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THE ! WORLD, THE FLESH, '…

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THE WORLD, THE FLESH, AND THE DEVIL. £ -*■ BY MISS BRADDON. pi ^hore.ss of "Lady Audley's Secret," "Aurora I' '°yd," "Taken at the Flood," Phantom Fortune," Wyllard's Weird." I ^UPTER XII.—"OUT WENT Mr HEAD'S RI AND LKFT IT COLD." ^evard Hillersdon and Mrs Champion met but j ^e during the month of May. Doomed men »• Of linger beyond the hopes or anticipations ™ pi ?ejr medical "attendants, and the famous bj. from Cavendish-square continued his dv^ee'{'7 visits through all the bright long sunny # fc' &lvcn over to the perpetual pursuit of iJ "litM116—a c^ase Ir°lrl which Mrs Champion's fittf ome face and form were missing'. Other jvifes there were as perfect, other faces .is J^'OUB for their charms; and it was only once "ay that one of the butterflies noted the i Jj ■nce of that Queen butterfly it was only once I' Wy that friendship murmured with a sigh, L Por Mrs Champion, mewed up with an invalid ^and all through this lovely season I llasf Champion gave the fading life her utter- y?' devotion. She had a keen sense of honour, llalJ-this wife who had gone on loving her 1 'over all through her married life. She had 'n?°re sensitive conscience than her world would II %ereadily believed. She wanted to do her to the dying husband, so that she might r herself heart and mind to a new life of <J(ies3 when he should be at peace, and yet feel cf remorse, and yet have no dark, over- sowing memory to steel across her sunlight, pj* ith this laudable desire she spent the greater of her life at Finchley, where she had taken near the doctor's house, so as to be within *elf by day or night. She isolated her- from all friends and acquaintances Uj 6Pt Gerard Hillersdon, and even him saw only two or three times a ^3 driving iuto London and taking tea in th6 jJ? Hertford street drawing room, with her nerves ^ays somewhat strained in the dread of some flay' ^e^e^ram ^at should call her back to her «< v, The end may com# at any moment," she said." j^Y^ould be dreadful if I were absent at the Do y ou think it wouldreally matter—to him ? Gerard. ^ink it would. He rarely addresses me by i fet56' '3Ut I think he always knows me. He will the things from my hand—food or medicine y^hich he wfll not take from his nurses. They JJrf 111 e he is much more restless when I am j there. Jt pan do very little for him,; but if lit?11 rna^e him just a shade easier and calmer by j at his bedside it is my duty to be there. o« that it is wrong even to beaway for a couple jjj «ours this afternoon—but if I did not leave j fj|.ftnd that dreary, dreary bouse once in a way .< ok my brain would go as his baa gone." „ Is the house so very dreadful ?" j Dreadful, no. It is a charming house, well- ^ojished, the very pink of neatness, in the midst garden. It is what one knows t^°Ut it—the troubled minds that have worn S]"^selves out in those prim, orderly rooms, the W 83 e7es t^at have stared at those bright, wall-papers, the agonies, and wild delu- attempted suicides, the lingering #ij • When I think of all those things the the house seems intolerable, the ticking j. 'he clock a slow torture. But you will teach yJStto forget all that by and by, Gerard You ^yteach me to forget, won't you ?' Qtfhat was the only allusion she had ever made to the near future. It was forgetfulne6s she l^ned for, as the chief boon the future could You cannot think how long this summer has Jr^ed to me," she said. I hope I am not im- that I would not hasten the end by a t«Z?.0 day—but the days and the hours are \iblv long." Oh •an ^0ur was "t?108* respite tliat Mrs JJ^mpion allowed herself in that cool perfumed tete a tete with her first lover, surrounded '^e fnvolities, the dainty tea table, TUh tiny sandwiches, and heaped up fruit, the Uomatic japaneae fan, mounted on a bambo set *n motion with the slightest touch, the Ca and magazines scattered about, to be ^T^ed off in her Victoria presently, poor solace 'DI Wakeful nights. Only half an hour of converse bv t'>e man loved, broken into very often j/ some officous caller, who saw her carriage at £ door, and insisted upon being let in. it seemed to her now and then that Gerard was te £ 6What a^sent and restrained during these brief to u *etes> ^ut s^e attributed his languid manner L- th« depressing nature of all she had to tell -P1* Her own low spirits communicated them- ,yes to him. We are so thoroughly in sympathy," she told left her one afternoon late in Jane, and in* of going into the park where the triple rank L' carriages by the Achilles statue offered a 'Piquet of high-bred beauty, and the latest pUinphs of court dressmakers to the eye of the ranger, he walked past the Alexandra Hotel and JrlPPiped into Sloane-street, and thence to Chel- !*• His feet had taken him in that direction often of late. had found no difficulty in discovering liter's dwelling-place, for on his way to the St. Club he had stumbled against old Daven- '■ bottle-nosed, shabby, but wearing clean carefully brushed clothes, and with a cer- ^rvival of his old Oxford manner. ■_ ^either drunken habits nor dark vicissitudes impaired the old man's memory. He recog- Hillersdon at a glance, and cordially re- lumed his greeting. Wonderful changes have come about since I*6 saw each other in Devonshire, Mr Hillersdon," ''aid. I have gone very low down the ladder fortune, and you have gone very high up. I I°Qgratulate you upon your good luck—not un- reserved, certainly not. It was a brave deed, my young friend, and merited a handsome I read the story in the newspapers." A much exaggerated version of the truth, no S^ubt. I'll walk your way, if you please, Mr P&venport. I should like to hear how the world used you." Scurvily, sir, very scurvily but perhaps no jorse than I deserved. You remember what "amlet says Use every man after his desert, who shall escape whipping?' I don't like to **«e you out of your way, Mr Hillersdon." My way is no way. I was only strolling- til no settled purpose." ..They were on the Chelsea embankment, where 'oe old houses of Chevne Walk still recall the old "orld quiet of a day that is dead, while the Sus- ^nsion Bridge and Battersea Park tell of an age *«at means change and progress. "You like old Chelsea and its associations," •aid Davenport. Very much. I remember the place when I "as a boy, and I recognise improvement every- where but I grieve over the lost landmarks, °on Saltero, the old narrow Cheyne Walk, the sober shabbiness-" "There are older things that I remember— 111 the days when my people lived in wndes.square, and I used to come fresh from to take my fill of pleasure in the "London season. My father was a prosperous x-C., a man employed in all the great ?jses where intellect and oratory were wanted, "e Was earning a fine income— though not half *8 much as your famous silk-gowns earn nowa- <%s—and he spent as fast as be earned. He had a large famtly and was very liberal to his child- ish—and when he died. in the pime of life, he left his widow and family the fag-end of a lease, a suite of Louis Quatorze furniture already out fashion, a choice collection of Wedge wood, and a few Prouts, Tophams Hunts, and Dun- had put away nothing out of the big that had been pouring in for the last fifteen years of his life. He used to talk about begin- Iling to save next year, but that next year never talne. The sale of the lease and furniture made little fund for my mother and three unmarried daughters. For me and my brothers the world was oyster—to be opened as best we might." „ You had scholarships to help you." "Yes, Greek and Latin were my only stock in ]*ade. A friend of my father's gave me a small •iving within a couple of years of my entering Priest's orders, and on the strength of that I mar- ried, and took private pupils. I lost my wife "hen Hetty was only twelve years old, but things had begun to go wrong before then. My second living was in a low district, village and vicarage On Clay soil, too many trees, and no drainage. The Qevil's tootn of neuralgia fastened itself upon me, body and bones, and my life for some years was a Perpetual fight with pain-like Paul, I fought Wi basts, invisible beasts, that gnawed into my Hera is my poor little domicile. I hardly *»ew had walked so far." lie had taken his homeward way automatically, While Gerard walked beside him, through shabby streets of those small semi-destaohed houses which the builder has devised for needy gentility and Prosperous labour—here the healthy mechanic with and thirty shillings a week, corduroy trousers, and shirt sleeves; there the sickly clerk, with a Weekly guinea and ft thread-bare alpaca coat. Here clean and shining windows and flower boxes, there dirt and slatternliness, broken bottles, and Weeds in the tiny forecourt, misery and spualor in its most hideous aspect. Geard had marked the shabbiness of the neighbourhood, and he felt that in the midst of this sordid labyrinth he should find his Ariadne, though her hand would never have furnished him with the clue. The house before which Mr Davenport stopped Was no better than the other houses which they had passed, but the best had been made of its shabbiness, .the forecourt was full of stocks and carnations, and a row of Mary lilies marked the boundary rail which divided this tiny enclosure from the adjacent patch. The window panes shone bright and clear, and the window box was a hanging garden of ivy-leafed geranium, yellow marguerites, and mignonette, c. What a pretty little garden," exclaimed Gerard. Yes. there are a good many flowers for such a scrap of ground. Hettie and I are very fond of our garden—we've a goodish bit of ground at the back. It's about the only thing we can take any pride in with such surroundings as ours." And then, lingering at the gate, as Gerard Unloved, the old man asked— Will you come in and rest after your walk ? I can give you a lemon squash." That's a tempting offer upon one of the hottest afternoons we have had this year. Yes, I shall be glad to sit down for half an hour, if you are sure I shan't be in your way." I shall be very glad of your company. I get plenty of solitude when Hettie is out on her long tramps to Knightsbridge, She often passes the house in which her grandfather used to entertain some of the best people in London—a work-girl, with a bundle under her arm. Hard, aint it ? F,: opeuod the door and admitted his visitor into a passage fourteen feet by two feet six, out of which opened the front parlour and general living room, a small room, nearly square, and with a little stunted cupboard on each side of the fireplace. Gerard looked about him with greedy eyes, notmg every detail. The furniture was of the commonest, a pem- broke table, half a dozen cane-bottomed chairs, a sofa, inch as can only be found in lodging-house parlours but there were a few things which gave individuality to the room, and in somewise redeemed its sorbid shabbiness. Fronting the window stood a capacious arm chair, covered with apple blossom chintz; the ugly sofa was draped with soft Japanese muslin a cheap paper screen of cool colouring broke the ugly outline of the folding doors, and a few little bits of old china and a row of books gave meaning to the wooden slabs at the top of the dwarf cupboards. There was a bowl of flowers on the table, vivid yellow corncockles, which brightened the room like a patch of sunlight. "Try that easy chair," said Davenport, "it's uncommonly comfortable." Thanks, no," seating himself near the window, this will do very nicely. That's your chair, I know." "It is," sighed the old man sinking into its cushioned depths. It was Hettie's present on my last birthday. Poor child, she worked extra hard to save enough money to buy this chair from a broker in the Kmg's-road. It was a shabby old chair when I first saw it-but I was caught by the comfortable shape—and I told my poor girl I'd seen a second-hand chair that looked the picture of comfort. She didn't seem to take much notice of what I said, and the next time I passed the dealer's yard—where the chair used to stand in the open air amongst a lot of other things—it was gone. I told Hettie it had disappeared. 'Sold, I suppose,' said she 'what a pity And nearly a year afterwards, on my birthday, the chair was brought in, freshly covered, as you see it. My poor girl had been paying for it by degrees, a shilling or two at a time ever since I mentioned it to her. How proud and happy we both were that day, in spite of our poverty. I remember when I was at the University my brothers and sister and I clubbed together to buy a silver tea kettle for my mother on her silver wedding-day— and it only resulted;in general mortification. She was sorry we had spent our money—and she didn't like the shape of the kettle. It was half covered with a long inscription, so we couldn't change it, and I know two of my sisters were in tears about it before the day was over. But I must make you that lemon squash—nuc est bibandum. Perhaps, though, youd prefer a John Collins?" with a curiously interrogative look. "There isn't any gin in the house, but I could send for a bottle, if you like." "I much prefer the unsophisticated lemon; though I envy a city waiter the facility with which he made his name a part of the convivial vocabulary. Falstaff could not have done more." Mr Davenport opened one of the dwarf cup- boards and produced tumblers, lemons, and powdered sugar. Then he went out of the room, and reappeared in a few minutes with a jug of fresh water. His narrow means did not permit the luxury of a syphon. He concocted the two glasses of lemonade carefully and deliberately, Gerard Hillersdon watching him all the time in a melancholy reverie; but the image that filled his mind was that of the absent daughter, not the form of the father bodily present to his eye. He was thinking of yonder easy chair, paid for in solitary shillings, the narrow margin left from the bare necessities of daily life. He thought of that refined and delicate face, that slender fragile form, far too finely made for life's common uses— thought of her daily deprivations, her toilsome walks, her wearisome, monotonous work. Yes, there was the modern wheel upon which feminine poverty is racked-the sewing machine. It stood in front of the window by which he was sitting. She bad covered it with a piece of art muslin, giving an air of prettiness even to the instrument of her toil. A pair of delf candle- sticks stood on a little table near the machine, with the candles burnt low in the sockets. She had been working late last night, perhaps. It maddened him to think that out of all his wealth he could do nothing to help her—she would take nothing out of his superabundance. If he were to heed the appeals of all the strangers who wrote to him—pouring out their domestic secrets, their needs and troubles, in eight-page letters, he might give away every penny of his income—but this one woman, whom ne yearned to help, would take nothing. This was Fate's sharpest irony. He sipped his lemonade and discussed the political situation with Mr Davenport, whose chief occu- pation was to read the papers at the Free Library, and who was an ardent politician. He lingered in the hope of seeing Hester before he left. It was nearly four o'clock, and the June after- noon had a drowsy warmth which was fast beguil- ing old Nicholas Davenport into slumber. His words were coming very slowly, and he gradually sank into a blissful silence, and was off upon that jrapid dream-journey which takes the sleeper into a new world in an instant—plunges him among people that moment invented whom he seems to nave known all his life. A bee was humming amongst the sweet-scented stocks, and a town butterfly was fluttering about the mignonette. A hawker's cry in the next street came with a musical sound, as if the hawker had been some monotonous bird with a song of only three notes. Still Gerard lingered, hoping that the old man would wake presently and re- sume the conversation. He was in despair at the idea of leaving without seeing Hester. He wanted to see that delicately-modelled face —the face in the Sposalizio—in the daylight. He wanted to be her friend, if she would let him. What harm would there be in such a friend- ship? They were too completely severed by the iron wall of circumstances ever to become lovers. But friends they might be-friends for mutual help and comfort. He could share with her the good things of this life. She could spiritualise his lower nature by the influence of that child- like purity which set her apart from the common world. He heard a light footstep, and then the click of a latch. She was at the gate, she was coming in, a slim and graceful figure in a light cambric gown, and a sailor hat, such a neat little white straw hat, which cast pearly shadows on the ex- quisite cheek and chin, and darkened the violet eyes. She started and blushed crimson on seeing him, and cast a despairingly reproachful look at her father who had risen confusedly in the midst of a dream. Gerard had risen as she entered, and stood facing her. Don't be angry with your father or with me, Miss Davenport. We happened to meet each other an hour ago on the Embankment, and I walked home with him. And now that I am admitted to your home you will let me bring my sister, I hope. She will be glad to renew her old friendship with you. Do not hold her at arm's length, even if you shut your door against me. You know how sympathetic she is." Hester did not answer him for a minute or so. She sank into a chair, and took off the neat little sailor hat, and passed her hand across her brow, smoothing the soft rippling hair which shadowed the low, broad forehead. She looked tired and harassed, almost too weary for speech, and at last, when speech came, there was a langour in her tone, an accent as of one who submits to fate. Yes, I remember," she said, "your sister, was always good and sweet. She was very kind to me; some of my happiest hours were spent with her. But that is all past and done with. It is hardly kind of you to ask me to remember-" I don't want you to remember the old life. I only want you to open your heart to an old friend, who will help to make your present life happier. Lilian may come, may she not? I can see you mean yes." "How can I say no, when you are so eager to do me a kindness ?" and then she glanced at the old man piteonsly. "If father does not mind a face that will recall his residence at Helmsleigh and all he suffered there." No no, Hettie, I don't mind. I have suffered too much, and in too many places, since the Pain-devil stuck his claws into me. If the people who blame me-wbo talk of me as a drunken old dotard—could suffer an hour of the agony I have suffered off and on for months at a stretch, they would bo a little more charitable in their judgments. I am not blaming your father, Mr Hillersdon; he was very good to me. He bore with me as long as he could, till at last I disgraced myself. It was a terrible scandal; no man could bear up against it. I felt after that night all was over., <(P0n't, father, don't speak of it." ii ™ust' Hettie. I want to tell Mr Hillersdon all that you have been to me—what a heroine, what a martyr!" Nonsense, father I have only done what other daughters are doing all the world over. And thank Uod you are better now You have had very little of the old pain for the last two years. You are stronger and better, living as you do now, than when-when you were less careful. Your neuralgia will never come back again, I hope. 11 Hillersdon doesn't mind visiting us in this shabby lodging, we shall be very pleased to see her, sa,id Mr Davenport, brushing away a remorseful tear. It cuts me to the heart that my poor girl has not a friend in the world, exeept Lady Jane Twyford." His request being granted, Gerard had no excuse for delaying his departure. He offered his hand to Hester as he said good-bye, and when her slender fingers touched his own his cheek and brow flushed as if a wave of nre bad passed over his face, and his eyes grew dim; only for a moment, but that fiery wave had never clouded his vision at the touch of any other woman—not even Edith Champion, to whom he had given the devotion of years. His heart was beating violently as he walked along the shabby street, past gardens that were full of summer flowers, and forecourts that were no better than rubbish heaps; past squalid indigence and struggling poverty. It was not till he pulled up under the shadow of the trees in Cheyne Walk that the sensse of a great joy or a great trouble began to abate, and he was able to think calmly. He seated himself on a bench near the river, and waited till bis quickened pulses beat in a more tranquil manner. "lamafool," he muttered. Why should her beauty agitate me like this ? I have seen beauti- ful women before to day—women in the zenith of their beauty, not pallid and worn like this woman. The woman who is to be my wife is handsomer, and in a grander style of beauty. And yet, be- cause this one is forbidden fruit every nerve is strained, every pulse is racing. I am a fool, and the worst of fools, remembering what old Dr South told me. Is this sparing myself, is this husbanding my resources? To be so moved by such a trivial cause-not to be able to admire a beautiful face without being shaken as if by an earthquake." He remembered the book upon his writing table, the Peau de Chagrin," that story which had an irresistible fascination for him, every page of which he bad hung over many a night in hia hours of lonely thought. How vain had been Valentine's endeavour to lead the passionless life ;n which the oil in tho Umn burns slowlv. But he hoped to prove himself wiser than Balzac's ill-fated hero. He. too, had planned for himself an existence free from all strong emotions. In his life of millionaire and man of fashion there were to be no agitations. He looked forward to a future union with Edith as a haven of rest. Married to a woman whom he had loved long enough to take love for granted, a woman whose fidelity had been tested by time, whose constancy he need never doubt, for him life would glide softly on- ward with measured easy pace to sober middle age, and even to the grey dignity of wealthy and honoured age. But he, like valentine, had been warned against the drama and passion of life. He was to be, not to act or to suffer. And for a mere transient fancy, the charm of a pensive countenance, the romance of patient poverty, he had let his veins run liquid fire, his heart beat furiously. He was ashamed of his own inconsistency; and presently seeing a han- som sauntering along under the trees with a horse that looked a good mover, he hailed the man and asked if his horse were fresh enough to drive as far as Finchley. Naturally the reply was yes, and in the next minute he was being carried swiftly through the summer dust with his face to the north. He had often meditated this drive to the northern suburb with his own horses, and then it had seemed to him that to approach the house in which Mr Champion was lengthening out the lees of life would be an error in taste, although he and the dying man had been upon the friendliest terms since Edith's marriage. This afternoon he felt a curious eagerness to see the woman to whom he bad bound himself, a feverish anxiety which subjugated all scruples. He drove to the house Mrs Champion had hired for herself, a small villa, in a well kept garden. It was past eight when he rang the bell, and the lawn and flower beds were golden in the sunset. He expected to find Edith Champion at dinner, and had made up his mind to dine with her, tete a tete perhaps, for the first time in their lives. Dinner was out of the question-for the present, at any rate. One of the match footmen whose faces he knew in Hertford-street camestrolling in a leisurely way across the lawn, pipe in mouth, to answer to the bell, suddenly pocketed his pipe and changed his bearing on recognising Mr Hillersdon, and informed him that Mrs Champion was at Kendal House, and that Mr Champion was very bad. "Worse than usual, do you suppose?" asked Gerard. "I'm afraid so, sir. Mrs Champion came home at half-past seven, but a messenger come for her while she was dressing for dinner, and she just put on her cloak and ran across the road without even a hat. I'm afraid it's the end." Which is Kendal House ?" "I'll show you, sir." The footman stalked cut into the road with that slow and solemn stalk which is taught to footmen, and which is perhaps an element in the trade-unionism of domestic service-a studied slowness of movement in all things, lest per- chance one footman should at any time do the work of two. Mrs Champion's footman was a person of highest quality, and was even now oppressed with a sense of resentment at having to perform his duties single-handed at Finchley, while his fellow lacquey was leading a life of luxurious idleness in Hertford-street. He pointed out a carriage entrance in a wall a little further up the road, and on the opposite side of the way, and to this gate Gerard hurried and entered a highly-respectable enclosure, a circular lawn girt with gravel drive, shrubberies hiding the walls, and in front of him a stately square stone house with classic portico, and two wings, suggesting drawing-room and billiard- room. The first glance at those numerous windows gave him a shock. All the blinds were down. It was over, he thought. Edith Champion was a widow. Yes, it was over. The sober, elderly man servant who opened the door to him informed him that Mr Champion had breathed his last at five minutes to eight. Mrs Champion was just in time to be present at his last moments. The end had been peaceful and painless. Edith Champion came downstairs, accompanied by the doctor, while the servant was talking, her eyes streaming. She saw Gerard, and went across the hall to him. It is all over," she said agitatedly. He knew me at the last—knew me and spoke my name, just as I thought he would. Thank God I was there I was not too late for that last word. I did not think I could feel it so much, after those long days and weeks of anticipation." I Let me take you over to your own house," Gerard said, gently. She was in her dinner-dress of black gauze and silk, with a light summer cloak flung loosely about her,her white throat rising out of the gauzy blackness like a Parian column, her dark eyes drowned in tears, and tears still wet on her pale cheeks. All that was tender and womanly in her nature lrad been shaken by that final parting. If she had sold herself to the rich than as his slave he had been a most indulgent master, and her slavery had been of the lightest. The doctor attended her to the threshold, and she went out leaning on Gerard's arm. Even in the midst of her natural regret there was sweet- ness in the thought that henceforth she belonged to him. It was his privilege and his duty to protect her, to think for her in all things. You will telegraph to my husband's solicitor," she said to the doctor, falteringly, as ^he dried her tears. "He will be the'proper person to arrange everything with you, I suppose. I shall not leave the Laurels till after- "I understand," interrupted the doctor, saving her the pain of that final word. All shall be arranged without troubling you more than is absolutely necessary." Good night," she said, offering her hand. "I shall not forget how kind and thoughtful you always weDre. He could not have been better cared for." Gerard led her out of Áhe formal enclosure, where the conifers and evergreens were darken- ing under the shadows of night. The gate was open at the Laurels, and the stately footman was e on the watch for her, his powdered head bared to the evening breeze. Within there were lights and the brightness of flowers, dinner ready to be served. "You will take something, I hope?" said i • erard, when the butler announced dinner. They had gone into the drawing-room, and she was sitting with her face hidden in her hands. No, no, I could not eat anything." and then to the butler, "Mr Hillersdon will dine. You can serve dinner for him, and tell George to bring me some tea here." "Then let me have a cup of tea with you," said Gerard. "I am no more in the mood for dining than you are." This gratified her, even in the midst of her sorrows. Women have an exaggerated idea of the value which men set upon dinner, and no sacrifice propitiates them so surely as the sur- render of that meal. Edith Champion did not argue the point. She only gave a little sigh, and dried her tears, and became more composed. I think I did my duty to him," she said presently. "Most thoroughly. You made him happy, which is more than many a wife can say about a husband she has adored," answered Gerard. The footman brought in the tea table, and lighted the candles on the mantel-piece and piano, and drew the curtains, with an air of wishing to dispel any funereal eloom which the shadow of that dark event at Kendal House had spread over the room. He and the other servants had been talking about the funeral, and their mourning already, speculating as to whether Mr Champion had left legacies to such of his servants as had been with him, "say a year," concluded George, footman, who had been in the service fourteen months. Mrs Champion made a little motion of her hand towards the teapot, and George poured out the tea. She fet that the etiquette of grief would not allow her to perform that accustomed office. She sat still, and allowed herself to be waited upon, and sipped and sighed, while Gerard also sipped in pensive silence. He was thinking that this was the second time within a very few hours that he was taking tea with Edith Champion, and yet what a gap those few hours had cloven across his life. The woman he had loved so long, and to whom he had irrevocably pledged himself, was free from her bondage. There could be no longer doubt or hesitancy in their relations. A certain interval must be conceded to the prejudices of society and then, at the end of that ceremonial widow- hood this woman, whom he had loved so long, would lay aside her weeds, and put on herwedding- fown, ready to stand beside him at the altar, 'or months he had known that Mr Champion's end was imminent, and yet to-night it seemed to him as if he had never expected the man to die. The silence was growing oppressive before either the lady or her guest found speech. The footman had retired, leaving the tea-table in front of his mistress, and they were alone again. You will not remain in this house after the funeral, of course," said Gerard, having oast about for something to say. No. I shall leave England immediately. I have been thinking of my plans while you and I have been sitting here. I hate myself for my egotism but I could not go on thinking of him. It would do no good. I shall not easily forget him, poor fellow. His face and his voice will be in my thoughts for a long time to oome-but I could not help thinking of myself, too. -It seems 1;0 strange to be free-to be able to go just where J n—n0'i° °hliged to follow a routine. I shall go to Switzerland as soon as I oan get ready. I shall take Rosa Gresham with me. She is always enchanted to turn her back upon that adorable parish of hers." But why should you go away?" will best. If I were to stay in England you and I would be meeting, and now-now that he is gone people would rake up the past, and say ill-natured things about ns. It will be far better that we should see very little of each other till the year of my widowhood is over; » long time, Gerard, almost long enough for you to forget ae Her tone implied that such forgetfulness must, n^eds be impossible. What if I refuse to submit to suoh a separa- tion, even to propitiate Mrs Grundy We have treated that wortbrsonage in a very off-hand manner hitherto. Why should we begin to care about her?" -1 Bectuse everything is different now he is gone. While my husband approved my life nobody could presnme to take objection to any- thing I might do, but I stand alone now and must take care of my good name—your future wife's good name Gerard "Howsweetly you put the question. But my dear Edith, must we really be parted so long? Could people talk about us if you and I were living in the same town, seeing each other every day?" • You don't know how ill-natured people can be. Indeed, Gerard, it will be better for fc^h our sakes," Not for my sake," he said earnestly. He had gone to Finchley that evening upon a snd'W im!1nl. as if ho had be-n flying from an unimagined peril. He had felt, vaguely, as if his first love were slipping away from him, as if an effort were needed to strengthen the old bonds and now the woman who should have helped him to be true was about to forsake him-to sacrifice inclination and happiness to the babbling crowd. What can it matter bow people talk of us ?" he cried impetuously. We have to think of ourselves, and our own happiness. Remember how short life is, and what need we have to hus- band our brief span of years. Why waste a year, or half a year, upon conventionalties ? Let me go with you wherever you go. Let us be married next week." I I No, no, no, Gerard. God knows, I love you, only too dearly, but I will not be guilty of delib- erate disrespect to him who has gone. He was always good to me—kind and indulgent to a fault. I should have been a better wife, perhaps, if he had been a tyrant. I will n6t insult him in his grave. A year hence; a year from this day I shall belong to you And Mrs Grundy will have no fault to find with you. 'Content to dwell in decencies for ever,' quoted Gerard, with a touch of scorn. Well, you must have your own way. I have pleaded, and you have answered. Good night. I suppose I shall be allowed to bid you good-bye at the railway-station before you leave England ?" Of course. Rosa shall write to you about our plans directly they are settled. You will be at the funeral, Gerard, will you not ?' Naturally. Once more good night." They clasped hands, she tearful still, ready to break down again at any moment, and so he left her. The hansom bad waited for him, the horse's head in a nosebag, the driver asleep on his perch. Only a year, and you are mine as I am yours," mused Gerard, as he was driven westward. But a year sometimes makes a wide gap in a life. What will it do in mine ? (To be continued•)

WELSH MEMBERS AND THE LIQUOR…

A POLIOEMAN WHO COULDN'T 'h"REMEMBER.

[PUBLISHED BY AUTHORITY.]…

[No title]

[No title]

BARDDONIAETH.

CYFFES YR AFRADLON.

CADEIRIAD CYNWYD,

PRIODAS

Y BWTHYN AR Y BRYN.

YR EISTEDDFOD GERDDOROL.

UNIVERSITY COLLEGE OF WALES,…

--------SWANSEA AND THE POSTAL…

MR GLADSTONE ON TEMPERANCE…

[No title]

CARMARTHENSHIRE AGRiCUL. TURAL…

PIIWP'".....H8.. A CLERGYMAN…