upon

its deadly errand, when, with a cry, a woman threw herself between them,

placing herself with her back against Jock's breast, and her arms thrown

up to screen his face, as, with flaming eyes, she faced the intruders

upon her home.

"Stand aside, Ju, I'm not afraid of his barker," roared the great

ruffian, with a blasphemy; but the woman clung to him and held him back

as the pistol dropped upon the floor, and Magnus staggered against his

friend.

The recognition was mutual, but the woman's face remained unchanged. It

was filled with the passionate desire to protect the ruffian who treated

her a little worse than he would have treated his dog; and as he read

the history of her life in what he saw, Artingale stood speechless for a

few moments, while Jock swung his defender on one side, strode forward

quickly, and picking up the pistol, put it in his pocket.

"Julia," exclaimed Artingale, recovering himself and advancing, "do you

not know me?"

She looked at him fixedly for a few moments. Her face began to quiver,

and her hand was slightly raised to take the one he extended; but she

became rigid directly after, and turned away to cling to Jock Morrison,

who, with his hands in his pockets, looked mockingly on.

"No," she said, in a sharp, harsh voice, as changed as was her thin,

worn, piteous face from that Artingale had known in better days. "No,"

she said, "I do not know you; the Julia you knew is dead."

"Well," said the great fellow, roughly, "have you any more to say to my

wife? Because if not, go."

Artingale felt like one in a dream, as he fell back, and the door

slammed to; then slowly descending, careless of the curious eyes and

scowling looks directed at them, he joined his friend, and they went

back to the studio, where Magnus threw himself wearily down and closed

his eyes.

"But I must do something," exclaimed Artingale; and, rushing out, he had

himself driven to Great Scotland Yard.

"What can you do, my lord?" said the officer he saw. "From what you

say, the fellow has married her, and we can't undo that. I'll take what

steps you like, my lord, but--"

_But_! There was a volume in that one word, for when afterwards effort

after effort was made to win the wanderer back by father, mother,

sister, all was in vain. She had spoken truly. The Julia whom Harry

Artingale had known was dead.

It was close upon twelve that same night that, sick at heart, Artingale

returned to his friend's chambers, to find that Burgess had been busy

preparing supper, feeling sure that he would return.

"Where is your master?" said Artingale.

"He said he would go and lie down, sir, till you came. He thought you

would be sure to come back to-night. But oh, my lord--oh sir," cried

the poor fellow piteously, "can't you do something to make poor master

what he was? This is weary work indeed!"

"I don't know, Burgess. I can't say. I'll try, but I hope he will be

better now."

"I hope and pray he may, sir," said the man, fervently; and Artingale

went on into the bedroom, to see that his friend had placed Julia's

picture on the easel at the farther side of the bed in full sight from

where he lay; and as the young man's eyes lighted upon the prostrate

figure, he uttered a cry which brought in the man.

"Quick, Burgess, quick! The nearest doctor."

A fruitless errand: James Magnus, after his long and weary pilgrimage,

was resting peacefully where there is no dreaming of revenge.

Of a broken heart! So it was said, for the secret was well kept. There

are men who dare to make the rush headlong from this world.

PART THREE, CHAPTER ONE.