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NOBLER THAN REVENGE.
(AU. EIGHTS RESERVED.] NOBLER THAN REVENGE. BY THE Jbuthor of* The Heiress of Atherstom Grange* CHAPTER LV. A BITTER SORROW. One woe doth tToad npon another's heela; So fawt they follow.'—SHAKESPEARE. WHAT is the matter ? What has happened ? Horace Gayford asked, putting his hand to his aching head as they lifted his wife from the floor. Is Mra. Gayford ew They could tell him nothing. The waiter bad knocked at the door to see if they would have the btinde down and the lamps lit, and he had found the gentleman asleep and muttering as if he were ill, and the lady on the. Hoor asleep too, as be thought, but so cold and still when he ventured to touch her that at first he believed she was dead, and he rung and called fcnr assistance. It was only a faint, his mistress said, but a severe and obstinate Ot.?, and it would be better if he would let the women put the lady to bed and try to bring her a little to her selas, s. For poor Phyllis was sobbing violently now, and incoherently begging them to take her home, to find her father for her, to hide her, and all sorts of requests that would call attention to their proceedings in a very uncomfortable fashion if she were not stopped; be must see to it at once, and quiet her. That she had found out his secret by some means he had no doubt from a word he heard as they carried her away, and be oollected his scattered wits for an effort, and fol- lowed them from the room. His head was aching terribly, and he felt as if everything were reeling around him, but she must silenced, and they must get away. He saw her laid on her bed and sat down beside her, begging the frightened women to leave her to him. '■Better not, monsieur,' the landlady said • better let ps put her properly to bed and send for a doctor; 8be has had a fright of some sort.' ♦Hardly that, I think,' he said 4she was alone with me. There is nothing to frighten her; she will be quite quiet with me if you will kindly leave us. She wtil be ready to come down to dinner.' In vain the landlady protested that the poor frightened dishevelled Phyllis was ill. and only fit for bed and a doctor. Her husband's will:carried the day, and the women left him alone with his wife. When they were gone he bolted the door, and stood looking at the prostrate figure on the bed. Recognising, him she gave a terrified start and a little cry. What does it mean ?' he asked her 4 what is the matter with you ? They say you have been frightened.' His eye was upon her; his will working as it had worked when she left her father's house to go to him, as it had worked ever since when he wanted to subdue bar. She faltered for a minute, but no longer. f8peak,' he said tell me just what happened.' She told him, as a womin in a dream might have spoken; everything that had passed; how she had been sitting by his side, and how he had talked and shown her all that had seemed so mysterious. • Oh, say it is not true,' the gasped, breaking the trammels that held her for a moment and becoming her own natural self; say it is all fancy on my part, orI shall die.' "No you won't,' he said quietly; I is that all ? • All! Is it not enough to know you for a I Hush, if you please. The walls in these places are apt to have ears you never know who may be on the other side of the cupboard partition. You know now why I was fo anxious to marry your father's daughter; he will hardly like to give his son-in-law Tip to tb9 hangman. We need never refer to the subject again, unless you give me any trouble, and What you make for me will fall doubly on you. I promised you should be downstairs to dinner get ready at once, please, and mind you look your best.' • I cannot. Ah, I cannot!' gasped poor Phyllis. I I could not eat, it would choke me.' •I think not, when I bid you do it. I have no fancy for dinner myself; I would rather have rested this evening in our own rooms and taken something tight, but this absurd exhibition of yourself that you have chosen to make renders it necessary that we should show ourselves and together; they will fancy I have been ill-treating you else. He never took his eyes from her face while he was talking to her. Though she shivered a little she did his bidding, and dressed herself as well as she knew how. She never bad much taste in dress it had not been thought good to be stylish in the old days at Camcpie House, but her husband had bought her a few dresses for present use, and she could mike a fair appearance now. Her dress was handsome and ber lace good, and she had done her hair in a fashion thB" she had seen in Brussels. But the face she turned to him when she had finished her toilet was so white and horror stricken that even he recoiled at it. It was like the face of a dead woman more than a living Ofeature but he could not bring back the life into it, nor take the wild terror out of the weary eyes. Perhaps she would paos muster; she would get better when she saw people about her. Any way she must g) down to dinner, and the next day they would push on to Bingen and change the scene once more. He had hard work to control his own feelings, for he felt very ill, bah he managed to do so; and the pair entered tha grrat dining room together, to the Intense amazement of the waiter who bad found IPhvNis on the floor, and the landlady, who was watch- ini from a coign of vantage of h'r own in tbs lobby. What has he dono to her ?' she said to herself I it Is magic surely she looks like a corpse. Who are they, I wonder; he has done something. He has the face of a man always expecting something to happen to him. and she knows it, poor thing, and is afraid of him. We shall see. They are going on to morrow. There is a story in their lives, and I shall hear it some- dav., She did hear it at no very distant day, and was con- siderably astonished thereat. Phyllis sat quiet, during dinner, unable to eat, but having her plate filled and changed as the waiters thought proper. She would have gone out of the room again without tasting a morsel, if her husband bad not commanded her, in the low whisper that had come to be such a thing of terror to her now, to eat a piece of bread and drink some wine. The effort took a little of the stony look ouj; of her face. But she never looked at her husband, nor plied him wfth the little attentions that had so plainly showed her to be a wife of a few days only till now. And when they rose from the table it was noticed that she did not notice him in the least; she seemed to touch his arm by a subtle instinct, as it were, without ever looking to see where it was. Once more in her room there was a break in the stony stillness of her demeanour, and she flung herself at her husbands feet. • Let me go hame/ she said; I will never betray you-I will keep your wicked secret till my dying day. Only free me; let me go; let me hide myself where no one will know of my folly and my infatuation.' Get up, he said quietly. I I did not marry you to have you indulge in heroics like that. You will go to bed and sleep as I mean to do, and to-morrow morn- ing we will start for Bingen fresh, and looking less like toad people, than you have chosen we should do to- night. You took me by surprise, or I should not have permitted such an exhibition as you made of yourself. 6 Are you man or a devil, I wonder ?' ahe said in a lOW voice, avoiding his eyes, and shrinking from the hand he would have placed on her shoulder. I can't believe you can be human.' 'Oh yes, I am-your husband; and want to be a gortd one to you If you will let rre. You will take no barm at my hands if you hold your tongue. You are Startled and surprised now; you will see things very differently in the morning.' I I can Dever see them differently, she sobned; relieving tears coming to the aid of her voice, which she oouid hardly make heard f°r the choking m her throat. Nothing can alter what I heara; no'hmg can make me believe that you love me; and I did think it, God help me!' For answer, he bade her go to bed; he m"ant her to deep well and be ready for their further journey on the morrow. And she obeyed him, leaving him sitting by the fire holding converse with himself. « Maybe, England would be 1 est after all,' he said to himself. It is easy to lose oneself there; and, after all, what am I afraid of ? They may accuse me but what actual proof can they bring ? The word of a drunken scamp, who has half a dozen convictions recorded against himself at various times. Nothing has been found; the pool has kept its secret well. Who dares to say I murdered my cousin ? Bab I am a fool! My only safety is in keeping dark, and I can do that at home as well as hew. I must sleep— sleep- or I shall go mad, and blurt out what I had better keep a secret. She will sleep now, and if she does not, she will have to be content till I wake. She is safe in here with me at all events. He locked the door and took out the key, P^mg^it where Phyllis could not possibly get a i awaking him if he were asleep, and looked at his sleep- ing wife with a somewhat contemptuous smile on his handsome face. She will do my bidding ?till,' he said to himself. • AU is not lost yet-and now to sleep myself to recruit my powers—they will fail me else, and I shall want them all.' He laid himself down with the feeling that some oi us have at times, that he should not close his eyes and he forced himself to forget what was troubling him most, and allow nature to assert herself. He had a singular strength of will, this man-a power that well directed might have made him a power amongst his fellow men-but the perversion of which had brought him almost face to face with the gallows. Even now Nemesis was on his track! Go where he would, do what he would, he was in the toils; and to all human appearances there would be no escape for him. That he was the man who had committed the crime that had puzzled the authorities, and fhll but driven an innocent man into the hangman s hands, was well known now in the little square at Whitehall where the destinies of so many sinners are settled. t I have the best trump in my hand,' he said, as he listened to the quiet breathing of the unlucky Phyllis in the darkness. And the game is not over yet; I may turn the tables against my father-in-law even now-we shall see.' He fell asleep almost with the words on his lips, and slept for hours as though he had nothing on his conscience, waking refreshed and invigorated to faCA the coming day. I Not yet,' he muttered, looking at Phyllis as she turned and muttered in her sleep.. I shall want you by-and-bye, my dear, and want you fresh and bright to undo all the unpleasant impressions you have made in this place.' A cold bath and a fresh toilet made him look quite a different man, and when he was dressed he called his wife and bade her get up. She obeyed him, listlessly enough at first, as if her sleep had not refreshed her much; but she grew brighter as her toilette proceeded, and was ready and obedient to his bidding by the time he had ordered their breakfast. Phyllis felt as if she were dreaming; the knowledge of his dreadful secret weighed her down, and yet she could no more go against any wish of his than she could have tried to fly. She seemed more his tool than ever she would have done anything, no matter how repeUant to her feelings, if he had asked her, and borne anything that could be laid on her so he was gentle and kind to her. And he was kind-so wonder- fully considerate and obliging, and asked her so pleasantly whether she felt able to go on that she would have laid down her silly life for him had he bidden her do it. 4 Where are we going ?' she asked somewhat list. lessly what did it signify where she was going, as he arranged everything. I To Bingen we shall see Bingen, as I intended, and then what say you to England, Phyllis ?' I Anywhere you like,' she replied. I should like to go home and see mamma.' I That will be part of the programme, doubtless,' ha replied. But I am not going to give my wife up to her own people again. England will suit me very well for awhile; and I can get away across the Atlantic,' he added to himself, 4 if I see occasion.' If the people of the hotel had fancied there was anything wrong on the previous evening, they were inclined to think themselves mistaken when Mr. Gay- ford and his wife made their appearance. Faultlessly dressed, and looking fresh and comfortable-happy was hardly the word to apply to Pnyllis-she never looked quite that; but there was not the slightest trace of agitation in her manner, and the waiter who had found her on the floor and prophesied a storm between the husband and wife, was universally voted a story teller and scandal- monger. At Bingen they went to one of the hotels on the river-not a quarter of a mile from the one where Cuthbert Ingram and his wife were staying—and it was in taking Phyllis for a walk in the dusk of the calm still evening that they saw the face of Helen Ramsay looking down at them from the terrace in front of the house. Phyllis saw it, too, and shrank back in terror. 6 It is a ghost,' she whispered. I Helen is dead we are haunted, Horace!' 4 Haunted; yes,' he said, huskily. 4 Everywhere— by a legion of the dead. First, he must come; and now Helen- But she is not dead it is herself alive; and, my dear,' and the word seemed to come with a spiteful accent of scorn, poor Phyllis thought, we will leave Germany; it seems to be full of the past; a past which both of us would like to forget. Is it not so ?' 41 should like to forget everything,' Phyilis said, sadly. 1 Going away will not free us from the haunt- ing you complain of; if Helen is dead, and we have seen her ghost, we shall see it in England just as mueh. Why are you afraid of her, Horace ? Did you kill her, tooP' 3 ^Silence! he snid, hoarsely. 'You do not know. Kill her! No. I would not have hurt a hair of her head if she would only have come as you came. I have not hurt you, have I, Phyllis-my wife ?' 4 No; only broken my heart,' the poor girl replied, with a burst of tears. 4 I would rather a thousand times you had killed me; I should have been at rest then, and I should have died believing in you, and thinking you good even to the last.' He soothed her as he so well knew how, and left her, while he made inquiries about the lady whom he ■ bad seen only for a minute. She bad seemed to him to disappear. In his excited scare he had not noticed that she had hidden her face on a gentleman's shoulder, j and no inquiries that be made resulted in anything, No one knew of any Miss Ramsay-and he knew nothing of the name of Ingram. If he had ever heard it in the old Hillford days he had never connected it with Helen in any way, and the waiters at the hotel had managed to make such a corruption of the names of most of the visitors that season that many mistakes had been made, and the chances were that he would have been quite as much at fault as in asking for Helen Ramsay. • I will not let things take hold of me so,' he said to himself, indignantly, as he turned away from the hotel, where Helen was actually looking out for him in the gathering darkness, terrified beyond measure at the thought of meeting him. 4 He cannot harm you now, darling,' her husband said to her, drawing her to him as they sat together on the sofa in their sitting-room—she trembling all over, and he trying with all his might to soothe and quiet her. No—I know-I am safe with you but what is he doing here. What does he want ? Why has he crossed my path again ?' I He shall cross it no more, be sure of that, my own Helen. I don't think he is looking for you now. Remember you are dead for the present, till we go back to England. Everyone thinks so, my uncle says, and of course he will be of the same opinion. Besides- 4 Besides what ?' • I saw the gentleman's face more distinctly than you did, I fancy, and I came to the conclusion that he was more frightened than you -were. If ever a man's face expressed mortal terror, his did. I think he thought he had seen a ghost.' Helen could not get over it. She kept her room all the rest of the evening, and could not be persuaded to go downstairs at all. She could not fancy that Horace Gayford could possibly be as much scared as she was. Going back to his hotel he stumbled against someone who seemed to have been watching him, and recoiled with an exclamation of surprise and alarm as he recognised Mr. Stone, the man whom he had seen him on his wedding day at Brussels. His brain must be turning, he thought. The mad- ness he had striven against must be otertaking him at last; or why should the rough-looking face of that ubiquitous personage change all at once in the moon- light to that of his dead cousin, and show itself bright and clear before it vanished away altogether, and he was alone with the rippling water at his feat and the whispering wind amongst the tree tops. CHAPTER LVI. LETTING IN THE LIGHT. his eyes and grieve his heart, Come like shadows, so depart.' —SHAKESPEARE. MR. STONE, for it was he, looked after the retreating figures of Horace Gayford and his wife, and laughed quietly to himself. & How scared he is of me,' he muttered; 4 but he will keep, I have learned all I want to know, and he will go bask of his own accord, right into the lion's mouth. The waiters at that hotel at St. Goar must have lis- tened up," as some fellow says in a play, to some pur- pose. They were able to tell me pretty accurately what his movements were likely to be. I must leave nim and go after —— Am I dreaming, I wonder ? Have I really seen her face, or was it some wild fancy ? I am not fanciful: and there she stood, looking down at me and him as if -— Pshaw Stone, my boy, you are a fool. Make your enquiries and satisfy yourself, and go back about your business. Miss Hatcsay is dead—there was ample proof--drowned through that man's agency in some fashion. I tbtm I can guess how he used it. The poor little bol he has married had love to help her on her road to destruc- tion. It was the hatred that Helen Ramsay bore him that kppt her from falling into the trap he laid for h r. She paid for her escape with her life. unless there bas been magic at work and she is alive.' He went into the hotel where he had seen the lady and worried the waiters as Horace Gayford had done but with more persistence and coherence. They did not know any Miss RarnFay, they told him, as they bad told their former questioner; but there was a lady who had been brought in from the terrace seeming rather faint-the river air was too much for her, her husband bad said. She was an invalid, they under- stood, when she came. They had taken her to her own room, and it was not likely she would be down again that evening. 4 That lady I am asking for is not a married lady', Mr. Stone said. But the waiter persisted that the lady who had been faint was a married lady—a bride they all fancied—and her husband seemed almost to worship her. 41 will wait and see him, if you please,' Mr. Stone said; and sitting down in the saloon he took a paper and ordered something to eat and drink, resolved to solve the mystery of this strange likeness to Helen Ramsay if he could. People went in and out-some regarded him curiously, others seemed oblivious of his presence. He was rather an odd figure, eccentric looking certainly, and he comported himself with true British indifferenoe to the curiosity he saw that he excited. Presently a gentIeman'came towards him and paused in front of him. I I beg your pardon,' he said, the waiters tell me that you are enquiring for my wife.' Mr. Stone looked up with a start—something in the voice struck him-and Cuthbert Ingram saw his face distinctly. 4 Yes,' the new comer said, I I was enquiring for a lady. Miss Ramsay I believed her to be but-, 4 You did not know she was married perhaps. I do not know whom I have the honour of addressing' 4 My name is Stone,' he said. 4 I Here take a glass of wine,' he added, hastily, as Cuthbert Ingram, with a wild stere at him, almost dropped into the nearest chair. 4 You are ill, fatigued, or some- thing, and this Rudesheimer is in capital condition.' He seemed a little excited himself, as he poured out a tall glass of the sparkling wine, and almost forced his visitor to drink it. 'Now. we will go to a private room,' he said. 4 There are too many eyes on us here. We have much to say to each other.' That we have; I must be in a dream, I think.' 4 No, you are wide awake. I may see your wife, Mr. Ingram.' 4 Surely, if I may prepare her for your visit. She has been very ill, and no wonder, as you will say when you hear all that she has gone through; but I think, when she thoroughly understands everything, the sight of you will be the best medicine I could give her.' 41 think it will,' Mr. Stone said, complacently! 41 have a great opinion of my own powers as a doctor in Boma CA"&, Mr. Stone passed the evening with Mr. and Mrs Ingram, and proved the truth of his own words. Helen brigbtened up wonderfully, and looked like the Helen Ramsay of old times, as she sat between her husband and their guest, and talked of Hillford and all that happened to them there, with every detail of which Mr. Stone was well acquainted. 4 Wre must go home now,' Helen said, 4 at once, as quickly as we can 41 shall feel as if every minute was an hour till I see them all again; and Madge -dear Madge-Cuthbert, my heart is too full of joy; it will break, I think.' 4 No, it won't dear,' he replied. 4 Joy does not kill. Shall we go to Barney Grubb's wedding ? I do not know the gentleman; but I have heard enough about him from you.' • Oh, yes,' Helen said I Barney was always a 8vaunch ally of mine.' 4 And an humble admirer,' Mr. Stone said, with a smile. He has let out the fact, I hear, since you have been supposed dead. Barney shall have a lively wed- ding, and plenty of old friends to wish him and his natty little wife joy.' 4 You know Mary, then ?' Helen said. 4 Know her ? I frightened her nearly into a faint- ing fit not long ago. Hillford in general takes me for a detective or something of that sort, and women are generally afraid of anything like that.' 41 wish we could start to-night,' Helen said excitedly. 41 feel as if every moment was wasted that we stay here now.' 4 We will go to-morrow,' Cuthbert said. Mr. Stone must go to be in time for what he wants to do. That miserable man is wishing on his fate.' 4 That he is,' Mr. Stone said. 41 know that the authorities are waiting for him. There has been pretty bungling over the affair from first to last. They might have found out the truth months ago if they had been on the alert. It was spread before them like a book.' 4 It is what is most under their eyes that they fail to see generally,' Cuthbert Ingram said. 4 Helen and I were otherwhere, or might have found it out.' 41 have no doubt you would. I wonder no one else has done so. Barney Grubb didn't look at me twice. I had hard work to keep out of his way.' The waiters had orders to see to the luggage for the first boat that left Bingen in the morning. English people were eccentric and changeable, they thought; for the orders had been quite different till this odd- loolcingmuffled up stranger had come to disturb them. Mr. and Mrs. Ingram had been going to stay a week, and go about. And now they were all going, since this friend had come. A very near relation he must have been, for he was reported to have taken Mrs. Ingram in his arms and kissed her when they sepa- rated for the night, and her husband made no ob- jection, not even any remark. Mr. Jarvis received a curious telegram from Mr. Stone the next morning. No thought of cost had prompted him when he sent it: Stone, Bingen, to Jarvis, Campsie House, Norwood. Your correspondent, whoever ne was, was right. Helen Ramsay is alive! In searching for one of your lost treasures, I have come across another. She and her husband leave this with me in an hour en route for England. Mr. and Mrs. Gayford are ahead of us. They are making straight for England.' Helen really alive and married! It seemed as if Mr. Jarvis could not believe his eyes when he read it, and his wife looked at him across the table, where they were both sitting, wondering what ailed him. He was at home that morning, taking counsel with her about the money that had belonged to his ward, and in the disposition of which she had had some womanly share. He bad been very loth to relinquish it till the very last moment. He wanted some clearer proof of her death; and it did not seem as if he would be ever likely to get it now. The sea had given up its dead in the person of the man who had been her companion when she sailed away in the ill-fated boat to get to La Rochelle., and he could give no valid reason for waiting any longer. Mr. Ingram, sen, was on the watch, had he but known it" ready to prevent any disposal of the money when a move was made in that direction; but the next of kin, very distant ones, were beginning to think time enough bad been allowed to slip by, and to be importunate for their rights, as they called them. e Ia anything wrong, Hedderwick?' Mrs. Jarvis asked. 4 Is it about Phyllis, poor child?' 4 No; at least, that is, not much of it. It is no bad news, thank heaven.' 'Thank heaven, indeed!' she replied, simply and gravely. We have had enough of that of late. Tell me if you can—if you may, that is.' 4 Ob, yes; it is news of bp-r-of Helen.' 4 Helen I' 4 Yes.' 4 Where is she ? How is she ? What has happened to her? All in a breath Mrs. Jarvis gasped her questions out in her agitation, and her husband gave her the telegram to read. 4 I am so thankful,' she said, her tears falling on it. Ab, our poor child. They are coming home. too, you see. Ah, Hedderwick, you will not be hard; you will help to shield him. He is her husband now, you know. You will not hound on the officers of justice, and have him arrested.' Don't frighten yourself, my dear,' the lawyer replied. I I shall not go beyond tho etrict letter of the law, believo me.' Ah, but you know what that letter will be. Think of the disgrace and the-' I Have patience, my dear you have not seen the edges of the cloud yet. It has one, though it is hidden. He wants a lesson, and he shall have one.' Mr. Jarvis always did say that she never really understood her husband, and she felt as if she under- stood him less than ever when he got upon the topic of Horace Gayford. He did not seem to dread his being arrested somehow as she did. lie must know what an awful scandal it would be if the police came and took him. She could not understand it. She raust be patien% and it was a turd task. Two days a for the receiDt of Mr. Stone's telegram Mr. Ingram went to Dover to meet his nephew and hii wife. and accompanied them to Campsie House. Mr. Jarvis was Helen's guardian, and it was due to him that she should go there at once and explain the circumstances of her marriage with Cuthbert. Mrs. Jarvis and her daugher were sitting at the window when they drove up, and wondered not a little who the elderly gentleman might be. I Here is Mr. Stone, mamma,' Henrietta said from her corner. I He is altered, and- And what, child ?' I I don't know. I am fanciful. I think I seemed to see someone else; and- Ah! here is Helen and Miss Jarvis ran out of the room and down the steps of the front door before her mother had actually realised that the visitors had arrived. They never knew till now how much they had loved Helen; and they embraced her, one after the other, as if they would never have their fill of caresses. Mr. Jarvis came in in the midst, and the tears ran down his cheeks. He took his ward in his fatherly arms. I Heaven be praised for this resurrection,' he said, as he held out his band to Mr. Ingram, the elder. I The cloud is turning up its silver lining at last. I Don't look like that, my dear. It is an old friend under a mask, that is aU.' The last words were addressed to Mrs. Jarvis, who was staring at Mr. Stone with aU her might, with a look of terror in her face. I Frank Hatherleigh!' she gasped. I No! No! It is a ghost-a spirit!' 4 A pretty substantial one,' Mr. Jarvis said, as Mr. Stone grasped her hand, and put his arm about her to prevent her falling; for she looked as if she would faint. I Frank Hatherleigh alive and in the flesh, my dear, as you should have known as soon as I did, but that we were afraid to trust any one in the world.' 4 Frank Hatherleigh!' exclaimed old Mr. Ingram, in amazement. 4 Why, it's a miiacle You will be the most famous man in England, sir. Upon my soul, I am very glad to see you Which odd jumble of congratulation, set them all laughing, and restored their scattered wits. There was so much to tell and hear, that they all stayed at Campaie House, and talked far into the night Mrs. Jarvis hardly able to take her eyes off Frank Hather- leigh all the time, and feeling as if he would suddenly disappear, and leave the mysterious Mr. Stone in his place. 4 But you were dead,' she said. her v&oe coming thick and husky with the agitation cf the moment, and her face looking more womanly and motherly than Frank had ever seen it. I Kifled-murdered. Was not Barney Grubb tried for it, and nearly baaged ?' Nearly, but not quite. I should have taken care of that. Mr- Jarvis, I was in no state, even then, to have 1' ared a d vindicated him but I had an ally ■wfco could have managed it for me, but, luckily, there was no ne '<J.' 4 Tuil me all about it,' the lady said. But her hus- band interposed, and insisted on their going to dress for dinner, and have their talk afterwards. 4 We are none of us quiet enough for listening now,' he said 4 and I suspect Frank has more to tell you than could be squeezed into the time there is to spare. If we all go to our rooms for awhile, we shall meet again, fresh and comfortable, and able to listen and talk.' 4 We have indeed much to hear,' Mrs. Jarvis said. 41 cannot believe in our happiness yet. Helen, and Frank, and Mr. Ingram. It ssems too good to be true.' • It is true, nevertheless,' Cuthbert Ingram said, with a smile. I do not feel like a stranger to you, Mrs. Jarvis. My wife has made us acquainted.' The ring of honest pleasure in his voice, as he spoke the word 4 Wife,' and the love that shone out of his eyes, were good to see and hear. The lawyer felt that if his ward had taken her future into her own bands, it was pretty safe. He could see that the young man was a gentleman, and he had beard nothing but good of him from anyone. 4 You and I shall have some businees together, Mr Ingram,'he said, 'when all our wonder and excite ment are over, and we can talk to one another like ordinary mortals. I ought to have known when you were so intent on the tombs in the old church in the Temple, the day Helen here came home from school that there was more in it than your admiration for the musty old records of the crusading marauders. She nearly betrayed herself afterwards. I can remember it plainly enough now. I was very blind to try and coerce two young folks as I did these two.' 4 There was no coercion, sir,' Frank Hatherleigh said. C I had never seen anyone I loved as I did Helen in those days. I thought the arrangement the very best that could have been made.' And so did I,' Helen said, Oll Outbbert came in the way, and then I knew I could not marry Frank. But I did not free him till I found him out,' she added, with a bright smile, and a gentle touch of her hand on Frank's shoulder, as she passed him on her way to her room. It was very well that Mr. Jarvis had postponed the narration of any adventures till after dinner. Mrs. Jarvis had been excited just enough, and the first thing she did on reaching her own apartment was to go into a fit of hysterics, all the more violent from their rarity. They did her good, and her husband, very wisely, let them have their way. 4 Better now ?' he asked, when at length she was quiet, and only crying, without any noise, as he bathed her face, and rubbed her hands with a daft gentleness that she wondered at; for she had never courted his sympathy or good offices in the little attentions that some women are so fond of. 4 Yes,' she replied. 41 was very foolish; but it seemed too much for me, all coming at once, I cannot believe it, even now.' 'You may, my dear,' the lawyer replied. I ought to have prepared you better. But yau see, Frank's secret has been no secret to me for so long, that it made me fancy every one would take it as calmly as myself when the denoticment came about.' 4 Then it really is himself, and no wild dream of mine,' Mrs Jarvis said. 41 shall not believe it till I see him again.' 4 You will believe it when you see him as himself, and not as someone else,' the lawyer said. I He has an ugly scar that he will carry to his grave, poor fellow. But otherwise he is not much altered. A little grey.' 4 Grey ? Yes. He passed through enough to have turned him white. Bu' he Is alive. We should thank Goc for that.' 41 do. I do. And for the knowledge that whatever else the poor, unhappy child may have prepared for herself, she will not live to see her husband hanged. Hedderwick, the thought of that has been killing me.' He will not be hanged,' Mr. Jarvis replied. But for all that, I hope nothing will interfere to spoil the wholesome lesson that the police will give him. They are busy about him. and very likely will have made him smart before this.' (To be continued.)
A VERY MEBRY CHISTMAS INDEED!
A VERY MEBRY CHISTMAS INDEED! BY CLEMENTINE MONTAGU, AUTHOR OP 44 The Lady of the Hohn. My Wife or His," M Rtpct of Sand," For the Glitter of Gold," 4-c. [ALL RIGHTS BISBBVEDJ •' As fite the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still t Be peaoe on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will,"—THACKERAY. A MERRY Christmas truly, a Christmas to be re- membered, the season of the year of grace 18—, when Charley Talbot and I parted at the doer of my omce he to go his way to a pleasant home-gathering, and I to turn back for awhile to some unfinished work. 4 So you won't be persuaded, old boy ? he said. Don't tempt me, Charley; I'd rather not.' 4 Hang it aH; Christmas-eve, you know.' I Too early to begin drinking, with such a lot of work staring me in the face. Look up again-say four or thereabouts. I shall have done then, or nearly so.' 4 That's just what I can't do,' Charley replied. I'm off by the three o'clock train from King's-eros?, and I've a thousand things or so to do before then. So if you won't make yourself agreeable I'll say good-bye.' I Good bye, old fellow,' I replied, I and a merry Christmas to you. I hope you'll enjoy yourself no end.' Won't be my fault if I don't,' he returned, giving my hand a hearty grip that made my fingers tingle again. 4 But I musn't stand here jawing any longer. Ta, ta, old boy, and a merry Christmas to you.' A moment later the door of my den closed behind him, and I was listening to his quick springy foot- step as he hurried along the stone passage outside, and then descending the long flight of steps two at a time, whistling gaily as he went. A little pang of envy shot through my heart—envy of his youth, high spirits, and power of enjoyment-all which blessings seemed to have passed me by, never to return. I felt quite an old man this Christmas-eve, though my years numbered only some half-dozen over the twenty- one recently completed by Charley Talbot; and as the last echoes of his retreating footsteps died away I sighed a little bitterly as I pondered on the inequality of our respective lots. Three years before my prospects had seemed as bright, and my future as roseate-hued as Charley's- not that I had, like him, the certainty of succeeding in time to an honoured name and an ample inheri- tance, strictly entailed and with not the shadow of an encumbrance. The lineage of my family, though respectable and even ancient, gave us no place in the aristocracy of birth. But what I lacked in rank was amply conpensated by riches. My father was senior partner in one of the oldest established banks in the city of London -a firm that for more than a century had had a Lawrence Ainslie for its head—a firm that when the great wave of limited liability rolled over the com- mercial world, and joint-stock companies sprung up like mushrooms in a night from one end of the country to the other-had held its own oonrse, despising such new-fangled devices, and steadily adhering to the old liDes. I was an only child, alone always from my very infancy, for I never knew the tender care of a mother. I never remember nestling to a mother's bosom, or going to a mother's love for solace in my childish griefs and troubles. My father was indulgent and denied me nothing; and when be found I bad no bent for business and disliked the time-honoured bank and its associations, he put aside his disappoint- ment—and I know that be was disappointed—and allowed me to go to college, and study with the notion that I could make a place for myself in the literary world. I had all sorts of aspirations. I fancied—heaven save the mark-that I was going to be the wonder of the age-a compound of all the authors that had ever lived, and something better than any of them. I came to my senses at Oxford, and found that what I had mistaken for the divine afflatus of genius was an immense amount of vanity and self-satisfaction, and a very medioore aptitude for turning sounding verses, and weaving highly-coloured, but by no means talented romances. I was anything but industrious at college, but I bad a capital memory, and managed to take my degree with a moderate amount of credit so as to leave the old city with something of eolat, and establish myself as a student of the Middle Temple in a respectable fashion. I had been heart free at Oxford. Somehow, by chance, I suppose, I had escaped the many snares laid for young men ift that time-worn old city. But my fate came upon me when I was settled in town-came to me in the femple-gardens in the soft spring time, when the trees were at their freshest and greenest, and everything, even smoky, busy London, rejoicing in the brightness of Heaven and the freshness of the sun- shine. 4 In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove; In the spring a young man's fanoy lightly turn to thoughts of love,' says the poet. And so it wai with Mary and me. We loved each other very dearly, and though she bad no fortune my father was pleaded to say that he thought she was just the wife for me. She was the eldest daughter of a large family, most of them girls, and all of them loving sister Mary' with an intensity that plainly proved her worth. I was only 23; Mary just four years younger. Mr. Featberstone, her father, though possessed of JsufEcient means, was not in a position to give her more than a very modest dowry indeed; so that be thought his darling—for Mary was his favourite—was doing very well indeed when, with my father's fall sanetion, I asked him to give her to me for my wife. He only stipulated that twelve months should elapse before our marriage. Mary was too young, he said, and I had hardly enough knowledge of the world. Let a year go by, and then he would allow us to talk about fixing the date of our wedding day. It was a reasonable request, though a year seemed like an eternity to look forward to, and we gave way some- what reluctantly. Alas, before the year was out we were parted irrevocably. I was alone in the world, ruined, and fatherless! No need to tell of the cir- cumstances which brought this about. The wave of ruin that swept over the commercial world in the year 18—, is too well remembered by hundreds to need comment in a story. Suffice it to sav that Ainslie, Ditton, and Co. went down into the deep water, after a wild and hopeless struggle to^keep afloat, and meet the overwhelming liabilities that lay upon them. My father was the head of the firm, though he bad long retired from any active share in the business and had left the conduct of affairs at the bank to a man in whom he put the most perfect trust, and who was in honest man in intent, but bitten by the speculat- ing mania which had run through the city of late years like an epidemic—tempted by glowing chances, he embarked in speculation with money that did not belong to him, and through a series of mistakes, brought the old firm to bankruptcy, and my father to his deathbed. 4 He could have borne anything but dishonour,' he said piteously, when he rallied a little from the first attack that came upon him on hearing the dreadful news, but the thought of the innocent people involved in the downfall of 4 Ainslie's broke his heart; and before any arrangomentwas come to with the creditors he was in his grave, dishonoured and execrated by hundreds who had come to ruin and beggary through the failure of the bank. They were not to know bow blameless and how honourable he was, nor how his heart had broken in the pain and struggle. To out- siders he was only the head of the firm-.the respon- sible person, who should have seen and stopped the mischief. Mr. Featherstone professed, and I really beliøvo felt, great sympathy for me in my loss and trouble but he gave me to understand, without any beating about the bush, that my engagement with Mary must be at an end. The news of my misfortune had been a øreat shock to ber, he said, and he was candil enough to tell me that my darling said that what bad happened to me ought not to make any difference, and could not make any as far as she was concerned. 'I dare say I am foolish to tell you this, Lawrence,' he said. 'My poor girl is infatuated enough to think that love will furnish a home and keep the pot boil- ing in it afterwards. Heaven knows I don't want to be hard on her or you. Butr- 4 What do you want me to do ?' I asked. Be brave, my boy,' he replied. Help me to save Marv from herself.' How ?' Give her up.' It was only the right thing to do, and I knew it. But how oould I, thus suddenly asked, fling away my life's future with my own hand ? It bad been sweet to think of Mary in the midst oF my bitterest trouble. Even by my father's deathbed the thoughts of her sweet sympathy had come uppermost. I should for- get my poverty with her by my eide. Anj I was being asked to give up the only thing the world held for me now. 4 God knows I don't want to be hard,' Mr. Feather- stone said, and there was a kindly ring in his voice as bespoke. I There's the truth, Lawrence, Mary loves you, but if you bold the foolish girl to her promise I cannot help it. Bat consider—think what you are bringing on her. You will take her from a home of eomfort and ease-to share—what ? at best a life of struggling poverty; rendered ten times harder to bear from the knowledge that you have brought it upon the woman you love as well aa having to endure it yourself.' 4 Mary's love would give me a stronger motive for work,' 1 replied. We should be happier in our poverty -and it should not be so dire ae you picture it—than in the most luxuriant home in the world.' 4 If you require any motive to work, save dui-y, yon are weaker of purpose than I thought you,' Mary's father said quietly. 4But I won't think so badly A you as that. Come, Lawrence, try aad :s.e reason- able.' Reasonable!' 1 Just that; look at it sensibly. It is for Mary's sake; to save her I ask you to be brave.' What could I say ? Argument-was of no avail, and in the end I was forced to succumb. 1 had no pros- pects, no profession, no friends. It was selfish of me to want to drag a gently-reared girl into my life, and I yielded making one proviso, viz., that I should fee Mary once more, take leave of her with my own lips, aad not by means of a letter. Mr. Featherstone said I was very foolish, that it would hurt Mary and pain me, but I was resolute on the point, I would have the sad satisfaction of seeing my darling once again, and heariug her gentle voice once more though it might never reach my ears again on this side of eternity. No need to dwell on that parting, only those who have said a good-bye like that can understand what I felt when I held Mary in my arms, heart to heart, lip to lip, for the last time. I cannot think of it now without a choking at my heart and moisture in my eye?, old hardened man of the world though I am. It was good-bye, indeed; and the white, still face of my darling, as I gr her to her father's arms, after I had pressed my last kiss on her pale lips, came between me and my work for many a day. It was all over, and I was out in the cold now and with that parting came the battle with the world -that well-nigh laid me low. Only those who have fought the fight out can tell what it is. How every door to employment seems to be shut; bow the little possessions go one by one till there is nothing left; and how presently the wardrobe follows till there is nothing for it but to sneak out at night, for very shame of being teen by one's fellow men. I had come to that wretched pass, and was tasting the bitter diet of poverty and despair, when a lucky chance threw a trifle in my way. It was but a tri fle -a couple of pounds, no more—but it paved the way for other things, and I began to rise from the misery and degradation that bad fallen upon me, and see my way a little clearer to getting my daily bread. From one tiny thing to another I stepped till the little matters grew greater, and I found myself editor of a fairly profitable and popular periodical, with opportunities of placing what copy I bad by me, or bad time to produce, in good papers and magazines. I was happy and contented but for the thoughts of Mary. My love had not cooled with time; I loved her more dearly for the separation, but I was not in a position to ask for her yet, and it was uncertain whether I should ever be any better off. Just when my fortunes were on the mend I met Charley Talbot. He had come to Oxford a youngster just as I was finishing my last term, and he had been so grateful to me for taking him under my wing, showing him the ways of the place and saving him from many a scurvy trick and practical joke from the older men, that he conceived a violent fancy for me, which I returned thoroughly. There never was a better fellow than Charley, and I was right glad to meet him again, and feel the clasp of his warm young hand. He made me an offer which I accepted gladly, and that was that I should occupy a room in a set of Chambers that he had taken in the Strand. He never used it he said, and it was too close to his own quarters for him to care to let it to a stranger. The orjly room I could call a den was a stuffy ill ventilated apartment at the back of the publishing office of the periodical I edited. It was hardly private, and by no means comfortable, and Charley's offer would ensure me the privacy that a literary man needs above everything else. It would have been almost too quiet for some people, this odd room of Charley's—whatever induced any architect to plan such a place Las always been beyond my comprehension. It was actually out of sight and sound of the outer world. It was by itself at the end of a long stone corridor on the second floor of the building, which was all let out in chambers. The lower floor was a large hall used for all sorts "of purposes, and above were more chambers, Charley's set were three rooms-two large light ones looking out to the front and side of the building, and the one he proposed to give me, looking out on nothing—that is to say, nothing but the windows of ohambere like itself; two dead walls of houpes, and some leads belonging to stories below. It had been the fancy of the architect or the builder of the place to make the doors, as I thought, unnecessarily heavv; every separate corridor was shut in by massive oaken doors, heavily clamped with iron, and the doors of the rooms themselves were modifications of the same fancy. When I was alone in my back tenement, and Charley's outer door was shut, I might have been in a grave for all the sound heard from outside. I liked the place, and worked well in the solitude of my rightly-named den. For Charley was not much in his rooms, and I seldom went out of mine. His place was daintily furnished, and set forth as if a lady were going to live there; but he could not persuade me to have anything more than a couple of chairs and a table in my cell," as he called it. I shouldn't like to be shut up here with anything on my conscience," he said to me only a day or two before Christmas Day; "I should conjure up all the ghosts of the past, and bang myself on the hat-pin in half- an-bour." The ghosts don't trouble me," I said, with a little eieb, as I thought of one ghost that did come very often—the ghost of my dead and gone happiness; I'm too busy. You couldn't have done me a greater service than giving me this room." And you couldn't have done me a greater than coming here," he said, laughing 44 you help to keep me straight by your immaculate presence." When he had left me to go away on his Christmas trip, I felt lonelier than usual, somehow. I had work enough to keep me from thinking, and I set to it with a will. I would not think, or if I did, it should only be how comfortable my good-natured landlady would have everything for me when I got home. I bad nothing to complain of in the way of home arrange- ments, considering I was only a lodger, and she was a busy woman, with half-a-dozen tiresome youngsters to worry her. About four o'clock I went to my usual haunt and ordered some dinner, and I suppose I was out of sorts a little, for I could not eat many mouthfuls, and I swallowed a glass of ale, and came out wondering what was the matter with me. 1 would go back I thought and do another hour's work, and have some- thing substantial when I went home. As I left the restaurant a hand was laid on my shoulder, and I turned round to see with inexpressible amazement, Mr. Featherstone, Mary's father. I had not seen him, not even so much as a passing glimpse for many months, and I was struck at once by the alteration in his appearance. He was bent and aged, and there was a wistful look in his eyes that spoke of some heavy trouble. 4 Ainslie. I want to speak to you,' he said. 41 did not respond at once. I did not feel cordially towards him. How could I ? He bad broken my life, dashed all my hopes to the ground at a time when I wanted help and hope more than any man did in this world; he had acted rightly and for the best, as far as he thought; but it might have sent me to perdition for aught he knew. I had seen him sometimes at a dis- tance, going about in his usual fashion, but we bad never met, and I had not noticed that the years that had gone by had made any perceptible difference in his looks. I could see it now, and hear it in his broken voice. It was an effort to speak to me at all. • I am at your service, sir,' I said, shortly. I It is about her, Ainslie, my Mary, that I want to speak to you.' Her name ^exoroised the demon of coldness and stiffness that had taken possession of me. The very sound of it ran through me with a tingle of delight. How I longed for a word concerning her, for any news of her, and there had been none. I Yes,' I said brokenly, 4 What of her?* 4 You love her still, Ainslie ?a You have not changed ?* 'Changed! to Mary! You must know me very little, Mr. Featherstone, to think that possible.' 4 It is because I do know you that I have spoken now,' he said. I Lawrenoe forget the past, and come back to Mary and me.' 4 Sir! Mr. Featherstone 1' It was all I could say in my astonishment and de- light. I could not believe I had heard aright. The recollection of our last parting was before me too strongly for that. But I was not dreaming; it was all true, and I recovered my wits after a moment and spoke. I You are not jesting with me, sir?' I said. • J eating! Do I look like it ? Come back to my girl, Lawrence, and save her for me she is dying.' Dying My Mary Aye. Lawrence fading dav after dav doine her A auty bravely, striving with all her faithful heart to own that I was right. But it is no use; she loves you, my boy, and the love is killing her Oh, how my heart leapt at his words. What a sudden transformation came about in the dull murky surroundings as he uttered the words. The cloudy evening seemed to brighten into loveliness, and the street to grow bright with a glow it never had before. Would I go ? What would I not do for my Mary. She should not die if my presence could save her. But perhaps Mr. Featherstone had taken my position in the world to be better than it was. I must un- deceive him. I I am no better off than I was when you sent me away,' I said; 4 at least very little. I have a place in the world, it is true, but my moans are as limited as ever.' 41 have come to think money is not all, Lawrence,' he said, quietly. 'Come to us to-morrow. Let Christmas Day see the beginning of happiness and hope for my girl. She has never complained never said one word of reproach to me. She would have gone down to the grave in silence but I have seen it, and cannot bear it any longer. Comedown to Elm Lodge to-morrow to dinner, and we will begin afresh from Christmas Day.' I don't know what I said, or what I did. I think j I must have shaken the old man's hands nearly off in my delight that could find no words. Go ? Of course I would go. I would have gone there and then, but that he told me that Mary yf&s in such %a delicate state of health that he dared not ritk a sudden shock. I would be at Elm Lodge at four o'clock the next day, and tben-ah, what would come after watt something too happy and delightful for my mind to grasp-Mary all my own, and never to be parted from me any more. I don't know how I wished Mr. Featherstone good bye, but we parted somehow, and I was going upstairs three at a time when I met the housekeeper who had charge of the offices.' I was singing, I fancy, for she stared at me as if she thought I was a little mad. She was dressed all in her best, and her best was fearful thing to behold, for her notions of colour and arrangement were curious. She had a little boy with her and a porten- tous bundle; they were evidently agoing out for a holiday. 1 Good evening Mrs. Griggs,' I said. f Off for the -olidays eh ?' 41 es sir, me and Tommy's going to my mother's down the country a bit. I made sure you were gone sir I knocked at your door just now and there was no one there.' 41 have been out, but not for long. And so you are going to take holiday. A merry Christmas to you both.' The same to you, sir, and many of them, and thank you kindly I am sure,' she added, as I put a gratuity into Tommy's hand that made even that avaricious urchin open his eyes to the widest compass, Suppose you won't be wanting anything till afterBcxing Day ?' 4 No; I am going into the country.' 4 Ah, then, me and Tommy can stay till Tuesday evening. I have laid all the fires and done all the rooms except yours, which I couldn't get in and the gentlemen have all their keys, so——* 'So you can enjoy yourself with a clear conscience, Mrs. Griggs,' I replied. 41 shan't want you to do anything for me. I dare say I shall not be back much before you. Good bye and don't let Tommy kill himself with plum pudding.' I heard them laughing as they went down stairs, perhaps at the idea of Tommy being killed with any- thing that the universe could produce to eat. And singing still—I have a way of crooning to myself when I am pleased as a cat purrs—I went into my room, the heavy door in the corridor closing behind me with a clang that echoed through the building frcm top to bottom. Dull What nonsense it was of Charley to call my room dull! Why, it was the most comfortable place in the world. What did any man want more than the two chairs and the table, where he could sit and work and dream of the happy future ? What plans I could make for Mary and myself sitting here in the time to come. What stories I could write now that I had the inspiration of her dear presence ever with me in spirit as I sat at my table, which, in truth, was an ancient piece of office furniture, all ink-stained and scratched. How easily I arranged all my papers, and they bad seemed in a state of inextricable confusion, when Charley dropped in to try and beguile me into having a drink with him. Now some fairy seemed to be at work, all that was disorderly set itself to rights in no time, and I turned from my table, with my tiack bag in my hand, ready to start for my lodgings. I left the door of my room open, that I might see to unlock the big passage door, and put my key in the lock, carolling merrily about' The roast beef of Old England.' but thinking of Mary. Only till to-morrow In less than twelve hours I should be with her, looking into her sweet eyes, and drinking in the tones of her gentle voioe. Nothing could part us now. No, nothing. What was the matter with the door? I could not turn my key. I must have put it in upside down. No, it was all right, but it would not move. The lock was hampered somehow, and I was a prisoner behind that heavy door, It was a ridiculously awkward situation. But of course I should find a way out of it. The lock would yield in time if I tried long enough. I must get a light. The passage was dark, and I should be able to manage it when I could see. I had no eas in mv room. Charley had often proposed to pat it in for me but I would not put him to the expense. I had a good lamp, which served every purpose and except in the very depth of winter I hardly wanted a light. I found my matchtB-only two in the box-and lit my lamp. It burned dimly, and I recollected there W,8 no oil in the can I kept for the purpose. I had intended to mention it to Mrs. Griggs, and had for- gotten it. Ab, well, it was of no consequence: there would be light enough for my purpose. I should soon see what was the matter, and get away. Not so soon. I put the lamp on the floor, and tried in vain. Whatever was wrong with the lock it resisted all my efforts. All my endeavours only wedged the key further in the lock, and I could not movfl it either one way or the other. It was very awkward, but perhaps I could get into Charlej's rooms, and then I could call to the first, passor-by and get some one to liberate me. Alas I was no better off when I tried to effect an entrance there. Charley had been at the trouble of having wonderful patent locks with marvellous keys that would open nothing else, put on his doors, and I was as far off getting out as ever. While I was thinking what to do, my lamp spluttered, gave a final gleam, and went out, leaving me in total darkness. I groped my way back to my room, and sat down for a moment. The situation was unpleasant. I might have to pass the night there, and it would be cold and cheerless to a degree. I began to think of Charley's luxurious rooms with envy. I could have been comfortable there, even if I could have made no one hear. Charley was a sybarite, and had all sorts of good things besides fuel and light in those well-furnished rooms of his. I opened the window and looked out, thinking that I might see a light in one of the rooms that looked into the same square space as mine did. But all was dark and silent. Everyone was away, and a dis- agreeable feeling began to creep over me as I thought that it might be some time before anyone came bftck again. I could not hear a sound. The street noises never reached me in my den, and in the whole building there were no signs of life. No one lived there except the housekeeper, and I knew ahe was away. It was so dark by this time that I could hardly distinguish the windows of the offices near me, and bitterly cold; snow was beginning to fall in great heavy flakes, and I shut the window, remembering with a shudder that there was no fire, and my coalbox was empty. I was the most careless of men about small matters, and the housekeeper had always taken good care of my room. There was nothing for it but to keep cloce to the outer door and listen for a footstep. Someone would surely come up the staircase for something, and I should soon be released. I crept close to it and listened, for what seemed an hour, and was probably a matter of minutes only, and listened then I shouted—shouted till I was hoarse, and only woke the echoes in appalling shrieks that seemed to come back again and again, till the whole place was full of noise. Then I rememberedsnddenly that the big door at the bottom, which gave such a meditcval look to the whole building, was most probably shut, and that my shouts would only serve to make myself hoarse, and exhaust my strength. There was nothing for it now but to go back to my room and wear oat the night as best I could; the morning would surely bring release in some way. So inwardly cursing my folly in letting that con- founded door slam as I had done, I went back and spent the night miserably enough. I did not appre- ciate my two chairs and a table now in the least. I was bitterly cold, and ferociously hungry, and in the next room there was food and drink, light and fire, if I could only have got at them. I was obliged to walk about a great deal to keep myself from getting qaite numb for my den was horribly draughty when there was no fire, and had an ill-conditioned chimney, down which the wind came swooping when the wind was in a certain direction, and it was very much in that di- rection this particular night. With the first gleam of daylight I began again to try and attract attention. But there was no one to hear or see me. All the windows were hermetically sealed, as it seemed to me—shut and darkened blinds down, and bolts drawn. Chilled to 'the bone, faint for want of food, I began to realise the grim horror of my situation. Christmas Day A faint sound of bells came floating to where I sat, and in all probability no one would come near the place till Boxing-day was over. It was Friday night when I shut myself in, and this was Saturday morning. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday Would have to pass before I could get out, and perhaps Tuesday too, for was it not holiday time when people took an extra day, and were carele-is about coming back to their work ? What should I do ? I realised by this time that shouting was no use, and that I mnat rely on myself for means of escape. I worked at the outer door till my fingers bled and I fainted from exhaustion and over excitement. I opened the window and yelled till I was hoarse, and could not utter another sound; I looked at my carpet and calculated how far it would reach if I tore it into ravellings and made a rope with it so as to drop my- self down. It was a mercy I did not carry that scheme into operation; thero was nothing below me but some leads and the basement windows of the building looking into a storehouse, and always locked and barred. I don't know how Christmas Day passed. I think I must have got a little delirious with excitement and inanition, for I sang and shouted and did all sorts of wild things iu the solitude of that wretched room and the passage beyond. Night came on again, and with it only only one sense now—the Berne of extreme cold, Surely some one would come on Boxing Day. It was not every one who could afford to keep holiday, and I should get help; I had only to be patieat a few brief hours more and I should be free. But no one came; those barred windows gave no sign, and no tread echoed along the corridors outside; not a creature had entered the building; I should have beard them if they had. I didn't think I was hungry after the first night; I don't remember that I thought muoh about food. But with the darkness of Boxing Day came a new sensa- tion—fear. I am not a nervous man I have belief in tbe supernatural, and yet at the first deepening of the evening shadows of that memorable Boxing Day, I was as afraid of the dark as ever was a timid little child. I was mad, I must have been, for I saw in that winter night of horror such sights as language could never describe. The air was filled with flying things, and the floor alive with crawling monsters that left me no corner to hide, no way to escape them. And with them came other horrors, the woman who was 80 horribly murdered only last week was there, all blood dripping and the man who was hanged, whose execution was so horribly bungled, was close to me, with his distorted face and shaking bands, coming nearer to cla?p me and toll me all about it. Ah, be must not touch me, I must get away. The window The snow bad fallen thick and would receive me if I sprang out, and the hangman's victim could not reach me thero. I threw it up, I cut my hand and broke a pane of glass in doing it. I saw the blood streaming down, but the dead man was close upon me, and I must not delay. There wasva dreadful crash, and the whole horrid vision faded into darkness and oblivion. 4 Gently, very gently, Miss Mary. That's better. His head just a trifle higher, and he will sleep more comfortably. Indeed, you may hope now. I would not say so if it were not true, my dear.' Someone spoke the words, and very close to me, too; but I could not open my eyes to see who it was. All T was conscious of was a blissful feeling of rest and ease, and no wish to know or care anything about what was going on around me. Presently I heard another voioa-hours afterwards, as I learned after- wards—and it said in a familiar tone, All right now, old boy, eh ?' It was Charley Talbot's yoioe, and it brought me back to the world again. What's the matter ?' I asked and where am I ?' 'I hope there's nothing the matter now,' he replied and you are at Mr. Featherstone's place, Elm Ixxjge. He asked you to dinner you know.' They told Charley afterwards that it was a risky think for him to say. But it did no harm. They did not tell me anything at first; but they brought Mary to me, and the sight of her sweet face did more to cure me than all the doctor's prescriptions. I was a scarecrow of a lover, for I had passed through a sharp attack of brain fever, and had no hair on my bead and very little flesh on my bones. It was Charley who told me all about my rescue. 4 It was just this,' he said. 41 met old Featherstone in a deuce of a state about you in the street. He bad asked you to dinner, and you hadn't come, and he had been to your lodgings, and found your landlady in a state about you too. She hadn't thought much about ChrUtmaa Day, because she thought you bad gone somewhere unexpectedly, perhaps. Bat when Boxing Day went by she began to be alarmed.' They had been banging at the bottom door of the chambers, it seemed, but no one answered and Mr. Featherstone was going to the police, to see if they could help him, when he met me. We ',went back to the office, and there we came Jacross Mrs. Griggs, Even then we should not have got at you when we did but for some fellow who could see into your room from his window coming and saying he wan sure there was something wrong—your window was wide open, and he thought you were lying there.' 4 But I jumped out, Charley.' 4 No you didn't. You might have meant it, perhaps; but the event didn't come off. We found you lying under the window—dead, as we thought; but we managed to bring you here, and here you are, alive, and as nearly well as can be expected under the circumstances.' It was a long time before I was really well; and even now my nerves are not what they were before that particularly merry Christmas in my den at the office. But Mary is my wife, and I am the happiest man in the three kingdoms. The fancy doors at the chambers have had all their looks seen to, and I have a nervous dread of a door slamming behind me that I cannot get rid of, and the people who don't know me wonder at not a little. My children laugh at me sometimes for being 80 fidgetty about locks and bolts, and my eldest boy declares I am as bad as Louis XV I. in my fuss about locks and bolts. They cannot understand, and I hope they never will, what their father suffered many a year ago through a hampered lock.
EXTRACTS FROM THE ANNUALS.
EXTRACTS FROM THE ANNUALS. CHBISTMAS BELLS.—The sexton often goes into the tower on a sad errand. He gives a strung pull at tbe rope, and forth from the tmrer goes a dismal sound that makes the heart sink. But he can now go up the old stairs with a lithe step, and pull quick and sbarp, waking up all the echoes of cavern and hill with Christmas bells. The days of joy have come, days of reunion, days of con- gratulation. Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, that shall be to all people.' First, let the bells ring at the birth of Jesus! Mary watching, the camels moaning, the shepherds rousing up, the angels hovering, all Bethlehem stirring. What a night! Out of its black wing is plucked the pen fram which to write the brightest songs of earth and tho richest doxologics of heaven. Let camel or or stabled that night in Bethlehem, after the burden bearing of the day, stand and look at Him who is to carry the burdens of the world. Put back the stuw; and hear the first cry of Him who is come to assuage the lamentation of all ages. Christmas bells ring out the peals of nations We want on our standards less of the lion and eagle, and more of the lamb and the dove. Let all the cannon be dismounted, and the war-horses change their gorgeous caparisons for plough harness. Let us have fewer bullets and mere bread. Life is too precious to dash it out against the brick casements. The first' Peace Society' was born in the clouds, and its resolution was passed unanimously by angelic voices,4 Peace on earth, goodwill to men.' Christmas bells ring in family reunions The rail-trains are crowded with children coming home. The poultry, fed as never since they were born, stand wondering at the farmer's generosity. The markets are full of massacred barn-yards. The great table will be spread and crowded with two or three or four geReratione. Plant the fork astride the breast bone, and with skilful twitch, that we could never learn, give to all the hungry lookers-on a specimen of holiday anatomy. Florence is disposed to soar give her the wing. The boy is fond of music give him the drumstick. The minister is dining with you give him the parson's nose. May the joy reach from grandfather, who is so dreadfully old that he can hardly find the way to his plate, down to the baby in the high chair, who with one smart pull of the tablecloth upsets the gravy into the cran- berry. Send from your table a liberal portion to the table of the poor, some of the white meat as well as the dark, not confining generosity to gizzards and scraps. Do not, as in some families, keep a plate and chair for those who are dead and gone your holiday feast would be but poor fare for them; they are at a better banquet. Let the whole land be full of chime and carol. Let bells, silver and brazen, take their sweetest voice, and all the towers of Christendom rain musio.—T. De Witt Talmage, in the Christmas number of The Christian Million TRUTH AND DAMAGES.—What the counsel for the plaintiff in the breach of promise case didn't say: Gentlemen of the Jury My client has now reached the mellow but slightly fly-blown age of 37 years. She comes before you now after a lifetime of un- remitting exertions to secure a husband. Her tireless industry in this line is generally acknowledged in her own town. There is not a single man there who cannot testify to this fact of his own knowledge. If there were any double men there, they would tell you the same thing. There are men in that little village, in that peaceful, happy, Arcadian little burg, who get down on their knees every night of their lives and thank Heaven for their hair-breadth escape from marrying the plaintiff. They are grateful to Heaven, although they had to rustle just as h )rd to effect that escape as though they had not been favoured with any supernatural assistance. Gentlemen, my client has belonged to every church sociable, to every mission, to every dancing-class in her village. She has taught in the Sunday School, and has educated boys up to love her, only to see them go off and marry some soulless young thing of half her age. Gentlemen, I assure you on my personal honour that if she had been a sewing machine agent, she could not have canvassed that town more thoroughly. My client, gentlemen, has worked every summer hotel that hermean3 would permit her to board in. She has laboured like a tireless Trojan in getting up picnics private fcbea1 r'cils, hay-rides, and fishing excursions. She played croquet so assiduously in the first fresh decades of her youth that she was known as the amateur perennial champion. And lately, in spite of R growing tendency to rheumr-tisra and stiffening of the joints, she has heroically set herself to learning the arduous game of lawn-tennis, and has played it with youths whose mother she might have been, had her exertions prevailed upon the last generation. I tell you this, gentlemen, to show you that my client bas done her best. This is her last chance, or she would not be here. She made the acquaintance of this old gentleman when he providentially broke his leg on the sidewalk in front of her house. We don't ask him to marry her. He has nev r shown much in. clination to take that desperate step, and we won't urge him. But my client must get some of his money, or her life-her long, hard, industrious life—is a total failure. He has the drachmas. He can spare a few thousand. The experience will be worth it, to him. And, as I have before remarked, this is my client's last and only chance. Gentlemen, you have all had mothers. Probably they never figured in brAch of promife suits; but if they had been like my client, they would have. Gentlemen, in the name—in the glorious name of womanhood—I ask you for ten paltry thousand of this old man's golden soa<Jfl.— Detroit Free Tress Christmas Number.