TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I—THE BEAUTY AND THE FOIL.

CHAPTER II—THE EVOLUTION OF A GOOD MATCH.

CHAPTER III—A CHALLENGE.

CHAPTER IV—THE WANDERER’S RETURN.

CHAPTER V—A COLD RECEPTION.

CHAPTER VI—AN EXPLANATION.

CHAPTER VII—WHAT THE BACHELORS THOUGHT.

CHAPTER VIII—MR. AND AIRS. MARTIN LAFFAN.

CHAPTER IX—LUKE, THE SCAMP.

CHAPTER X—A WARNING NOTE.

CHAPTER XI—A FRIEND.

CHAPTER XII—THE BLOW FALLS.

CHAPTER XIII—THE STRANGER.

CHAPTER XIV—HIS STORY.

CHAPTER XV—A TRUCE.

CHAPTER XVI—r A QUIET PIPE.

CHAPTER XVII—MISUNDERSTANDINGS.

CHAPTER XVIII—FACE TO FACE.

CHAPTER XIX—A MYSTERIOUS WOUND.

CHAPTER XX—BLACKMAIL.

CHAPTER XXI—THE SUMMONS.

CHAPTER XXII—THE BURGLARY.

CHAPTER XXII—A SHOCK FOR MRS. CRAY.

CHAPTER XXIV—AN ACCIDENT.

CHAPTER I.

THE BEAUTY AND THE FOIL.

In the wildest part of a wild Irish county, a hot August sun was setting, shedding floods of warm light over the most dilapidated country house and neglected garden that ever held a tenant.

The building itself, long, low and irregular, of vague architecture but picturesque outlines, showed row upon row of shuttered and dirty windows, and only the western half of the house gave any sign of being inhabited. Even that portion looked forlorn enough, and suggested rather the perfunctory attentions of a caretaker than the careful eye of master or mistress.

In the grounds about the house things looked more neglected still. A wide lawn, on parts of which the grass grew high and rank, while in other places it was quite bare, stretched before the south front of the mansion, with an ill-kept terrace leading from the one to the other. On the western side of the lawn an ancient cedar spread its ragged branches, and under these the ground was dry and hard, and almost bare of a trace of green. High yews and distorted clumps of box stretched out straggling arms on each side of the lawn, encroaching on space which was not meant for them. And beyond the lawn, with no attempt at concealment, the homely potato, over the space of something like a quarter of an acre, flourished unabashed.

These surroundings made the group which was gathered under the cedar look strangely incongruous and out of place.

In a shabby and broken-down wicker chair sat a handsome and dignified lady with silver hair, whose mild face wore a look of undisguised annoyance. She was pouring out tea from a cracked earthenware teapot, and handing it round in cups of different shapes and sizes.

On the ruin of a garden seat near her sat a lady who at first sight looked young enough to be her daughter; it was only on close inspection that one would have discovered more of art than nature in the youthful complexion and the well-bleached hair. She also was evidently in a state of some anxiety; but she held herself better in check than her whitehaired companion, and smiled alternately at her hostess, at the landscape, and at her two daughters, who were conversing together, the one on the steps, the other sitting on the balustrade of the terrace.

Mrs. Laffan, the white-haired lady, was expressing her feelings to her companion with something like bitterness.

“In the circumstances, I feel that I owe you no end of apologies for bringing you over here at all. But you must know that when I asked you to come I hadn’t arrived here myself, and I had no idea how Martin had let the place run wild, nor, indeed, how he had run wild himself. It appears, by what I hear from the servants, the old fossils he keeps here to do nothing all day long, that these expeditions of his are of very frequent occurrence. He’s been away more than a month now, and nobody knows where he is, or when lie’s coming back.”

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray, her young-looking companion, laughed with rather artificial good humor.

“Dear me, how charmingly eccentric!” she cooed, in a voice which carried its hearers straight back to the atmosphere of London drawing-rooms. “Ethel, my dear”—and she turned her head toward her daughters—“do you hear that? ” Then, without waiting for any response, she continued to her hostess, “My Ethel adores independence of character, anything out of the common, in man or woman.” And again she looked towards the balustrade. “Isn’t that delightful,dear, a man who disappears without any warning for a month at a time? ”

The elder Miss Cray, a sallow girl, with gray eyes and hair of no particular color, glanced down from the balustrade.

“I don’t know Mr. Laffan, mama, so I can’t tell whether his absence is more delightful than his presence,” she answered in a voice which was neither loud nor shrill, but which had a singular quality of compelling attention.

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray looked for a moment as if undecided whether to be anmsed or displeased by this sally, but finally she decided to make the best of it, and turned again to Mrs. Laffan with another laugh.

“I mean, of course, that it’s delightfully unconventional. My Ethel has such a sharp tongue. I’m always telling her that she’ll never get married if she doesn’t put some guard upon it. The young men are afraid of her, positively afraid. But men who are a little older, in their prime, in fact, delight in her bright talk. She quite puts poor Gladys in the shade, except for those who admire a pretty face and a childlike, amiable disposition before everything.”

“Gladys is very pretty, certainly,” said Mrs. Laffan, thus called upon to say something.

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray uttered an affectionate sigh.

“She’s a dear child. And the offers she’s had! Four since last March, really! ”

Mrs. Laffan raised her eyebrows discreetly.

“She’s engaged, then, I suppose? ”

“No. She’s very particular. She’s not a girl who cares for mere boys, for instance. She—”

At this point, Ethel’s voice broke in upon her mother’s rash confidences.

“Mama, ask Mrs. Laffan to tell you the story of the family ghost. You have one, haven’t you? ”

Mrs. Laffan shuddered.

“Oh, Prickett can tell you about that. Ask him one question, and he’s wound up for an hour. They talk about the difficulty of getting servants to stay with you nowadays; my son’s difficulty is to get rid of them.”

As Mrs. Laffan finished speaking, Gladys, who was near enough to hear her words, sprang up from her seat on the broken stone steps, and, avoiding her sister’s restraining hand, ran into the shadow of the cedar.

“Oh, and I should like to hear about the murder! There was a real murder committed here, wasn’t there, only three years ago? ”

Mrs. Laffan rose, and frowned as she answered,—

“Yes, there was, unfortunately. My son's agent was murdered by a shot fired from behind a hedge, and it was that which brought Martin over here. He came to try to find out the man that did it, and bring him to justice; and he couldn’t do that, for the man had left the country. But Martin took a fancy to the place, and I’ve never been able to get him back to civilization.”

“Dear me! ” said Mrs. Jesmond-Cray. “Then, he’s become a confirmed old bachelor, I suppose, and his uncle, Beckingham Laffan, will succeed to the property? ”

“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” said Mrs. Laffan, with increasing irritation. “And it is to make one last effort to bring him back to the world that I’ve come over here. When I suggested it, he agreed at once. And when I said I should bring some nice, lively people, he told me I could bring whom I pleased. And this is the way he treats us. Doesn’t even take the trouble to remember that we’re here, and come to meet us. He’s grown a savage, a perfect savage. When he does turn up, I expect to find him dressed in skins, like Robinson Crusoe.”

“Thisis really interesting, Mrs. Laffan,” cried Ethel. “I shall be bitterly disappointed if he doesn’t turn up until we’re gone.”

“I think,” putin Gladys, “I shall be rather afraid of him.”

“And if he shouldn’t putin an appearance,” asked Mrs. Cray, with ill-concealed anxiety, “what society shall we have?”

“None,” said Mrs. Laffan, blandly. “At least, none worth mentioning. Beckingham Laffan has wired to say that he’s coming, but I’m afraid you won’t care much about him. And young Oswin Smith, I don’t know whether you know him? ”

“Oswin Smith! I think not. Who is he? ”

”Well, he’s a stockbroker.”

A gleam of hope crossed Mrs. Jesmond-Cray’s rather too ingenuous countenance.

“Very well off, I suppose?” she asked casually.

“Well, no, he isn’t,” answered Mrs. Laffan, in the same bland tone as before. “He hasn’t a sixpence, I believe.”

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray shrugged her shoulders. “A stockbroker who is not well off has no excuse for existence. Good family, I suppose? ”

“Well, no, I believe his father was in trade.”

”Then how does he get among decent people? ” asked Mrs. Cray, tartly.

“My dear,” answered Mrs. Laffan, with suavity which suggested that she found a malicious pleasure in her companion’s discomfiture, “one never asks that question nowadays. You find the fly in the amber, and it’s enough for you to know that it’s there. But Oswin’s a dear fellow, and a great friend of Martin’s. He comes to him every year for the shooting. He’s one of those good-natured creatures whom you can treat anyhow, and put up anywhere, and who will do anything for anybody, and who are always good-tempered and obliging. I wonder you didn’t see him on the journey. You crossed by the Mail the night before last, and stayed a night in Dublin, didn’t you ?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Cray.

“Well, that’s just what Oswin was going to do.”

A sort of consternation appeared to seize Ethel and Gladys at the same time. Almost at the same moment they exclaimed,—

“Oh, mama! ”

“What, dears?”

“Do you think,” said Gladys, “it can have been that odious—”

“That creature who was on the boat?” put in Ethel.

But Mrs. Jesmond-Cray only laughed.

“That—that unspeakable person who swore at the porters, and took the only car! Why, no, of course not! ”

But Ethel and Gladys looked at each other with suspicious eyes.

‘‘ I believe it was he,” said Gladys, in a low voice to her sister. “He came on to Galway. I saw him on the platform.”

“If itis,” returned Ethel, promptly,without raising her voice, “we’ll pack mama up and be off the first thing to-morrow morning. But I’ll give him a lesson first.”

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray’s dejection was getting more and more apparent.

“But are there no nice people in the neighborhood? ” almost wailed she at last.

“There may be,” said Mrs. Laffan, placidly, “but, if so, they fight shy of Abbey Mallow and its master. I've been here ten days, and I’ve seen nobody but a couple of fellow-savages of Martin’s, who turn up regularly every evening to see whether he’s come back yet. Each has a beautiful brogue, and their names are Gerald Power and Sir Michael O’Keeffe. Sir Michael has a coat without a collar and farms his own land. Mr. Power has a rather better coat, but he can’t farm his own land, or do anything else.”

The two girls looked at each other and laughed in amusement. To do them justice, they seemed to bear no share in their mother’s dejection, but took everything as it came with good humor and girlish enjoyment.

In the pause which followed Mrs. Laffan’s speech, Prickett, the ancient butler, a dilapidated-looking person whose appearance matched the decayed state of the mansion, came slowly down the steps and announced that Mr. Beckingham Laffan was in the drawing-room. Mrs. Laffan passed near enough to Mrs. Cray’s chair to say a few words in a low voice in her ear.

“I think I’d better go in and stroke it, and give it a lump of sugar, or it may bite when it’s brought among you all.”

The ladies smiled and nodded to each other, and Mrs. Laffan moved slowly up the broken steps, spoke a few words to the girls as she passed them, and entered the house.

The moment the French windows had closed behind her hostess, Mrs. Jesmond-Cray seemed to become a different woman. The artificial smile immediately became a frown, and into her carefully-modulated voice there came a tartness which caused the girls to exchange looks as, in obedience to a gesture of their mother’s hand, they came close enough to her to hear every word of her angry speech.

‘‘ I don’t know what Mrs. Laffan was thinking about to bring us down to this hole, where there isn’t even a chair with four legs or a door with a lock to it, and with nothing to do but to sit looking at that man digging up potatoes! ”

She glanced disdainfully at a ragged young man, of wild and unkempt appearance, who had been lazily digging up potatoes all the time that the ladies had been at tea. Every now and then he would pause, and passing a rough hand across his forehead, where the tangled black hair hung heavily, he would look furtively from under his black brows at the group of gaily-dressed ladies, before bending his back again to his work. They looked away when the stealthy black eyes met theirs. There seemed to be something sinister about the man, whose dark skin and heavy jaw, long upper lip and coal-black hair, combined with his bushy black eyebrows to give him an aspect fiercer and more striking than that of an ordinary field laborer.

Even as Mrs. Cray spoke, the man looked up, though he was out' of earshot, and scowled at her furtively. The lady moved her head impatiently with a little petulant frown.

“Potatoes indeed! ” she murmured scorn-fuly. “The idea of growing potatoes close to the very house! ”

The two girls, however, were very far from sharing their mother’s feelings. Ethel, the elder, threw herself into the chair Mrs. Laffan had left, and began to fan herself with one of 2 the big dock-leaves with which this very unconventional garden was somewhat liberally supplied.

“Oh, mother! ” cried she, with a peaceful sigh, “but it's a blessed thing to be able, for once in a way, to think about nothing but potatoes.”

The soft little voice of Gladys, which, had in it a caressing note, botli childlike and charming, echoed her sister’s sentiment.

‘ Oh, and I like it too! I met such an awfully nice man this morning, who helped me across the brook at the end of that field. He was dressed like a laborer, but he wasn’t a laborer; he was a gentleman. I wonder if he was one of those friends of her son that Mrs. Laffan spoke about.”

Mrs. Cray groaned.

“ Now, Gladys,” cried she, plaintively, “I will not have you beginning one of those disastrous flirtations you are so fond of. You cannot marry a man who dresses like a farm laborer, whoever he may be. And you cannot afford to waste any more time. Already people are asking how many seasons you’ve been out; and if this Martin Laffan doesn’t put in an appearance within a very few days, we must simply look upon our summer as wasted, and go back to town. I can’t risk your getting into mischief again.”

In Gladys’s voice was a tearful note as she protested meekly,—

“Oh, mother, don’t be unkind.”

Ethel, from her chair, stretched out a loving arm to encircle her pretty younger sister, and laid her own head tenderly on the girl’s arm. But Mrs. Cray had not finished her lecture.

“Mind,” she said more sharply than ever, “you are to have nothing to say to this Oswin Smith, whatever he may be like. You hear he hasn’t sixpence.”

“Mother! ” broke in Ethel, with that curiously incisive tone which compelled attention, “do leave the poor child alone. Here, where there are no buyers, you might let her forget for a moment that she’s in the market, and expected to sell at a good figure.”

But this protest only increased Mrs. Jes-mond-Cray’s ill-humor. She turned upon her elder daughter tartly,—

“Surely you can be satisfied to have lost your own chances, without encouraging Gladys in the same direction. There is no greater disgrace for a woman than to have to drag about with her two old-maid daughters.”

At that moment a querulous old man’s voice from one of the windows came to the ears of the ladies. Mrs. Cray broke off in her harangue and swept up from her chair with a rapid movement in the direction of her daughters.

“Here comes that horrid old man, nagging at Mrs. Laffan for bringing girls to the place. Let us go and hide among the gooseberry bushes, until he’s got over the worst of his ill-temper.”

And Mrs. Cray hurried the girls away with her behind the shelter of the straggling laurels and yews, presumably to get over the worst of hers.

CHAPTER II.

THE EVOLUTION OF A GOOD MATCH.

Both the appearance and voice of Mr. Beckingham Laffan, who was by this time slowly making his gouty way across the terrace with his hostess, justified Mrs. Jesmond-Cray in her unwillingness to hasten the moment of meeting.

A small, lean, withered man, bent prematurely with gout, and with acidulated wrinkles and furrows round his mouth and eyes, he was grumbling at his sister-in-law in tones which betrayed as much ill-temper as is compatible with decency.

“I don’t know why you couldn’t leave Martin alone,” he muttered, not even taking pains to find out whether the other ladies were out of earshot. “Surely a man of his age— he’s forty this year—might be allowed to live his own life in peace.”

But Mrs. Laffan, while preserving a courteous good humor, was not willing to allow herself to be bullied by the angry old gentleman.

“Surely there’s nothing unnatural,” she retorted mildly, “in my wanting to pay a visit to my own son, considering that I haven’t seen him for three years! ”

“And wouldn’t have cared if you hadn’t seen him for another three, I daresay! ” grumbled the amiable Beckingham, “if you hadn’t taken it into your head that you must worry him into marrying ! ”

“Marrying! My dear Beckingham, what has put that into your head? ’’

“Oh, don’t talk to me! Do you think I don’t know what those two ballroom hacks and their hungry-eyed mother have been brought here for?” You must look upon him as a savage indeed, or you would have unearthed something fresher to bait your hook with.”

At that moment there was a diversion of Mrs. Laffan’s attention; for a young man, in traveling clothes of the very latest cut, who bore upon him the distinct impress of Bond Street and Piccadilfy, appeared at the door at the end of the terrace, followed by the old butler, Prickett, with a long string of explanations.

“Yes, sir,” Prickett was saying, as he kept close at the newcomer’s heels, with a certain air of affectionate respect, which showed the guest to be a well-remembered one, “my master’s been away a month now, on the coast somewhere, shooting and fishing and boating; he went off quite sudden, just as you know he has a habit of doing, sir, and we never know from day to day when to expect him.” The old servant’s tone changed to one of remonstrance and disgust. “And when he does come back, sir, what a change he’ll find? Instead of having the place all to ourselves as we’ve had it for years, it’s overrun, sir, with ladies, sir, ladies from London, and a very different sort from those that used to come in the time of Mr. Martin’s father—”

The new arrival interrupted the old man’s rambling grievances with some impatience.

“Ah, well, as Mr. Martin’s father’s been dead some thirty years, I don’t suppose he’ll mind.”

Before the old servant could recover breath to go on with his tale of woe, Mrs. Laffan had left Beckingham for a few moments by the balustrade, and come forward to greet the new guest.

“My dear Oswin, I thought you were going to play us false. Mrs. Cray—Mrs. Jesmond-Cray and her daughters—you know them, I suppose? They came down this morning, but it seems they saw nothing of you.”

By this time she had given the young man a rather careless touch of the fingers, and it had occurred to her to feel a slight surprise that he had returned this salutation with exactly the same measure of warmth.

“No, I don’t know them,” he answered at once, in a rather constrained and dry voice. “I’ve heard of them, of course. Widow of a colonel who just missed coming into a baronetcy. Widow can’t forget the baronetcy. Two daughters who won’t go off. Odd that they didn’t see me coming over. I saw them.” While he spoke, the countenance of his hearer had undergone a gradual change. Before he had finished speaking, she had seated herself in the nearest garden chair, and begun to regard him with a puzzled look. '

When, at last, he finished speaking, there was a little pause before Mrs. Lafian said, with something like a gasp,—

“Well, I’m beginning to think that—perhaps —they did! Of course, you’ve heard that Martin’s away? ”

“Yes,” answered Oswin, indignantly. “And I call it beastly cheek of a fellow to drag one over here to a place that’s off the map, and not to take the trouble to turn up to meet him! ”

“Shocking, isn’t it? And he’s treated Mrs. Cray and the girls in the same way, which is worse ! ”

Oswin looked doubtful.

“Well, I don’t know that it’s worse. But it’s pretty bad! ”

Mrs. Laffan looked more puzzled than ever.

“Well, atanyrate, nowyou’re here,you’ll help to amuse the poor things, and keep us going.”

“I don’t mind talking to the pretty one, and I’ll stay a few days, on the chance of Martin’s turning up, if only you’ll undertake to keep those pre-historic dependents away from me. I’ve just been cuddled by a septuagenarian housekeeper, and had my head talked off by the centenarian, Prickett, and I only just escaped the clutches of a lady who must have been cook to Martin’s great-grandfather.”

“He won’t get rid of the old servants! ” said Mrs. Laffan, with a laugh. “Martin’s so good-natured! By-the-by, you won’t mind if you’re put in a very small room, not very well-furnished, will you? I’m told it’s the one you had last year.”

“Last year! ” echoed Oswin, raising his eyebrows. “I’m really awfully sorry, Mrs. Laffan, but I must decline absolutely to sleep in the room I had last year. I couldn’t turn round in it. But I’ve no objection, if I’m in the way, to putting up at the local inn, if there is a local inn.”

“Really—” began Mrs. Laffan, more puzzled than ever. And then, to. her great relief, the ladies came round the straggling hedge, and Beckingham, who had ostentatiously turned his back upon Oswin, as upon some mean thing unworthy of notice, greeted them with sub-acid civility. Mrs. Laffan exchanged a few words with Mrs. Cray, and again turned to the latest arrival. “Oswin, I find Mrs. Cray and her daughters did see you on the way down. Let me introduce you. Mr. Oswin Smith—Mrs. Jesmond-Cray—Miss—”

But Ethel did not wait for the introduction to be completed. She turned her back upon him, and went up the terrace. Mrs. Laffan covered this action as well as she could.

“Oh—er—Miss Gladys Cray.”

“Beastly traveling this time of year, isn’t it? ” said Oswin.

But Mrs. Jesmond-Cray was supremely frigid.

“Not when one’s fellow-travelers are decent people,” she retorted haughtily, as she turned to follow Mrs. Laffan.

Thus left for the moment face to face with Gladys, Oswin glanced at her mother with a dry smile.

“You don’t know Martin himself, do you Miss Cray? ”

Gladys threw a frightened glance in the direction of her mother, who was at that moment speaking in a low, angry voice to Ethel.

“No, I don’t know him yet,” she said in a low, timid voice. “It was Mrs. Laffan who asked us here. He’s rather a dreadful person, isn’t he? ”

“It depends upon the point of view,” said Oswin, who had changed the rather dry ag-aggressive manner which he had worn while speaking to the disdainful elderly ladies, and dropped instinctively into the ordinary manner of a well-bred man speaking to a lady. “To me, he’s the dearest old chap in the world, the only man I’d cross the Irish Channel to see. But to ladies—well, perhaps he would seem rather a rough sort of a customer. He’s a bit of a woman-hater, you know.”

“A woman-hater! Oh, how dreadful! Will he be very rude to us, do you think? ”

“Rude! Oh, no. But he may be abrupt and shy.”

“Won’t he dance, or play tennis, or anything? ”

“No, he certainly won’t. For all those things you’ll be dependent upon me, so you’ll have to be very civil.”

“Oh, dear, I don’t suppose mama will let me! ” cried Gladys, helplessly, like a child.

To give point to this remark, Mrs. Jesmond-Cray at that moment cried out sharply, “Gladys! ”

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“There, you see!” she said softly, as she obediently turned to obey her mother’s call.

Beckingharn shuffled quietly into the place where she had been standing, and looked maliciously out of his wrinkled eyes at the young man.

“Thought you’d get pulled up! ” snarled he. “You’re only here to make the running for Martin! ”

Oswin dryly chuckled.

“Oh, I shall go up in the betting presently,” said he. “You don’t know all the secrets of the stable.”

“Oh, well, I wish you luck!” said Becking-ham, grimly.

“More than I want, I daresay,” said Oswin, easily. “I’ve no more intention of winning the race than Martin has. But a flirtation with a silly, pretty girl is part of the programme of a country house visit.”

Beckingharn stroked his chin suspiciously.

“The sister has brains, though,” said heat last.

“And to spare. I hate clever women!” said Oswin.

“Well, I hope Martin does,” cried Becking-ham, fervently. Then, recollecting himself, he added quickly, “At least, I mean—”

Oswin interrupted him, smiling.

“Why go through the farce of saying what vou do not mean, Mr. Laffan? Of course we know you don’t want Martin to marry and have a family, and spoil your chance of coming into the property? ”

“You put things crudely, very crudely,” said Beckingham Laffan, annoyed at being found out. “ I should be delighted to see my nephew married, if it would make him any happier. But it wouldn’t. Martin finds his happiness in a bachelor life, as I do. Isn’t it indecent, positively indecent, to make this onslaught upon him now? ”

“Don’t be afraid, Mr. Laffan. If Martin can’t resist the wiles of this match-making mama, he’ll never be safe.”

“I’m sure I hope he can—for Jiis sake, not mine. What good would this tumble-down old barn, and heaps of unlet farms, and tenants who want to be paid to stay, be to me?” He turned abruptly to Mrs. Laffan, who had drawn a little nearer to the two men. “I suppose, Myra, the rats have been allowed to eat up the pictures, and the pigs to feed out of the old silver plate? ”

“Perhaps you had better go and see for yourself, Beckingham,” she answered, rather coldly.

Oswin broke in,—

“If you really want some pictures and plate, Mr. Laffan, I can let you have a few cart-loads very cheap indeed.”

Mrs. Laffan turned sharply.

“You, Oswin! What are you talking about? ’’

“Pictures and plate,” answered the young man, simply. “They belonged to an uncle of mine, who died about two months ago in a little town in Worcestershire.”

“Why, I never knew you had an uncle! ”

”Well,” explained Oswin, “he made his money in a lot of small shops, where he sold the worst possible boots, and butter, and buttons at the best possible prices. So we found it convenient to forget him while he was alive. But when he died intestate, and I was found to be his next-of-kin, why, he came back to our minds with quite a rush.”

“And did you get anything besides the pictures and plate? ” asked Mrs. Laffan, giving utterance to thoughts which gleamed in Mrs. Jesmond-Cray’s interested eyes.

“Yes,” said Oswin, “he left some houses, and some public-houses, and a theater, and of course the shops. With some little odds and ends in the shape of consols and railway shares, they will bring me in about three or four thousand a year.”

“Three or four thousand a year! ” echoed Mrs. Laffan, in surprise. “Why, you’re a rich man, Oswin! I suppose now you’ll get away from that horrid Stock Exchange? ”

“I think not,” returned he, sententiously.

“To get away from the Stock Exchange, one must get away from the nineteeth century.”

“That’s very good, very good indeed,” put in Mrs. Cray, laughing with great appreciation. “ So true, isn’t it, Mr. Laffan? ”

Beckingham stared at Oswin with a grim look on his old face.

“H’m, yes, I suppose it is—now! ” said he, drily.

Mrs. Laffan drew nearer to Oswin, divided between vexation and a wish to laugh.

“Now really, Oswin, I’m very angry with you,” said she.

“But you’ll give me a better bedroom?” said he, drily.

“Well, I shall have to, I suppose, if you insist,” said she, with a comical expression. “But it’s too bad of you to come here under false colors. I wanted you to be nice to everybody, and now—”

“And now, instead of that, everybody’s going to be nice to me,” said Oswin, in the same tone as before. “Well, you know, it comes to the same thing.”

“And now, of course, you’ll be wanting a wife,” said Mrs. Laffan. “You were always so anxious to marry.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, that was when I couldn’t afford to. Now I feel I can wait a little.”

“Well, I hope you won’t persuade Martin to wait a little too,” said Mrs. Laffan, rather tartly.

“He won’t want any persuasion.”

“Oh, you are incorrigible! ” said Mrs. Laffan, impatiently.

And she turned away with unmistakable annoyance on her face. This defection of Oswin Smith’s was the worst blow of all. She had looked upon him as a harmless, obliging creature, whose liking for Martin would induce him to add his own inclination towards matrimony to her arguments in favor of that state. Now he had not only blossomed into a person who intended to be considered, but had developed notions which chimed in only too well with Martin’s own fondness for the bachelor state. It seemed now that nothing was wanting that could help to make this visit to Martin’s home a complete fiasco. And it is no wonder the poor lady turned away, asking herself what excuse she could find for breaking up this ill-assorted party.

Beckingham Laffan, that grim old spoilsport, chuckled delightedly to himself as he followed his sister-in-law with his malicious old eyes.

CHAPTER III.

A CHALLENGE.

Now the observer who might have pronounced Oswin Smith, on the strength of his behavior to the ladies at Abbey Mallow, an intolerable person, undeserving of anything but contempt, would have been wrong. At least he would have been wrong in pronouncing such a judgment without a qualifying reservation.

It is undoubtedly true that Oswin gave himself airs on that occasion, true that his conduct and his conversation were in the worst possible taste, and that Mrs. Laffan was right in telling him that he ought not to have come among them under false pretenses.

But there were excuses to be made for him, extenuating circumstances to stand between him and anything like wholesale condemnation.

There may indeed be young men of eight-and-twenty so well-balanced, so calm and cool of judgment, that a rise in life from the position of an agreeable makeweight to that of a person of social position and consideration would leave their heads unturned. But Oswin Smith was not one of these. For years now he had held an assured though scarcely an enviable position in London society, by reason of his tact, his cleverness in saying the right thing, and his never-failing readiness to oblige.

Many a bore had he taken down to dinner; many a dance had he given to the girls who could get no other partners; many a country house bed had he slept on, which, apologetically described by the host or hostess as a “shake-down,” had in the middle of the night justified its portentous name. •

But though he had borne all the discomforts and inconveniences of his position as a poor man without an audible murmur, the iron had eaten into the clever young fellow’s soul none the less. He felt that he hated these maneuvering mothers who were so careful that their pretty daughters should bestow upon him very little of their precious civility. He hated the hostesses who made use of him when men who danced, or talked well, were scarce, and who were barely gracious to him at other times. He hated the girls who talked and laughed with him, with an eye upon some richer man the while. He hated, above all, those richer men themselves, so secure in their possession of that comfortable balance at the banker’s that they could safely indulge their whims, and be insolent or condescending as it pleased them.

When, as by a wave of a magician’s wand, all these things were changed, and the money of his penurious and despised uncle placed him suddenly in the position of the men he had envied, it is perhaps scarcely to be wondered at that the rush of good fortune was too much for him, that the amiable and obliging man who had been snubbed in the days of his poverty, became for the time, at least, more arrogant than those who' had been arrogant to him.

Short as his experience of wealth had yet been, he had already found how great the change in his position was, and how infinitely more sought after he was now that he had become well off and uncivil, than he had been in the days when he had an empty purse and the reputation of an amiable nature.

Ethel Cray, this not very young girl, with the sallow face, the colorless eyes and the indefinite hued hair, was the first person who had dared to resent his new discourtesy; and Oswin, while confidently ascribing her treatment of him to her ignorance of his present position, was indignant with her for not joining in the general homage which he was now enjoying.

It was quite true that none of the ladies had shown him great cordiality on his arrival; even Mrs. Laffan had felt only a languid interest in the good-natured young man who could be stowed away in any draughty corner. But they had all presently made amends, in smiles and a great show of interest in his change of fortune; and Ethel alone had held scornfully aloof, regarding him from time to time, even while he talked, with a certain irritating air of holding him at his true worth—and that a low one.

As Mrs. Laffan turned away from Oswin, to hide her discomfiture at the change in his views concerning matrimony, Mrs. Jesmond-Cray, who had shown considerable subdued excitement since she learnt of the young stockbroker’s transformation, came across the terrace, from where she had been conversing with Beckingham Laffan.

“Oh, Mr. Laffan has been telling us about the lovely Vandykes there are in the picture-gallery! Do take us to see them,” she said, addressing her hostess, but with an eye upon Oswin all the time. “I simply dote ripon pictures, and so does Ethel.”

“Beckingham wants to satisfy himself that they haven’t been made away with, I suppose! ” said Mrs. Laffan, in a low voice, with a little sub-acid smile. “Well, come and see them.”

And she went towards the door of the house, followed by Mrs. Cray, who managed on her way to seize her elder daughter and to push her forward with an affectation of playful heedlessness which deceived nobody.

Old Beckingham, whose small, sharp eyes saw everything, saw this and went grunting along in the rear.

It was not until she had reached the door, and was about to enter, that Mrs. Cray appeared to remember her younger daughter. Then, turning slightly, without seeming to remark that Gladys and Oswin Smith were now close together by the balustrade, she cried, “Aren’t you coming, Gladys? ”

Before the girl had time to answer, however, her mother shrugged her shoulders and added to Mrs. Laffan, “Oh, well, she never was fond of pictures, and I daresay the fresh air will do her more good. Aren’t you coming, Mr. Smith? ” she ended, smiling amiably at the reformed Oswin.

“No,” answered he, from the terrace, as he half seated himself upon the broken balustrade. “ I think the fresh air will do me more good too.”

But there was one participator in this little scene, who not only understood its purport, but had the courage to protest. This was Ethel, who detached her mother from the rest of the group by a neat movement of the wrist, and spoke a few earnest, anxious words low in her ear.

“Mother, don’t leave Gladys with that man. He doesn’t want to marry; he will only amuse himself by trying to make her fond of him.” Mrs. Cray answered petulantly,—

“Well, isn’t that what a rich man always does? There’s always the hope that he may get caught himself. She must take her chance. Come along; Mrs. Laffan will wonder what we’re waiting here for.”

So the reluctant Ethel, after casting back one more anxious glance at her pretty sister, reluctantly accompanied her mother into the house, and joined Beckinghamand Mrs. Laffan, who were exchanging conjectures as to why the ladies who were “so fond of pictures ” had so suddenly lost their interest in Art.

Pretty Gladys, on the terrace, had opened her sunshade, and was strolling in the direction of the steps. Oswin got off the balustrade, and followed her down.

“So they’ve left me to amuse you, Miss Gladys. It’s very rough on you! ”

“Mrs. Laffan says you are so amusing.”

”But I’ve let myself get out of practise lately.” Gladys was by this time at the bottom of the steps, strolling over the ill-kept lawn.

“Tell me about Mr. Martin Laffan,” said she, “and the murder that brought him over here. I’m dying to know all about it, and Mrs. Laffan won’t let it be mentioned.”

“It makes the old lady nervous,” said Oswin. “She argues that since her son’s agent was shot her son himself may be shot too.”

Gladys shuddered.

“Oh, of course. How horrid!”

“No—how absurd! For dear old Martin’s a landlord after their own heart, who never expects any rent, and who disarms the blackguards by making friends of them.”

“Friends? ” cried Gladys, in surprise.

“Yes. Do you see that ragged rascal in the potato-field, who keeps peeping through the hedge at us?”

“Yes. I don’t like the look of him at all. He kept peering at us in a most horrid, stealthy way while we were at tea. He looks like a murderer himself, I think.”

Oswin laughed.

“Well, Martin’s made him gamekeeper, and gardener, and lodge-keeper, and—and pal. And the fellow’s thick with all the moonlighters in the country. They call him the Scamp. He’s the person who can tell you all about the murder.” He took a step forward, and called, “Here, Luke! ”

But Gladys drew back, a trifle paler than before.

“Oh, don’t call him,” she whispered. “He frightens me. If he speaks to me, after what you’ve told me, I know I shall scream.”

But before she had finished speaking, the young laborer, lurching slowly forward in answer to the gentleman’s summons, had broken his way without ceremony through the hedge on the right of the lawn, and presented himself before them.

Now, Gladys had done him less than justice. On closer inspection, black-browed Luke looked less of a cut-throat than he had done in the distance, though it may be there was something in his dark, handsome face which hardly promised the straighforwardness of an altogether guileless nature. But in his intelligent black eyes there was something doglike, sympathetic, attractive; while about his mouth there were lines and curves indicative of the precious gift of humor. And as he spoke, his voice was an oddly musical one to belong to so uncouth a creature.

“Sor-r? ” was the single word he uttered, as he cast up a glance of half-smiling recognition at the gentleman, and pulled of his battered hat respectfully.

“How are you, Luke? You remember me, don’t you?” said Oswin.

“Shure an’ I do, sor-r,” said Luke, as his smile developed into a grin.

“You don’t forget your friends, eh, Luke?”

”No, nor me enemies neither, sor-r,” retorted Luke, sturdily.

Oswin affected surprise.

“Enemies! I thought you were good friends with everybody, Luke? All the bad characters in the country, and all the good ones too! ’’

The smile, which ‘had faded out of Luke’s dark face, began to appear there again.

“So I am, sor-r, barrin’ a few. I’m not friends with John Murphy, who told my master I was a lyin’ rogue; and over his mobile features there came a dark look, which grew darker as he went on; “and I’m not friends with Derrick O’Hara, who stole my brother’s roan mare.”

The mention of the name threw Oswin instantly into a state of excitement. He glanced at Gladys with meaning, as he said,—

“Derrick O’Hara! That was the man who shot Mr. Laffan’s agent, wasn’t it? ”

“Oh?” cried Gladys, with a little plaintive shriek.

Luke turned his black eyes slyly in her direction, and then looked defiantly and with a scowl at Oswin.

“Yes, sor-r, it was him that did it.”

“Well,”said Oswin, “we don’t expect you to be friends with a murderer.”

Again he gave a glance at Gladys as Luke, quite roused out of all appearance of apathy, answered with passion, and in a louder voice than before,—

“Murtherer, is it? Shure I wouldn’t be afther callin’ a man a murtherer for putting a bullet into a sneaking scoundrel like the captain!”

Gladys took a couple of steps into the background, to put Oswin between herself and the speaker.

“What!” cried Oswin, “from behind a hedge? ”

Luke raised his head and spoke with conviction.

“Shure, an’ what difference does a hedge make? If a soldier can shoot from an ambush at a poor fellow that’s never done him any harm, why shouldn’t a man that’s not a soldier shoot at a rascal where he can? ”

“Then you sympathize with this O’Hara? ” asked Oswin, in mock astonishment.

“No. He’s a villain,” retorted Luke, stoutly, shaking his fist in the air, “a palthry spalpeen! He took my brother’s roan mare out of the stable, the night he’d shot the captain, and he rode away on her, without so much as a with your leave or by your leave, an’ without leaving a stiver to pay for her. Ah, the dirty villain! ”

And Luke, in a state of passionate excitement, began to mutter threats and curses on the absent-minded Derrick.

Gladys was so much alarmed by Luke’s ferocious looks and gestures that by this time she had edged away from the two men altogether and, trying to look as if she did not hear, had reached the steps of the terrace. Oswin glanced behind him.

“Perhaps he was only forgetful, Luke,” suggested he. “Probably he intended to pay for the mare; but in the hurry of a forced departure he forgot it.”

Luke uttered an incredulous snort.

“Shure, then, it’s but a dirty memory that’ll fail to keep in mind them that helped ye to save yer neck, either with their knowledge or without it! ’’said he, by no means mollified,“and if ever the chance comes, by the saints, but I’ll wipe off the score against him! ”

“Luke, your morality is altogether too primitive for the nineteenth century,” said Oswin, laughing. “And you’ve frightened that young lady, nearly out of her wits. Go back to your potatoes; I’ll argue you into a better code of morals another time.”

Luke’s face relapsed once more into a good-humored grin.

'“Shure, sor-r, it’s welcome ye are to thry,”said he, as he touched his old hat again, and returned to his work.

Oswin walked quickly across the lawn to Gladys, and reached the bottom of the steps when she was half way up.

“Don’t go,” entreated he. “It will take them an hour to find out what the Vandykes are all about. And there’s so much more interest in ”—he looked round vaguely—“oh, in potatoes? ”

Gladys turned slowly round, and stood on the old stone steps, making the prettiest picture in the world in her dress of cream-colored muslin, with the pale blue rosettes near her neck and in her big picture hat.

“But that man frightens me,” said she, in a subdued voice. “Such a fierce look came into his eyes when he was speaking! I don’t think he would think twice about shooting anybody himself.”

Oswin looked up at her and smiled. She certainly did look sweetly pretty, with her baby face and soft fair hair.

“You don’t think I’d let him shoot you? ” said he, with mock solemnity.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Gladys, in the little lisping tones of ballroom coquetry. “I don’t suppose you’d mind! ”

Oswin made a frantic gesture.

“Not mind! Not mind! ” cried he, affecting to tear his hair. “Why, I shiver at the very thought! Mind, I can conceive the possibility of my shooting you myself, if you made me desperate, but not of my allowing anybody else to do so.”

Gladys giggled delightedly, like a child.

“Now, I should really like to make you desperate,” began she, putting her pretty head on one side with a little gesture which made her quite bewitching.

She had her back to the house, and Oswin, who was still on the lower level of the lawn, had come up close under the balustrade, under a thick bush of ivy which was helping the ruin of the stonework. Quite unseen by either of them, Ethel, who had left her mother with the others at the first opportunity, was able to come noiselessly along the terrace, and to lay her hand, from behind, upon Gladys’s arm, with so much suddenness that both she and Oswin were startled.

“Then try the effect of running away, dear? ” said Ethel, in her low-voiced, incisive tones. “Mrs. Laffan wants to show you a dress that was worn at the coronation of Charles the Second.”

“Oh, but I don’t want to see it,” said Gladys, rather pettishly, trying to escape from the insistent hand.

“Since it’s lasted so long it will keep a little longer, won’t it? ” put in Oswin, in dry tones of annoyance.

«

“Well, Mrs. Laffan wants her to see it now,” persisted Ethel.

And as she spoke, still keeping her hand on her sister’s arm, she looked into her face, and frowned slightly to intimate that she must go.

Gladys shrugged her pretty shoulders and pouted.

“Oh, of course, I’m always obliged to do what I don’t want to! ” said she, rebelliously.

But still her elder sister looked at her, still she kept upon her that restraining, imperious hand; and finally Gladys, after exchanging a glance with Oswin, who tried to look sympathetic, but succeeded only in looking angry, she snatched her arm away from Ethel’s fingers, and walked, with undisguised reluctance and ill-humor, into the house.

There was a very curious pause, and the two people left in the garden assumed each an attitude of unmistakable defiance. Ethel seemed for aboM half a moment undecided whether to follow her sister or to remain and do battle with the enemy. A look, a gesture, both of which would have been insignificant to eyes less keen than hers, decided her to stay.

Oswin spoke first.

“You don’t allow your sister much liberty of action, I see,” said he, throwing down the gauntlet.

“I don’t do more than use an elder sister’s privilege,” returned Ethel, steadily, without looking at him.

Oswin’s tone became more bland, more subtly insolent, as he answered,—

“Oh, certainly. If it is the admitted privilege of the elder to interfere with the enjoyment of the younger.”

“Enjoyment! ” echoed Ethel, in a dry tone. “She didn’t want to go in! ” said Oswin, betraying the fact that her words nettled him. “And Mrs. Cray had no objections to her staying out here.”

Ethel slightly raised her eyebrows. She did not look up.

“Mama! No, but I had!”

“The privileges of an elder sister seem to be extraordinarily great! ”

“And the duties too—sometimes.”

Oswin, now thoroughly nettled, looked straight into her face. Still, she did not choose to meet his eyes, and he could not flatter himself that it was fear, or diffidence, or anything but disdain, which kept her eyelids down.

“It was your duty not to allow your sister to remain in my society? ”

“Yes.”

“And is it one of your privileges—or duties, to explain your action? ”

“If I do, I shall have to be very frank.”

“I like frankness,” said Oswin, curtly.

Ethel’s voice was very suave, her tone very decided, as she flatly contradicted him.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Not such frankness as mine. For I shall have to begin by telling you that my action is based upon my contempt for you.”

“Miss Cray! ” cried Oswin, indignantly.

But she went on, with superb indifference to his outburst.

“Oh, not as an individual; in that sense I scarcely know you. But as a type; and that type I know very well.”

She paused a moment, and Oswin, evidently cut to the quick, overflowing with anger, mortification and amazement, cut in, in what he meant to be a very sarcastic tone,—

“Your penetration—and experience—must be remarkable! ”

Ethel only asked drily,—

“Am I to go on? ”

“Pray do. Character from the handwriting is nothing to this,” said Oswin, choking with rage.

And Ethel went on, still standing like a statue, in the middle of the stone steps, with her hands clasped, looking quietly out before her, and speaking as coolly as if she had been delivering a lecture on the habits of caterpillars.

“There is a type of man that builds a shrine, and puts on it—himself. That worships assiduously, intelligently, and adapts his sacrifices to the needs of the moment. When fortune frowns, the worshiper is ready to offer up his own convenience, his own pleasure, for the ultimate advantage of his idol—self. When fortune smiles, he wheels his Juggernant over friends and foes, sacrifices openly instead of secretly, and makes sport of his silly victims.'’

She stopped dead, and still looked out quietly in front of her at the potato-field.

“And is this eloquent description supposed to apply to me, Miss Cray?” asked Oswin, who had had time to recover at least an appearance of equanimity.

“Yes.”

“I can’t help feeling immensely flattered,” said he. “I had no idea I had so much in me. But, please, who are my silly victims? ”

“All those persons who put up with your arrogance and insolence, now you are rich while they only took you on sufferance when you were poor.”

In spite of the guard he had puc upon himself, Oswin winced at these words. She went on remorselessly, in the same level tone,—

“The women who are civil to you in the hope that you will marry one of their daugh ters, and the girls you flirt with laugh at you, but never intend to marry.”

“And how do you know what I intend, Miss Cray, long before I know myself? ”

At that question it seemed as if, in some strange way, he had turned the tables upon his accuser. At any rate, Ethel's face became in a moment slightly puckered, and her sallow cheeks grew pink. She hesitated a little, then smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and coming down two steps, sat upon the low, squat pillar which ended the balustrade on the side of the steps furthest from him.

“Well, you may know if you like,” she said at last, indifferently. “It is from a personal experience. In those far-off days,” she went on, with a slight emphasis, which he understood to be a reproach, “before I had penetration and experience, a man of your sort taught me to love him.”

She paused again for a moment. Oswin remained quite silent, being indeed utterly surprised and somewhat nonplussed by the unexpectedness of the nature of her confession. Ethel laughed a little and went on.

“Yes, it seems an odd thing for such a dry-as-dust creature as I to have done; but you must remember it was a long time ago. Well, I broke my heart over him, and have had to do without one ever since. But I don’t mean to let my pretty little sister break hers in the same way. So there, Mr. Smith.” And as she spoke she rose, and for the first time looked him straight in the eyes. “ You have the gauntlet flung in your face. You must leave Gladys alone:”

Afer an instant’s silence Oswin spoke, with his eyes down this time.

“May I ask whether Mrs. Jesmond-Cray is acquainted with the circumstance of your very singular challenge? ”

Ethel laughed drily.

“Of course not. My mother is the most guileless and transparent of match-makers, as you have probably remarked. And her troubles having been chiefly those of the cash-box, she is not inclined to sympathize with those of the heart.”

“You admit that she is a match-maker? a husband-hunter? Then you ought to admit the right of the hunted to use any weapon he finds to hand? ”

“I don’t admit any such right,” retorted Ethel, with spirit. “What does such a woman do but try to find a haven of happiness for the child she has cherished? with a man who will cherish her when she herself is gone?”

"Might one suggest that it is less with the man than with his money that she concerns herself ? ”

“Because money can be depended upon to fulfill its promises, while a man cannot,” retorted Ethel.

It was Oswin’s turn to laugh a little.

‘‘ And do you propose to harangue Martin Laffan in this manner, if he speaks to your sister? ”

“Oh, no,” said Ethel, simply. “From what I hear, I’m sure Mr. Laffan is an honorable gentleman.”

Oswin started, and unwisely spoke out the question that came to his lips.

“And pray, what am I?”

The answer came, prompt and decided, in the same level tone as ever.

“An insufferable cad.”

And without waiting for any comment or protest, with only one swift, sharp, cutting look out of her light gray eyes, she turned, and ran rapidly up the steps and across the terrace into the house.

Oswin started from the corner, where he had been lounging against the ivy, as if an adder had sprung at and bitten him. He was white to the lips as he glared at her retreating figure.

“Well, of all the confounded—” He paused, and a frown that was half angry, half puzzled, contorted his face. He muttered to himself, after a moment’s pause, in a different tone, “ Confound the woman! Whether she’s right or wrong, and I’m not sure what I think about that, confound her, I say! confound her! ”

And there could be no possible doubt as to the sincerity of the sentiment he uttered.

CHAPTER IV.

THE WANDERER’S RETURN.

Oswin was moving slowly around the balustrade to get to the steps, when his attention was suddenly diverted by Luke, who uttering a wild cry of “Hurroo! hurroo! ” began to wave his ragged hat in a frantic manner in the direction of the road, which he commanded from where he stood, although it was not in sight of Oswin.

“What’s the matter? What the devil are you making all that row about? ” cried the young man sulkily, as he began to cross the lawn in the direction of the potato-field to find out the cause of the excitement.

But Luke either did not hear, or did not condescend to answer him, for instead of paying any heed to his questions, the Scamp rushed between the yew hedges towards the west wing of the house, still crying, in his deep, musical voice, as he waved his cap towards the windows, “ Hurroo! hurroo! ”

He made such a noise that the ladies began to gather at the lower windows, and Becking-54 ham and Gladys came out upon the terrace, while Mrs. Laffan called out from the drawingroom,—

“What’s the matter, Luke? Have you gone mad? What’s the matter?”

The Scamp stopped short with his face aglow.

“Mad is it? Shure, then, I think I have! For haven’t I seen the masther himself cornin’ along in Murphy’s car, down by the church beyant there? ”

“My son! Are you sure?”

Beckingham uttered an exclamation of disgust.

“Well, if you have seen him, that’s no reason why you should shout as if the place was on fire! ”

“No reason why I should shout! ” retorted the Scamp, robustly. “Arrah, but there is reason, and good reason too! Shure he’s got a lady with him! A young lady!”

At these words a thrill of excitement ran through the group. In the case of Beckingham, Laffan and Mrs. Jesmond-Cray, it was more than excitement, it was consternation. Mrs. Laffan was the first to recover from the general amazement.

“A lady! Oh, you must be mistaken, Luke! ”

“Is it mistaken I am? Shure, an’ he’ll be at the front door by this time, an’ you can see for yourself.”

Mrs. Laffan turned hurriedly to Mrs. Cray, upon whose face a frown of exceeding primness was gathering.

“It’s some mistake of the silly fellow’s,” murmured Mrs. Laffan in her ear. “I’ll go and see for myself.”

But though she tried to reassure herself and her friends at the same time, it was with an anxious expression on her face that she went indoors.

Oswin had been standing a little way from the rest, but he had heard all that passed, and he chuckled maliciously as he leaned over the balustrade, and looked down into the garden.

“Thank heaven! ” murmured he, maliciously, to himself. “There’s a slap in the face for that beastly girl! ”

Meanwhile, poor Mrs. Cray, ghastly under her well-made-up complexion, muttered a few words in a hoarse voice to her elder daughter,—

“Ethel, this is awful. We ought not to have been invited. We’ve been brought here under false pretenses.”

“Hush, mother! ” whispered Ethel, reassuringly, caressing first her mother and then Gladys, who had instinctively drawn near to her as if for protection, “it will be all right.

Mrs. Laffan will see that it’s all right. Come into the garden.”

And she led them both down the steps.

Wicked old Beckingham Laffan hobbled across to Oswin, and chuckled maliciously.

“It’s some little dairymaid he’s picked up, forgetting all about his mother’s coming. She’ll drive off the whole covey, that’s one comfort,” he added with grim satisfaction.

But Oswin did not share in his glee.

“I can’t understand it. It isn’t like Martin. I thirst for explanations.”

Beckingham looked round and nodded.

“Well, you’ll get ’em. He’s coming out, and”—his tone suddenly became full of consternation—“ by Jove, the lady with him! ”

Oswin wheeled round sharply.

Yes, there, already out on the terrace, was Martin Laffan, bronzed and ruddy of face, broad-shouldered, manly, as of old, moving rapidly forward, with a pale, dark-eyed, darkhaired, fragile-looking girl on his arm. She was very simply dressed, but looked refined and moved gracefully, though it was evident that she was overwhelmed by a timidity which was like fear. Mrs. Laffan stood behind them in the doorway, staring alternately at her son and his companion with a white, scared face.

But Martin was dashing across the terrace and down the steps, and the lady with him.

Seizing the hand of Mrs. Cray, whom he met at the bottom, he shook it heartily, smiling broadly into her frightened face.

“Don’t want an introduction, Mrs. Cray,” cried he, in a hearty, deep-toned voice, which rang out manly and true. “I’m delighted to see you, and your daughters too; my mother’s friends are as welcome as she is herself.” Before she could gather her wits to reply, before she knew whether she should smile or not, he had turned from her to her daughters and shaken hands heartily with both of them. “How are you? Well and happy, I’m sure, as all young girls should be. Let me introduce you all to—my wife! ”

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray murmured some polite commonplace; but underneath her civility, amazement, indignation and incredulity seemed to struggle for the upper hand.

CHAPTER V.

A COLD RECEPTION.

Surely never was bride so coldly received as was Martin Laffan’s upon this, her first appearance at her husband’s home.

It had not needed the looks of consternation on the faces of the old servants, the scarcely civil greeting of Martin’s mother, the unwelcome stare with which Mrs. Jesmond-Cray regarded her, to tell the new-comer that her arrival was unexpected, and that it gave a shock of displeasure and surprise to high and low.

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray was of course the worst of all the cold crowd. Finding her voice with apparent difficulty, and dropping her eyelids as she raised her chin a little, she drawled out a few commonplace words in a tone of perfunctory civility which enraged her host.

“Delighted, I’m sure. But—really—such an unexpected pleasure—” And at this point, with the tips of her fingers she touched those of the trembling bride. Martin frowned, and stared at the mother of two marriageable daughters, without the slightest suspicion of the fact that Mrs. Jcsmond-Cray considered that he had tricked her most cruelly.

After the chilly touch the lady went on in an aggrieved tone, and without so much as another glance at Monica.

“We had really no idea, you know—quite sprung upon us, in fact.” And she turned abruptly to her elder daughter, who had come quietly up to within a few paces of the group. “Wasn’t it, Ethel?”

Ethel’s voice, however, as she answered at once, had in it a tone of warmth and kindliness in strong contrast with the dry voice in which she had addressed her bitter speeches to Oswin Smith. Coming quickly forward on this invitation from her mother, she took Monica’s shrinking hand in a warm clasp, and holding the quivering, slender fingers for a few moments in the grasp of both her own hands, she smiled into the bride’s face, and said,—

“I think it is we who have been sprung upon you. You didn’t expect to fine a houseful of people here, I’m sure. I suppose, Mr. Laffan,” she went on, not releasing Monica’s fingers, but turning to Martin with a delightful air of demure sauciness, which was as great a contrast to her tone with his wife, as it was with her tone to Oswin, “in the excitement and novelty of getting married, you forgot all about us.”

Martin Laffan’s bronzed face grew deeper in tint, and with a comical air of genuine contrition and self-abasement, he confessed himself.

“I did, Miss Cray, and there's the truth of it! ” said he, hoarse with shame at his own misdeeds.

Ethel laughed pleasantly, and looked with a merry glance into Monica’s frightened eyes. Oswin Smith, who had drawn near from a sort of loyalty to Martin, shook his head at him.

“But you shouldn’t own to it! ” said he.

Under the influence of Ethel’s kindliness and of Oswin’s good humor, Monica was just beginning to get over her first misery and nervousness, when Mrs. Jesmond-Cray’s grating voice disturbed them all. Seizing the helpless Gladys, who had stood in the background, uttering never a word, she marched rather than walked towards the terrace steps, saying, as she went, in a greatly offended tone, and with a withering glance at Martin,-—

“The mistake is very easily rectified, Mr. Martin. Of course, we none of us wish to obtrude upon you."

“Oh, Mr. Laffan! ”

The cry came in a despairing, timid voice from the lips of Monica. She had shrunk back, stung by the looks, the words of the disappointed match-maker, and looked as if she would fain have run away.

It caught the ears of Mrs. Laffan, Martin’s mother, who had been captured by Becking-ham, and was deep in low-voiced conversation with the angry old man on the terrace. She turned a little paler at the sound, and looked down in despair upon the scene beneath. Monica looked the picture of misery, Martin was boiling with vexation and disgust, Gladys looked frightened, Mrs. Cray vindictive, and even Oswin disturbed.

Only Ethel, serene, smiling, consoling, kept her hand on one of Monica’s, and tried, with gentle commonplaces, to distract her attention from the disturbing elements of the scene.

Martin, after a moment’s pause for breath, stumped after Mrs. Cray in a rage.

“No, no, don’t go. One moment, Mrs. Cray, I have something to say to you! ”

But luckily, perhaps, Oswin got in the way, and delayed his progress by buttonholing him at the bottom of the steps, and gently intimating that Martin had not the right to all the anger.

“It’s an unconventional way of receiving a party of friends, you know,” he submitted mildly, “to forget all about their coming, to be away when they arrive, to let them find no A Cold Reception. preparations made for their reception, and finally to turn up with a wife, of whose existence nobody was aware, and with a sort of feeling, as it seems to me,that you yourself are the aggrieved party, after all.”

By this time Mrs. Jesmond-Cray and Gladys had disappeared into the house, old Mrs. Laffan and Beckingham had prudently retreated into the shadow of the yew trees which grew round the east end of the terrace, and there was no one in sight whose presence could serve to inflame Martin’s anger.

He began to understand that the fault did not lie all on the one side, and proceeded to bite the ends of his long, straggling mustache, with a look of something like contrition in his gray eyes.

“Oswin, what shall I do?” said he, at last. “What shall I do? You go and talk the old lady over. I can’t do it myself. I can’t forgive her for being so unkind to Monica. But —but—I’m off my head, I think. I wouldn’t have committed such a breach of hospitality for worlds as to drive people away when my mother had invited them here—and with a sort of permission from me, too.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” said Oswin, reassuringly. “So now you’ve got to make apologies. Yours was the first fault, you know. You must go after Mrs. Cray—”

But at that suggestion Martin drew back and shook his head.

“No, no, you go. You go and talk her over. Persuade her to stay. You can, you know. You’re such an oily chap.”

Oswin Smith turned on his heel and looked rather foolish.

“Not now,” said he, at last, gloomily; “not now! I’m a vinegary chap now. I shall only make matters worse, I’m afraid. You’ve got a thing or two to learn about me. However,” he added quickly, as his old friend stared, “never mind about that now. I’ll go, of course I’ll go.”.

And with no alacrity whatever, but with the air of one doing a solemn and irksome duty, Oswin left his friend on the steps, and went slowly up towards the house.

Martin Laffan stood for a few moments undecided on the steps, not quite sure in which direction to turn. On the terrace above him, he could now just perceive the figures of his mother and old Beckingham, of whose presence at Abbey Mallow he had been unaware until that moment. The sight of the wrinkled, bent, malevolent man seemed to him ominous of evil. Beckingham did indeed carefully keep himself informed of what went on upon the estate of which he had insane hopes of some day being master, in the case of Martin’s dying before him unmarried; but his visits were few and far between, and were not hailed by his nephew with joy.

Beckingham saw Oswin Smith leave Martin and, with a nod to Mrs. Laffan, he hurried along the terrace to catch him before he entered the house. The old lady followed him, and the three stood for a moment under the untidy creeper which hung in festoons over the doorway.

“What—what—what does Martin say? ” asked Beckingham, seizing Oswin by the coat-sleeve, and looking anxiously into his face. “That she’s his wife, really his wife? But of course it isn’t true. You don’t think it’s true, do you? ”

Oswin, a good deal disgusted, disengaged himself.

“He says so, and he ought to know,” he remarked drily, as he went into the house.

Beckingham, turning, found old Mrs. Laffan close behind. She was looking highly displeased.

“Really, Beckingham, you ought to be ashamed of asking such questions! ” said she, tartly.

Beckingham had his answer ready.

“And you,” said he, with a cross-grained look, “ought to be ashamed of asking none! ”

Mrs. Laffan drew herself up.

5

“You exceed the limits allowed by relationship,” said she, with dignity. “I know my son too well to suppose him capable of any conduct but the best.”

“Best, best, best! ” cried Beckingham, in a voice quavering with anger. “Do you call it the best conduct, then, to pick up a wife, if she is his wife (which, with all your airs, I still take leave to doubt), anywhere, and to pitch-fork her like this into the society of his relations and friends? ”

“It is inconsiderate of him, certainly. But we must make allowance for the way in which he’s been living—all by himself ’’—Beckingham grunted—“and answerable to nobody for his actions.”

“Answerable to nobody, indeed! What about me? Haven’t I any interest in his affairs? I— ”

Mrs. Laffan grew impatient.

“Really, Beckingham,” said she, interrupting him, “it’s time you should be told what everybody thinks of your conduct in watching so- eagerly for something to happen to Martin!”

“Something to happen! I I What has put such an idea into your head? ”

“Why, what other idea can you have in your mind, than the hope that he’ll die before you and let you succeed to the property, to make you so anxious to prevent his marriage? ”

“I anxious to prevent his marrying! Not at all. I—”

“Oh, the fact’s common property. You’ve never attempted to conceal it,” said Mrs. Laffan, haughtily. “And I ask you whether it’s not rather disgusting to see a man of your “My age! My age! I’m only fifty-four! ”

”Yes, but you look ten years older than that,” cruelly went on his sister-in-law. “To see, as I said, a man of fifty-four waiting eagerly for the death of his nephew, who, being fifteen or sixteen years younger, will, in the natural course of things, outlive him! ” Beckingham was enraged beyond measure at this plain speaking. He had alwaj^s had an idea that his hopes of succeeding to his nephew’s estate, which had grown high since Martin had taken up his residence in a country where there was no “close time ” for landlords, were carefully concealed. And to discover that his sister-in-law had found him out was gall to the sour, elderly man; while the reference to his age was wormwood.

“There’s no talking to you women!” he grumbled to himself as he made off in the direction of the house. “Nobody else would ever have dared to accuse me of such a thing, or to talk to me as if I were as old as .Methuselah, either! ”

As soon as Beckingham’s back was turned, Martin took a step upward, with the intention of addressing a few words of remonstrance and apology to his mother. But Mrs. Laffan, not quite mistress of herself, felt that she would rather not meet him just then, and hurried into the house after her brother-in-law.

Although she had loyally stifled her doubts and held a brave front to the enemy Becking-ham, the poor lady was by no means easy in her mind with regard to the bride whom her son had sprung upon them all. Without sharing Beckingham’s suspicions, she could not conceal from herself that there was something mysterious about the bringing home of the unexpected wife, of whom nobody knew anything, and something suspicious about the manner of the girl herself. For there was more than timidity, more than the nervousness of an embarrassed woman, in Monica’s eyes, her voice, in her every movement. She seemed, to the calm eyes of the elder lady, to be suffering from something like a paralysis of acute fear.

Martin himself felt that there was more than the shyness of the bride in Monica’s manner. It was not the first time that day that he had noticed it. All through the long drive over the rough roads, which had succeeded their short railway journey that morning, he had been conscious of a constraint, a shy shrinking on the part of the girl whom he had made his wife that very day, which troubled and hurt him.

Now, when both his mother and Beckingham had disappeared, and he retraced his steps in search of Monica and Ethel, whom he had left together, the trouble appeared again in his eyes as he saw his young wife turn pale at his approach.

The two women had sauntered a little way over the rough grass together, and Martin noticed that Monica was clinging to her companion with a sort of helpless terror which dismayed and irritated him.

“Well, Miss Cray,” said Martin, turning to speak to her, as he found it easier to do than to address the shrinking Monica, “my poor little wife hasn’t had one word of welcome from anybody but you.”

“But we’ve struck up quite a warm friendship already, so she won’t miss the others,” retorted Ethel, “unless I am exaggerating my own fascinations.”

And she turned with a bright laugh to Monica.

“I can’t exaggerate your kindness,” cried the poor bride, in a low voice, with an indescribable look of piteous appeal in her great, soft brown eyes, as she came still closer to the other woman. “You’ve made me feel quite different.”

“Quite at home, eh?” put in Martin, trying to speak cheerfully, but not succeeding very well.

And again, to his dismay, his young wife’s tone grew cold and timid as she answered him,—

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

Ethel’s shrewd glance took in all: the bride’s shrinking alarm, the bridegroom’s distress. She pounced upon a remedy for this awkward state of things.

“Supposing, Mr. Laffan,” suggested she, “you were to leave Mrs. Laffan with me, while you go and make your apologies to the rest for the rather cruel way in which you have behaved to us all ? I’ll show her over the house—”

“Yes, yes, I should like that,” broke in Monica, with hoarse eagerness.

Ethel pressed her hand reassuringly.

“I thought so. You see, she feels that it’s rather awkward for her, and that your guests think part of this is her fault.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” whispered Monica, “I—I should like to go with you while Mr. Laffan—”

She half turned towards him, but did not raise her eyes to his face. Martin retreated a few steps, wounded, perplexed.

“All right,” said he, rather gruffly. “You’ll show her round then, Miss Cray.”

And he gave Ethel a grateful look as he went, not towards the house, but towards the potato-field, where Luke was leaning on his spade, eagerly waiting for a word with his returned master.

A woman’s wit had told Ethel that there was something wrong, and the timidity, the evident fear of the brown-eyed, beautiful girl had appealed to her kindly sympathies. She led Monica towards the house, pointed out to her the homely beauties of the low, oak-paneled hall, of the wide, shallow staircase with the old armor hanging, deep in dust, on the walls, and of the long gallery above, where the family portraits were, and the statues which Martin’s father had brought from Rome, with mosaic tables, and other treasures which time and change of fashion had robbed of some of their charm.

^Monica grew quieter, happier, in the society of her bright, kindly guide.

“I’s a great pity the house has been so much neglected,” remarked Ethel, as she and Monica sauntered through the long gallery together. “That’s the worst of absenteeism. And even the presence of a bachelor landlord isn’t much better. It remains for you,” she went on, smiling into the bride’s face, “to put things right.”

But Monica, who had been regaining her self-possession in the congenial society of the kindly girl, began to tremble again at these words.

“No, oh, no, I can do nothing,” she said in a frightened voice. “I—”

Ethel laughed brightly.

“I see you haven’t yet got over the shock of your reception,” she said. “But you mustn’t blame Mr. Laffan so much for that. I’m inclined to think that Mrs. Laffan hardly led him to expect such an influx of visitors. Anyhow, from what I’ve heard, he’s such a good fellow that none of us can hold a grudge against him long-”

Monica looked at her inquiringly.

“Such—a good—fellow,” she repeated faintly. “Why, I’d heard—”

“What?” asked Ethel, rather surprised by a certain suggestion made by her tone.

“Oh, well, I mean—you don’t think, then, it’s true that he’s vindictive, as they say? ”

“Vindictive! No, I certainly should not. You should hear what his friend says about him, and his servants, and the tenants. But what made you think—”

Monica shrank back into herself.

“Oh, no, no, of course I was wrong,” she cried in confusion. And happening to glance out of the nearest window, which was begrimed with the dust of years, she said quickly, “Oh, they’re coming! Couldn’t we get out by another way? ”

Ethel had followed the direction of her glance, and seen that Martin and Oswin, below on the terrace, were making signs that they were coming up. She cast a curious glance at the bride.

“I don’t think we can go through the door at the other end,” she said. “There is a way through, but it’s blocked up, and the passage is used as a lumber room. We should cover ourselves with dust. No, I think it’s time we made peace, don’t you? ”

Monica was silent. She stood with her back half turned to her companion, who was able to perceive that her breast heaved and that it was only by a strong effort at self-control that she kept her tears from overflowing.

In silence the two waited until the footsteps of the two men on the stairs came near the door of the gallery. Martin was speaking of Ethel in terms of grateful praise.

“I could almost forgive my mother for importing that terrible personage, Mrs. Jesmond-Cray,” said he, as they appoachecl the gallery, “in consideration of her having brought the daughter with her.”

Oswin said, “H’m! ” very drily, and Martin stared at him.

“You don’t agree with me that she is a charming girl?”

“Emphatically I don’t. The fact is, I haven’t known her more than an hour, and already we’ve had a violent quarrel. She insulted me grossly.”

“Then I'm ready to bet it was your fault,” said Martin, with conviction.

“Possibly. The fact remains that she has not endeared herself to me. However, there’s no talking to you now you’re a married man. I look upon you as gone over to the enemy.”

Martin and Oswin were by this time on the threshold of the long room, where the bright yellow light of the sunset came aslant through the murky windows, checkered by the moving shadows of the trees on the west outside. The two women made a pretty picture, as Ethel sat, in her smart and pretty light frock, in a window seat which she had taken care to dust: and Monica, tall, slender, dressed very simple in a dark dress and black hat, stood beside her in the sunlight.

Two altogether different types they represented; the one self-reliant, shrewd, used to the world; the other helpless, clinging, unused to society, almost rustic in her shyness.

Martin came forward quickly, leaving his companion behind. As before, it was to Ethel he addressed himself first.

“Miss Cray, this is very good of you,” said he. “Everybody still runs away from us but you. I know it’s all through my own confounded stupidity, but ought the)'' to visit my sins upon her? Look, she’s quite ill! ”

Ethel, who had risen and come forward to meet him, laughed brightly.

“No, she isn’t. Go and ask her forgiveness for the confounded stupidity you spoke about, and she’ll soon be well again.”

And Ethel was withdrawing in the direction of the door, when Monica suddenly appeared at her elbow.

“Don’t go away,” she whispered quickly.

And she bent her head to look into Ethel’s eyes imploringly.

But Ethel was firm. She had done her part; and she thought it was time for explanations between husband and wife, and for Martin to make his own apology for the distress he had brought about by his thoughtless behavior.

“I must go,” said she, laughing, as she gently disengaged her arm from Monica’s grasp. “I want to pour oil on the troubled waters downstairs.”

Oswin, who had come with Martin as far as the door, had by this time disappeared. Martin followed Ethel for a few steps as she went in the same direction.

“Miss Cray,” cried he, impulsively, “if you were a man I should say you were a brick.”

“Well, -I’m quite as hard,” laughed Ethel.

“I don’t believe it.”

She looked back with a sparkle in her quiet eyes.

“Don’t you? Ask Mr. Smith,” said she, demurely as she passed through the doorway, and left husband and wife together.

CHAPTER VI.

AN EXPLANATION.

“There’s the woman you ought to have married! ” cried Monica, suddenly, as Martin hastened back to her.

He threw his arm around her shrinking form.

“And here, thank heaven, is the woman I have married,” cried he, with the fervor of a lover.

But Monica shuddered and tried to withdraw herself from his embrace.

“Ah, but it’s all a mistake, a dreadful mistake,” cried she. “You must see now yourself that it is.” Her tone grew wilder, her breathing quicker, as she went on. “I was hurried into it, rushed into it, and now I'm sorry, oh, dreadfully, horribly sorry! ”

And she suddenly broke down, and buried her face in her hands, sobbing faintly.

Martin was for the moment appalled by the utter distress of his bride. Then he put one strong arm round her heaving shoulders, and passing a loving, tender hand over her trembling fingers, whispered, in the gentlest, most moving tones, in her ear,—

“You think so now, but you shan’t think so long. I won’t let you be sorry. You shall forget all about my own boorish stupidity, that exposed you to this reception. You shall forget everything but that I love you. Come, come, my darling, look up and forgive me.” But for all answer she shook her head, moaning half aloud. Martin let his voice drop till it was only just loud enough for her to hear.

“My darling, all this is because you’ve never been happy. You've told me that, you know. You can’t understand what happiness is, when you stand on the threshold of it. But you are going to be as happy as the day is long. I love you so, I love you so. I never knew what the word woman meant till I saw your face, my wife, my lovely wife! ” And as he spoke he pressed a tender kiss upon her forehead, just where the soft brown hair hung lightly over it. She started and got away to the window, where her hat was lying. Stooping to pick it up, she said breathlessly, keeping her face turned away, and trying to control her voice,—

“How can you say that? You can’t know me; you don’t. Six weeks ago you’d never seen me! ”

Martin laughed a little.

“True! Six weeks ago I would have sworn the woman who could turn my head didn’t exist.”

She turned upon him sharply.

“That’s it. I must have turned your head. Otherwise you would see, what your friends see, that you’ve made a mistake, that I’m not the wife for you.”

He looked at her in surprise and alarm.

“My darling, why do you speak like this to me! Surely you needn’t trouble your head so much about the rudeness of a spiteful old woman! ”

“Oh, no, no, it wasn’t that.—At least, not all that,” stammered Monica, hastily, apparently casting about for an excuse. “But I’m sorry you forgot they were all here. It—it was rather awkward, wasn’t it,” and she tried to laugh a little, “for everybody? ”

Martin turned away impatiently, ruffling up his hair with his hands.

“It was simply the confoundedest piece of idiotcy any fool’s ever been guilty of! ” cried he ruefully. “But look here, Monica, of couse I’ve got to bear all the blame, but it was my mother’s fault, really. She never told me how soon she was coming. My impression is that she meant to take me by surprise. By Jove, she’s succeeded! ” he added dole- fully, as he again turned away and took a few steps up and down.

There was a short pause, and then he rather unexpectedly found Monica face to face with him, with an eager expression in her eyes, which puzzled him.

“Well, we don’t want to spoil everything now, do we? ”she was asking hurriedly, without meeting his eyes. “It isn’t the fault of these ladies; and yet they’ll feel bound to rush away, and all the others too. Oh, it would be dreadful, wouldn’t it? So inhospitable! And I should feel that it was all through me! ”

Martin looked at her in extreme surprise at the change in her tone and manner.

“Well, how—what do you propose?” he asked, staring at her stupidly.

Monica’s breath was coming in gasps. She was evidently in a state of great excitement.

“Listen,” said she. “You won’t let them know we were only married this morning. You’ll let them think we were married six weeks ago, when you first went away. You’ve only brought me here to-day to show me the place, as I’ve been sent for to go and see my mother, who’s ill.”

“I see,” said Martin, quickly. “Then we go off again this afternoon—”

“I do, not you,” interrupted Monica, hastily. “You will stay behind with your guests.”

“Confound my guests! No, if you go, I go. But if you’ll stay, we’ll tell them this story, and do our best to entertain them as long as they choose to remain. I’m a vile host. I don’t understand amusing ladies. But you’ll teach me, won’t you? ”

And as he spoke, he put his arm again about her.

Monica struggled away once more.

“Oh, no, I can’t,” said she, quickly. “I can’t stay. I feel nervous, frightened, shaken; as if I could scarcely speak without crying. Let me go back for a few days, as I suggest. Then, when your friends are gone away, or— or sooner if you like—I only ask for a few days, just a few days—”

And she stopped short in her speech, drawing back again, as Martin once more approached her.

“Monica, Monica, don’t you love me? Don’t you care for me—just a little? It frightens me to see you shrink from me like this! Surely, surely there’s nothing to be afraid of in the love of your husband. Oh, my little one, if you could know how I worship you, how you’ve become the desire of my heart andthe light of my eyes, you wouldn’t talk of leaving me even for a day! ”

He had checked the passionate impulse to come near her, chilled, alarmed by the strange 6 eagerness of her manner. Now there came into her face a look of keen distress, and she dashed the rising tears from her eyes.

“Don’t talk like that,” she cried. “Don’t, don’t. It wrings my heart.”

Martin looked yearningly at her beautiful face, now distorted with distress.

“Wrings your heart! ”echoed he, very tenderly. “Why, child, that’s just what I want to do. I want you to feel a little of what I feel for you. Mind, you’re to do just as you please. I’ve sworn to make you happy, and you shall be happy in just what way you please. Remember only that if y'ou take yourself out of my sight you make me miserable. You may be happy without me; I can’t be happy without you.”

As he finished speaking, his voice gave way, and he staggered to the window-seat and sat down. A great look of pain and horror came into Monica’s face. As if the words were torn from her, she cried,—

“Why, you’re good, noble! It’s not true that you’re vindictive, wicked! ”

“Wicked! who’s been telling you I’m wicked? ”

Monica shrank away before his look of amazement and anger.

“Vindictive,” she answered quickly, in a low, frightened voice. “They said you were vindictive, revengeful.” She paused a moment, and then went on, with a shy, sidelong look at his frowning face. “Captain Malcolm, your agent, was shot—three years ago—”

“Yes,” answered Martin, still more surprised at the turn the talk was taking. “Well?”

“And you’ve been hunting down a man who never did it, ever since.”

“Hunting him down! ” echoed Martin. “No, I haven’t. I wish I’d had the chance. He takes good care to keep out of my clutches.”

“But he never did it,” retorted Monica, quickly. “It wasn't he who shot Captain Malcolm.”

Martin, with another broad stare of astonishment, leaned back in the window-seat.

“Who was it then? What do you know about it? ”

“I know,” replied Monica, earnestly, “that the murder was not committed by Derrick O’Hara! ”

“But how do you know? ” asked Martin, shortly.

“I know,” replied Monica, her voice and her gaze faltering a little; “I’m sure that Derrick is incapable of anything mean or base.”

“You know the fellow?” said Martin, still shortly.

“I did, three years ago, before he had to leave the country.”

Martin laughed.

“Had to leave it! Is that the action of an honest man? And you—you were seventeen —a child. What could you know of the man’s character? ”

“I know,” answered Monica, in a low voice,

“that he was adored by his mother and his „ * £ >) wite.

“I didn’t even know that he had a wife.”

“He has none now,” said Monica, with a sudden change to a reckless and bitter tone.

“Is she dead, then? ” asked Martin, in an even voice, after a moment’s silence.

“No, she’s married to another man.”

“But that’s bigamy! ”

“She couldn’t help herself,” sighed Monica, out of whom the fire seemed to have died, leaving her despairing. “They told her if she married again the police would think Derrick must be dead, and would leave off their pursuit of him. So that he could come back.”

“The little hussy! ” cried Martin, who had become quite calm, quite cold. “And what about husband number two? He was to be left in the lurch, I suppose?”

Monica grew a little more earnest, a little softer of tone, as the tenderness, the passion died out of Martin’s voice. She came a couple of steps nearer.

“But he wouldn’t mind, would he, being left in the lurch, as you call it, by such a woman as that? ”

“Well, he ought not to.” And a harsh note was heard in Martin’s voice. “He’d be a fool if he did. But it depends upon the sort of man—and on the sort of woman.”

“Suppose,” said Monica, almost in a whisper, “it was a woman who was not very clever, or very wise, but who was affectionate and easily persuaded. And suppose it was all hurried through so quickly that she hadn’t time to realize what she had done till it was all over. And suppose she then saw that the man she had deceived was noble, honorable; and that she went down on her knees”—and as she spoke, Monica slid to the ground and clasped her hands, trembling and supplicating in the dust under the old paneled wall—“to beg him to be merciful to her, and to her husband, and to let her go. What would he say then? ” She caught her breath. “What would he do then? ”

Martin rose up quickly.

“What would he say? ” cried he, in a deep, firm voice, like one pronouncing sentence. “Why, he’d say that the woman was a fool, and the man a knave. What would he do? Prosecute the woman for bigamy, and have the man hanged.”

Monica sprang up, and her eyes blazed.

“Prosecute me, if you like; you shall never do harm to him! ”

Martin put his hand heavily on her shoulder and stared into her face.

“Who are you? ” he asked hoarsely.

The answer came in a breathless whisper,— “I’m Derrick O’Hara’s wife!”

CHAPTER VII.

WHAT THE BACHELORS THOUGHT.

Five weeks passed at Abbey Mallow with an intensity of enjoyment for most of the party, which not one of them had anticipated at the outset.

True, there was a desperate feud raging between Oswin Smith and Ethel Cray, a feud which seemed to increase in intensity as the days went by, until the whole of the household and the nearest neighbors found themselves instinctively drawn to take sides, if not actually to take part in it.

True, that Mrs. Jesmond-Cray lived in a perpetual state of terror, lest the sharp tongue of her elder daughter should drive away the newly-enriched Oswin, just when he seemed to be really seriously attracted by the pretty eyes of Gladys.

True it is, also, that she began to find it necessary to keep a sharp lookout on the goings and comings of Gladys herself, who, usually so docile, had formed a habit of persisting in taking solitary walks in the early morning.

Certainly, these promenades were good for her figure and complexion; but Mrs. Jesmond-Cray, whose profession of match-maker had taught her to be all eyes, had an uneasy feeling that the ragged Sir Michael O’Keeffe, the “beggarly baronet,” who farmed his own land and had no dress clothes, had a habit of being about the grounds when Gladys went out by herself.

But, on the whole, in spite of these and other trifling drawbacks, the days went happily by, and nobody seemed anxious to be the first to break up the party.

In the first place, Martin Laffan roused himself to a sense of what was required of him, and sent for a load of brand-new furniture from Dublin, having first had a general clean-up all over the house, which caused a great deal of bustle and a good deal of fun among the guests.

Monica, though she was always quiet and even rather timid in manner, took her place in the household with a grace and general thoughtfulness for others that speedily made a way for her into the hearts even of the oldest servants. Nobody guessed at the strange story of her marriage with Martin, which was never even mentioned by these two oddly-matched creatures, after that first day of explanations.

Martin had taken her confession very quietly, had expressed his intention of forgiving her, upon condition that she consented to remain for a time at Abbey Mallow in the character of his wife to all appearance, and had promised to let her go away as soon as the guests had taken their departure.

Full of shame and remorse, Monica had found it impossible to refuse his peremptorily-made request, and had striven to the utmost to make his servants and his guests happy and comfortable.

The days were so full, between fishing excursions, shooting and walking expeditions, and the mere lounging which many of the party found entirely delightful, that there was little time or opportunity for minute criticism of the attitude of Martin and Monica towards each other. In public they were always on good terms; and only one person was so inquisitive as to pry into their private relations, to note that they took care never to be left alone together, and that, while Monica spent her days chiefly in the house, sorting the books, dusting them and the old china, and mending rents in the ragged tapestries and furniture covers, Martin, on the other hand, was nearly always out of doors, except when he was shut up alone in his own study.

The one person who noted all these things and a great many others, was the lynx-eyed Beckingham, who pounced and pried, and peeped and listened, as much as he decently could, and perhaps a little more than that.

It was in the fifth week of this pleasant, happy-go-lucky life that Beckingham shuffled into the billiard-room early one evening, while the old butler Prickett was lighting up, and before the rest of the gentlemen had left the dining-room.

It was a very pleasant apartment, this long, oddly-shaped billiard-room, which had been formed by adding to one of the original rooms a three-cornered space taken from the back premises. At one end there was a small table with cigars upon it, a saddle-bag couch and two big easy-chairs, one with a reading-stand and candlestick attached to it.

The butler started, as he turned up the lamps over the billiard-table, on hearing Beckingham’s grating tones behind him.

“H’m, Prickett, you’ve been a long time in the family now, haven’t you? ”

“Forty-three years, sir, come Lady Day. I was in the family when Mr. Martin was born, as you may remember, sir. You came down from London in a hurry, quite unexpected, and not best pleased, as was only natural, seeing the estate would have passed to you if—”

“Yes, yes, we know all that,” said Beckingham, testily; “it’s ancient history. I suppose, now, there isn’t much that goes on under this roof that you don’t know something of? ” Prickett replied, with a complacent smile and a shake of the head,—

“Well, I shouldn’t like to boast, sir, but seeing that I look upon myself as one of the family—”

“Quite so. It’s only fair that you should be consulted a little,” agreed Beckingham.

“Yes, and I may say, sir, that Mr. Martin would find it to his advantage if he was to consult me even more than he does.”

And the butler swelled with conscious dignity.

“I’m sure he would, Prickett. Now this marriage of his. I’m sure you wouldn’t have counseled his making such a foolish match, with a girl nobody knows anything about, if you’d had a hand in the matter? ”

“Well, sir, I don’t say as I should. Though, mind you, sir, I’ve nothing to say against the young lady, sir, nothing whatever; she’s not one of the interfering, new-broom-sweep-cleaning sort, that’s jealous of old influences and old faces. I will say that of Mrs. Martin.”

“And do you think, Prickett,” said Beckingham, coming nearer and speaking more confidentially—“now I should like your candid opinion—that they are quite as devoted as a newly-married couple ought to be? I put it to you as an old friend of the family; haven’t you noticed that there’s a light now at night in the little tower bedroom just over Mr. Martin’s, that hasn’t been used for years? Doesn’t it look to you as if they had separate rooms? ” The old butler looked startled by these questions, but he recovered himself with great dignity.

“Really, sir, Mr. Martin’s sleeping arrangements are his own affair, and I must decline to discuss them with anybody.”

And Prickett, after carrying his taper to the other end of the room, and lighting the reading candle, and the candles on the mantelpiece, left the room with an air of great consequence.

Beckingham looked much disgusted at his failure to make any fresh discovery.

“Don’t know anything,” he muttered to himself, half aloud. “Would discuss any mortal thing he did know till three in the morning.” His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of old Mrs. Lafian.

“Nobody out of the dining-room yet but you?” said she, as she looked round. “My dear Beckingham, do try and persuade them not to spend such a long time in here to-night. It’s very rude of them, and it makes Mrs. Cray so disagreeable.”

“I can send Sir Michael O’Keeffe in to you,” suggested Beckingham, maliciously. “He’s delighted to go anywhere to be near Miss Gladys.”

“But that’s just what we don’t want,” cried his sister-in-law, impatiently. “He’s an impossibility for Gladys, as you know. It’s Oswin Smith we want for her.”

Beckingham chuckled.

“But he isn’t such a fool! You matchmakers! can’t you take warning by the failure under your noses?”

“ Failure! ” said Mrs. Laffan, in a troubled voice. “What do you mean? ”

“Oh, you know very well what I mean. Does Martin look any happier since he’s been married? Isn’t he ten times more of a bear than he was before? Does his wife look happy or contented? Doesn’t she watch him about much as a performing lion does its tamer? And haven’t these last five weeks been a wretched time for everybody in consequence?”

“You exaggerate absurdly, Beckingham. Monica’s a little shy; the position of head of a large household, and entertainer to a lot of people, is new to her, of course. And Martin, well, he’s been a crusty old bachelor so long that—that—”

“That he wishes he could be a crusty old bachelor once again. Oh, I’ve no patience with people who have eyes, and won’t see with them! ”

“It doesn’t do to see too much,” retorted Mrs. Laffan, gravely. Then, as the voices of the gentlemen were heard outside the door, she added quickly, “Send us Oswin if you can.”

And she left the billiard-room by the door which led to the drawing-room, just as Oswin, Sir Michael O’Keeffe and Martin Laffan were coming from the dining-room towards the second door of the room.

Old Beckingham, in great disgust with his sister-in law and her apparent want of proper curiosity, went sulkily to the small table, where he proceeded to choose himself a cigar, and was so occupied when the other men came in. Oswin went straight to the reading chair, threw himself into it, took up a newspaper from the smoking table, and then dashed it down in disgust.

“Yesterday’s! That’s what comes of visiting in a barbarous country! ” cried he, only half in jest. “Martin, why don’t you go and live somewhere where you can get the day’s news while it’s fresh? ”

“Because I prefer it stale,” replied his host, easily. “When I hear of a birth, a marriage, or a death, it’s too late for me to have to congratulate or condole. When I read the money article, the prices have changed, and there’s no temptation to risk my money. I like my scandals with the edge off, and my scathing criticisms when the sting’s gone out of them.”

“Egad, Laffan,” cried Sir Michael, a handsome, fresh-colored Irishman, with black hair and merry blue eyes, “but you’re right! When there’s blight in the potatoes, or the back door’s come off its hinges, ye don’t want to be troubled with a trifle like war with Russia! ”

In spite of his strong brogue, and of the fact that he wore, not the ordinary Londoner’s evening clothes as Oswin did, nor white shirt and dinner jacket such as Martin had put on in honor of his guests, but a rather shabby shooting-coat, Sir Michael had an indefinable air of distinction.

“Your mother commissioned me, Martin,” broke in Beckingham’s rasping voice, “to tell you not to be so long on your way to the drawing-room. It seems the ladies are pining for your society, particularly ”—and here his voice grew into a snarl—“for Smith’s.”

Oswin looked round, and raised his eyebrows.

“Smith’s not coming,” said he, softly, as he settled himself more comfortably in his chair and took out a pouch and cigarette papers.

Martin looked up at this, and then came deliberately, cigar in mouth, and planted himself in front of Oswin, with his hands in his pockets.

“Oswin,” said he, “this miserable three thousand a year has been the ruin of you. You used to be a nice chap! ”

“Well, and ain’t I a nice chap now—to you! ” said Oswin, laughing, but looking rather abashed.

“No, you ain't” answered Martin, emphatically. “To me, or to anybody. Now I used to look forward to your visit more than to anything else in the whole year.”

Oswin interrupted him maliciously.

“Ah, but that was before you were married! It’s marriage that has changed you, not money that has changed me! ”

“By Jove! ” cried Martin, incredulously, “is it, though?” And then he added abruptly, “How am I changed?”

“Well,” said Oswin, momentarily embarrassed, “you have a sort of look as if you’d rubbed the dose on the gouty foot, and swallowed the liniment! ”

“You mean that I don’t look so—jolly, in fact? ” suggested his host, softly.

Oswin shook his head emphatically.

“Not at all jolly.”

“Well, I’ll own up,” said Martin, in a low voice, after a pause, and after convincing himself that his uncle was occupied in conversation with Sir Michael. “I’ve something on my mind just now. I’ve set a trap for a rascal, and I’m lying low till he walks into it.”

Oswin looked at the set, square jaw of the man curiously.

“Have you, though? ” said he, with interest. “Then I shouldn’t like to be that rascal when he does.”

“Come,” said Martin, “I’ve given you a better reason for the change in me than you can give for the change in you.”

“A different reason, not a better one,” said Oswin, imperturbably. Once I used to be told off to be civil to the very old and the very young; now, at all ages, they’re civil to me. I used to work like a cart-horse to be amusing and entertaining, and people said I was not a bad fellow, but rather a bore. Now I’m just as rude as I can be, and my wit and humor send everybody into fits.”

“Not everybody. Ethel Cray, for instance.”

Oswin sprang up and began marching up and down.

“That woman! That thorn-bush in petticoats! Who takes rudeness for smartness, and insult for epigram! No, indeed, even in the old days. I should have drawn the line at being civil to her! ”

His raised voice and the excitement of his 7 manner attracted the attention of Sir Michael, who was sitting on the edge of the billiard-table, talking to Beckingham and making cannons with the balls with his hands.

“And who’s the ‘ her ’ he’s getting so excited about? ” asked he.

“Miss Cray,” said Martin, with a sly look.

Sir Michael bounced off the table and his handsome, ruddy face grew handsomer and ruddier.

“Gladys!” cried he. “Well, I don’t want any man but myself to be civil to her.”

“And how does mama like your civility, Sir Michael? ” put in the malicious Beckingham.

“As much as a hen with a brood of chicks likes the civility of a fox,” replied Sir Michael, gloomily. “And I flatter myself I should have a chance with the girl, too, if it wasn’t for the old lady,” he added ruefully.

“Ah! if” croaked Beckingham.

“Sure, what does she want? ” cried Michael, fairly roused. “Can’t I give my wife a title? and weren’t the O’Keeffes kings of Ireland in the old days? ”

“But even live kings don’t count for much in these days, O’Keeffe,” suggested Martin Laffan.

“Well, perhaps my royal ancestors more to brag about dead than alive,” admitted Michael thoughtfully.

“Without wishing to be unsympathetic, O’Keeffe,” said Oswin, from his easy-chair, “I must say I can’t understand any man’s being willing to acquire Ethel Cray for a sister-in-law. The sound of her voice sets my teeth on edge.”

“Why don’t you avoid her, then?” put in Martin, drily. “It seems to me I never see her but you’re somewhere about.”

“There’s a hideous fascination about the woman’s colossal insolence,” explained Oswin. “One's always wondering what rudeness she’ll be guilty of next.’”

“I think ye’re too severe, Smith,” said Sir Michael. “It seems to me she’s clever.”

“Clever woman are the devil?”

Martin grunted.

“By Jove, then,” said he, energetically, “you’ve never had any experience of a silly one. A clever woman’s all talk. Let her talk on, and you can do what you like with her. But a fool, a pretty fool, with a pair of innocent eyes, and a tongue that lisps out—nothing worth hearing—you take her to your heart, you cherish her, you worship her, and, by Jove, she turns round, snaps her fingers, and lets you see she was laughing in her sleeve all the time! ” The other men were all impressed by the emphasis with which their host spoke. Beck-ingham, who had been watching him with a L. C* dry smile about his wrinkled mouth, made comment after a moment’s pause.

“H'm, Martin, where did you that, eh? ”

“Let ’em be silly, or let ’em be clever, as long as they’re young,” cried Sir Michael, perceiving that the elder man’s remark was inopportune.

“Some of ’em never are young,” said Oswin. “Even Gladys must grow old some day,” said Beckingham, “and probably will be very much what her mother is.”

“Never, sir,” said Sir Michael, hotly. “If I were to marry Gladys, she should never reach thirty. I would kill her, gently but firmly, before she could begin to grow like her mother. When I met her in Heaven, do you suppose I could pass eternity with an angel like Mrs. Cray? ”

Beckingham began to shuffle towards the door which led to the drawing-room. At the door he turned to say, with a grimace of disgust, “Ugh! you, none of you mean a word you say. There’s a morbid hankering at the bottom of all these demonstrations. The women are sincerity itself compared to you. I’m off—to the drawing-room.”

And with that he shuffled out of the room.

“And I’ll be going after him, just to see he doesn’t give us away,” said Sir Michael, leaving the billiard-table to accompany the old man.

“Aren’t you going to follow his example? ” asked Martin, slyly, of Oswin, who had, indeed, already risen, as if negligently, from his chair.

Oswin frowned. He looked as if he had been found out.

“No,” said he, shortly, “I’m off to the stables.”

And as Sir Michael disappeared in one direction, he went off in the other.

CHAPTER VIII.

MR. AND AIRS. MARTIN LAFFAN.

Martin Laffan smiled a little, and then crossed the room slowly in the direction of the drawing-room. Plis face was hard and stern again by the time he had his fingers upon the door-handle. Before he could turn it, however, a light sound in the passage outside caught his ear, and in a moment his manner changed. There came no smile into his eyes, indeed, but his whole face softened, and he fell back, listening in an attitude of strained expectancy.

Then the door was opened very slowly, and Monica appeared on the threshold. She looked timid and nervous, and after one quick glance at his face, cast her eyes down as she spoke.

“I’ve—I’ve been sent by Mrs. Laffan, to ask whether we may all come in and play billiards, said she, diffidently.

Martin’s tone was very gentle as he answered her.

“Why do you ask? Why didn’t you bring them? ”

Monica still kept her eyelids lowered.

“Mrs. Laffan didn’t like to, as you had stayed in here by yourself. But they’re all getting so nasty to each other—Mrs. Jesmond-Cray snapping at Gladys, and Ethel beginning again upon Mr. Smith—that she whispered to me that I’d better come. When your uncle came in, you see, it was the last straw! ”

Martin smiled.

“She was quite right,” said Martin. “And you must bring them all in here. But wait one moment,” he added quickly, and he got deftly between her and the door, to her evident alarm; “I have something to say to you. You know you never give me a chance of speaking to you,” he said, deferentially and in apology, as she glanced hastily at the opposite door, as if meditating an escape by that. “And I just want to say this: whenever you want anything, you had much better come to me. And you need never ask: only say what you want.”

“Oh,but that isn’t true,” said Monica. And the trembling of her hands and the flushing of her face showed plainly that the calmness she had shown was only a mask to hide extreme agitation. She came a step further into the room, with a sudden air of desperation, and allowed him to shut the door. “There’s one thing I want, that you won’t give me,” she panted out, in a low voice, and with a wild, half-defiant look.

Martin stood at a respectful distance, and asked simply,—

“What is that?”

“Permission—your permission—to go away,” gasped Monica.

Martin turned sharply away from her, and strode a few paces down the room. When he at last spoke, it was in a quiet tone, with evident constraint.

“To go away! Where do you want to go away to? ”

“Back to the place where you met me. To my mother.”

Martin turned to look at her, and frowned, but he still spoke gently enough.

“But she isn’t your mother: she’s only your mother-in-law. You’ve acknowledged that.”

“Yes,” said Monica, timidly, with her eyes cast down.

“And she didn’t treat you particularly well. You’ve owned that too. Or make you particularly happy.”

“How could I be happy, when my husband was away? ” burst out Monica, in a passionate whisper.

“Somes wives are! ” retorted Martin, dryly.

There was a pause. Then he suddenly put his hands behind his back and turned to her again.

“And so you want to go back to this woman who treats you badly, because you’re treated still worse here?”

Monica sobbed aloud.

‘‘No, oh, no,” cried she. And she checked herself on the verge of saying more.

Over Martin’s face there came a look of suspicion.

“You’ve seen some one? Had some letter? ” said he.

“I’ve seen no one, heard nothing.”

“Then why are you in such a hurry to be off?”

For the first time, Monica drew near to him, and looked up into his face.

“Why do you want to keep me here? I’m not your wife.”

“Have I ever intruded upon you?” asked Martin, shortly.

“No, oh, no. But why keep me here? You said to me, I Stay a few days, until my friends are gone. Don’t shock them and make a scandal by going away.’ Didn’t you? ”

“Well, I say so still. There are just the same reasons for your staying now that there were then. My friends are still here.”

“Because you’ve insisted on their remain- ing,” interrupted Monica. “They meant only to stay a fortnight, and they’ve all been here five weeks. And so have I! ”

“Five weeks. Yes.” He turned to her with stidden passion. “Is it much to spare out of a lifetime? Five weeks! ”

She looked at him in terror.

“Don’t talk to me like that! I can’t bear it! ” whispered she.

Martin looked at her, again put strong constraint upon himself, and laughed. Inviting her by a gesture to the sofa, he went on, in a lighter tone, “Come and sit here, madam, and I will talk to you differently.” As he did not attempt to sit on the sofa himself, but remained leaning against the billiard-table, with his arms folded, Monica crossed the room with hesitating steps, and sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa as he had commanded. ‘‘ You’ve been good enough,” he went on, “during the five weeks you’ve been here, to take the place of head of my household.”

”Not properly,” interrupted she, hastily. “I haven’t known how.”

“You’ve managed,” went on Martin, not heeding her protest, “ to establish some sort of harmony among a lot of discordant elements.”

”No, I haven’t,” said Monica, again interrupting. “They quarrel all the time! ”

Still Martin went on in a measured tone,—

“You’ve gained the good will of a lot of cantankerous old servants, while at the same time you’ve persuaded them to do their work properly,”

“I like the old things,” said Monica, softly. “They’re so devoted to you.”

She caught her breath, stopped, and looked down stiffly at the floor. With a glowing face, Martin came nearer.

“Devoted—to me! You like them for that! ” said he, hoarsely.

“I mean,” explained Monica, with nervous haste, “it shows they’re grateful, decent people. People worth considering."

Martin had received a slight check, but instead of going back to the billiard-table, he seated himself on the arm of the nearest chair as he went on,—

“You go about the house yourself, mending the holes in the old carpets and curtains. You've taken my books out of the damp cupboards where they’ve been rotting, and put them where they’re safe. You,—”

“It seems a pity to see good things spoilt,” said Monica, breathlessly. And—and of course your—your wife would have to take care of things. And ”—she gave a half hysterical sob —“I have to pretend—I have to live up to the character—in—in little things like that! Haven’t I?”

“Of course you have,” assented Martin. And with a quick change of place, he was beside her on the sofa before she could be aware of his intention. “And that reminds me—if you were—if you were really—my wife”—and his voice shook a little—“you wouldn’t be wearing the same frock every evening. You’d be having a new one by this time. So we must be sending again to Dublin to this Madam Thingamy—she fitted you very well last time,”—and he glanced with approval at the cream-colored cashmere tea-gown, with its rose silk lining, which she was wearing— “and telling her to make you another. Something white, with lots of lace on it—would you like that? ”

He had taken a note-book out of his pocket, and made an entry in it, bending a little nearer to her as he did so. Monica pushed the book out of his hands by a rapid movement, and sprang up.

“No,” cried she, with decision. “I’ll have no more dresses from you. I never put on this one, nor either of the others you’ve given me, without burning with shame. What would Derrick say ”—Martin frowned impatiently, as he snatched up his note-book and put it back in his pocket,—“if he knew I was wearing gowns like these? And given to me by another man? ”

Martin rose in his turn.

“You think Derrick would strain at that little gnat,” asked he mockingly, “after the marvelous capacity he has shown for swallowing camels? ”

There was an ominous silence. Then Monica, white and trembling, asked in a low whisper,—

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t suppose,” said Martin hotly, “that he hadn’t heard of'his mother’s plan of marrying you to me? That it wasn’t a plot arranged between them the moment she found out that you’d taken my fancy? ”

Monica smiled a little, and shook her head with confidence. “I’m sure it wasn’t,” said she, simply. “His mother was dying with nothing but the longing to see him again. She was to write to him, saying only that now it was safe for him to return. And when he came back, she was to break the truth to him gently,”—her voice sank—“that—I—had gone.”

“And you thought,” said Martin, sarcastically, “that he would put up with the loss of his wife if he were allowed to go with a whole skin?”

Monica drew a long breath and looked wildly round her.

“What could he do?” whispered she, I—

I—”

“Well, perhaps that point had better be left a little vague,” said Martin. “And you spoilt the pretty plot by confessing it to me? ”

“I hadn’t known how good you were! ” cried she piteously. “I didn’t want to confess before. I told his mother so.”

“Ah! ”

“But she said if I just told you Derrick was innocent, you wouldn’t believe me; that I shouldn’t have influence enough with you unless—unless—”

She dropped her head and covered her face with her hands.

Martin’s voice sounded suddenly close to her ear; it was tender, plaintive, passionate.

“You little fool!” whispered he. “You dear, doting little fool! ” As she started and shrank down, his tone changed to one of reckless gaiety. “And now, of course, you’re dying for the moment when he’ll come back; when you can rush into his arms, and tell him how you’ve been pining for him, and of all the misery you’ve suffered in the society of the vile wretch who thought he was making you his wife.” And he burst into a wild laugh. “What a laugh you’ll have at my expense!”

Monica looked up through eyes which were full of tears.

“If he didn’t bless you as the noblest man that ever lived, I’d never speak to him again,” sobbed she.

With another sudden change, to an almost savage ferocity, Martin cried,—

“Do you think I want the blessing of a scoundrel? ”

She uttered a little cry and sprang up.

“Remember you’ve promised to do him no harm! ”

“If he’s innocent! ”

But Monica ran after him as he turned away. Seizing his arm, she hissed into his ear,—

“Or if—if he’s guilty! Promise me, promise me! I won’t let you go till you’ve promised! ”

“Take your hands off,” cried Martin, with sudden roughness. “What right have you to ask me such a thing? What claim have you upon me? ”

“The claim of a woman you’ve been kind to,” sobbed Monica.

“I’ve not been kind. I’ve not meant to be kind, but harsh,” persisted he.

The woman’s plaintive tones sounded softly in his ear.

“Your harshness is better than other people’s kindness. I’ve never been treated in my life before as you’ve treated me. Remember what my life has been, I never knew my father or my mother, never knew what goodness and kindness were like before. If you'd only treated me as you treat the dumb animals that lick your hands and whine for your caresses, it would have been enough. But you’ve done more, much more! ”

He turned to her with a great yearning in his eyes, in his voice.

“More for you than for a dog! Oh, Monica! ”

She drew back with an imploring gesture.

“Don’t, don’t! ” she whimpered. “It’s because every word you say to me cuts me, stabs me, that I must go.” For a moment she broke down, crying. Then she raised her head with sudden passion. “You said I was a fool! You were right! I was a fool to think I could stay under the same roof with you, watch your face, hear your voice without— without—”

Again she broke down into sobs.

Martin sprang towards her.

“My darling! ”

But she kept him off by an imperious gesture.

“Give me your promise—no harm to Derrick—before I go! ”

And as she spoke, she stepped back towards the nearest door.

Standing in the middle of the floor, not daring to approach her more nearly, unable to go back, Martin whispered,—

“I’ll promise—I’ll promise that—if—if you’ll stay.” As she shook her head, and still went towards the door, he put strong constraint upon himself and half sat, half leaned on the arm of the sofa, beckoning to her to stop. “A little while—only a little while longer,” pleaded he, as she began to hesitate, “until—he— comes—for you.” At these words, a look of terror flashed across Monica’s face and she stood listening as if transfixed. He went on with more energy than ever. “You’re safe here. You’ve made friends with every one about the place. You have a chum in Ethel Cray. My mother’s beginning to love you—” She broke out in distress at these words.

“Don’t you see that every day I stay makes it worse for us all in the end?” wailed she. When the shock, the scandal comes, how will your mother feel? Worse than if she hated me! When I have to go away—what will happen then?”

Martin flung himself, in an outburst of despair, face downwards upon the sofa.

“My God! I don’t know! ” cried he.

For a few moments Monica stood looking at him, with eyes in which there shone a strange light. Then, as he still did not move, she crept slowly, with love and longing in her face, nearer and nearer to him, until at last, bending noiselessly over the back of the sofa, she pressed her lips softly upon his hair.

He started up.

“Monica! Monica! ” he almost sobbed.

But the door was closing softly. She had left him. Staggering back, he sank again upon the sofa, with his head in his hands.

CHAPTER IX.

LUKE, THE SCAMP.

Martin was not left long alone to indulge in the luxury of despair. The door on his left hand had not been many moments closed behind Monica, when he heard a step which he knew to be Oswin’s coming rapidly along the corridor from the drawing-room. He rose from the sofa, passed his hand over his disordered hair, and pulled himself together to meet his friend without exciting remark.

When Oswin appeared, however, pushing open the door of the room with a jerk to make his entrance, it was plain from the expression of his face, and the irritation expressed by his actions that he was in no mood to be critically observant. In fact he was at white heat.

His first words were abrupt enough.

“Have you got such a thing as an island about here? ”

Martin raised his eyebrows.

“An island!” echoed he.

“Yes. I want to get away from the women.’'

Martin smiled, and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“My dear boy, don’t blaspheme,” said he.

“Don’t what? ”

“Don’t rail at the creatures whose very weaknesses, whose very follies, make us something better than brutes! ”

Oswin turned a little, very slowly, and stared into his friend’s face.

“Why, just now, only half an hour ago—” Something that he saw in Martin’s face made him change his tone. “Oh, I must have misunderstood you then, I suppose! ” He looked at him steadily for a few moments longer, and the next words he added, as Martin was still silent, were positively affectionate. “I say, old chap, what’s up? ”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Martin, quickly, removing his hand from Oswin’s shoulder and going down to the cigar-box. He nodded humorously. “Tell me about—Miss Cray! ”

Oswin assumed an air of desperation.

“Well, it’s simply this, old man, that I can’t stand being made the butt of that detestable female any longer. So I hope you won’t mind, old chap, if I pack up my things and go back to—Europe to-morrow morning! ”

He had left the door open, but had not heard, in the intensity of his own feelings and the excited expression he gave to them, the quiet entrance of Ethel Cray. Martin, who had seen her come in and noted the twinkle of demure humor in her eyes, would have interrupted this angry speech of Oswin’s by indicating that the lady was present. Ethel, however, put her finger on her lip; and the unfortunate Oswin was allowed to finish what he was saying before her quiet voice broke in,—

“Mr. Smith going away! Dear, dear! ”

Oswin started, glanced at her, and bounced off to the billiard-table.

Martin, doing his best not to laugh, looked at Ethel slyly.

“You can’t guess what is driving him away, can you?” said he.

Ethel shook her head demurely.

“I never guess at the reason of any man’s movements. It’s waste of time. Please, we’re waiting to know if you’ll come and have your coffee in the drawing-room, where it was your duty to have appeared half an hour ago, or whether we shall come and have it in here. We don’t mind smoke—where there’s no fire.”

“You come in here,” said Martin, “and you and I will have a game of billiards. You are a crack player, I know.”

“All right,” agreed Ethel, as she went back to the drawing-room.

The moment she had disappeared, Oswin, who had watched her with furtive disgust, came down to his host, and indignantly mimicked the lady’s tone.

“We don’t mind smoke—when there’s no fire! ” echoed he. “It isn’t smart, you know, it’s simply silly. And billiards! I hate a woman who plays billiards without cutting the cloth! ”

Martin laughed good-humoredly.

“That’s not the view of the owner of the table, though,’’ said he. “Have a game? ”

He was strolling towards the billiard-table, having taken up a cue, when voices outside the room, in angry altercation, struck upon their ears. The first words that they could make out were in the voice of Prickett, the butler.

“It’s my place to take letters in, not yours,” he was saying peremptorily.

The rough voice of Luke, the Scamp, was heard in reply,—

“It’ll be your place to lie on yer back on the carpet, ye ould fool, if ye don’t let me pass.”

Martin looked at Oswin, smiling.

“There are always rows between those two,” said he. And then he went up to the door, adding, “Now for some fun. Plallo, what’s the matter? ” he asked, as he threw open the door.

Luke, the Scamp, now in his best clothes, looking fairly neat and remarkably handsome, immediately pushed his way into the apartment, and saluted his master.

“Shure, sor-r, it’s me cornin’ to give you this note,” he answered, as he thrust a letter into Martin’s hand. “It was brought just now by Mr. Power’s servant, sor-r, and as I was standin’ at the gate, I took it from him. And yer honor’s ould fool of a Saxon butler wanted to stop me from bringing it in.”

Prickett, less impudent but more assured of his own importance than Luke, had followed the Scamp into the room, but was still standing by the door, wearing an expression of dignified certainty that he would get the best of it in the explanation which had to follow.

Martin saw that he must soothe the old servant’s ruffled dignity.

‘‘ Well, I believe the bringing in of the letters is part of his prerogative, Luke,” said he.

Luke gave a sort of snort.

“Shure, it’ll be another part of it to get his head punched, if he thries to prevent me see-in’ yer honor, when I’ve anything to tell yer honor,” said he, with pursed lips.

His master opened the note and was glancing at its contents.

“Something to tell me, eh? Well, what is it?”

But Luke, whatever the value of his intelligence might be, did not mean to cheapen it by blurting it out in cold blood before witnesses. He glanced respectfully at Oswin, and coughed disdainfully at Prickett, and snorted.

Oswin, much amused, threw down the cue he had been playing with, and strolled in the direction of the drawing-room.

“If our friend has any confidential communication to make,” said he, “I’ll sacrifice myself on the altar of necessity, and go—into the drawing-room.”

He had hardly got outside the door when Martin, having read to the end of his letter, turned to call after him,—

“Oh, I say, Oswin, would you tell my mother I’ve had a note from Power—Gerald Power. He’s just back from Dublin, and he wants to know if he may come round this evening and bring a friend. And if the ladies will excuse their coming in the rough, in their travelling clothes.”

Oswin came back a step to receive the message.

“All right. Who’s the friend? They’re sure to ask.”

Martin glanced again at the letter.

“Man named Hendon. Nobody we know.”

Oswin nodded.

“All right,” said he. “Their ignorance will stimulate their curiosity—especially Mrs. Jes-mond-Cray’s, though of course there’s no hope that he’ll be labeled with the amount of his income.”

These words were added to himself as he approached the drawing-room door.

As he expected, Oswin’s brief anouncement, with its absence of details, excited great interest in the drawing-room. He was beset with questions. If he could tell them nothing about Mr. Hendon, at least he could furnish some information concerning Gerald Power.

“He’s one of Martin’s cronies, I know,” said old Mrs. Laffan.

“And one of the best fellows in the county,” added Sir Michael, with warmth. “ All the same, Miss Gladys,” he added in a low voice to the pretty young girl, from whose side Mrs. Cray found it hard to keep him away, I’d just as soon he’d stayed away in Dublin a while longer, for I don’t want your attention distracted by too many admirers.”

“How do you know he would be an admirer of mine? ” asked Gladys, with evident childish delight at the simple compliment she felt to be forthcoming.

“Sure, don’t I know he has a pair of eyes in his head, and there’s nothing more needed to make a man an admirer of yours, Miss Gladys, barrin’ it’s a pair of ears for him to listen to the sweetest voice in the world.”

Gladys giggled with delight; Mrs. Jesmond-Cray moved nervously in her chair; Ethel, who had, perhaps by design, got between her sister and her mother, turned the conversation to the second expected guest.

“And does any one know anything about Hendon? ”

There was silence until Mrs. Laffan repeated the question, when Oswin said,—

“Hendon is simply—Hendon. Martin knows no more. Power himself says no more. Round Hendon, therefore, you are free to weave your choicest garlands of imagination. Hendon is coming with Power, and neither will be in the garb of civilization, for which state of things Gerald Power, I am told, offers his apologies to the ladies.”

“We’ll excuse them,” said old Mrs. Laffan. “It’s only you fine London gentlemen that we expect to see in white shirt-fronts, ye know, Smith,” said Sir Michael. “And my own savage attire has prepared the ladies for any vagaries of costume, short of tomahawks and skins, hasn’t it, Mrs. Cray? ”

Gladys looked rather frightened when he thus challenged 'her mother, and more alarmed still when she heard that lady’s icy reply,—

“Oh, yes, certainly. These things are expected in the wilds. And they will be amusing to look back upon when we get back to civilization again.”

At this speech poor little Gladys grew suddenly pale, while Sir Michael grew red. It was Ethel who came to the rescue.

“We don’t care how they’re dressed, as long as they’re nice,” said she. “Let us have good humor and good breeding in a smock-frock, rather than Bond Street hats and Queer Street manners.”

“That’s one for you, Smith,” croaked Beckingham, in a whisper which he intentionally made audible all over the room.

“I’m sure,” said Oswin, blandly, “I hope Miss Cray will find her ideal of masculine perfection in one or other, if not both, of the newcomers. Let me see—the chief requisite, I imagine, will be a power to sit still and smile and look pleasant under the most galling insults.”

“I only wish, for your sake, Mr. Smith,” retorted Ethel, in that quiet, distinct voice which made her every word tell so well, “that your ideal could be as easily found. But she would have to be an angel so perfect that my fear is she might find even Mr. Smith too terrestrial.”

Mrs. Laffan, who saw that the war threatened to rage hotly, hastened to put in a word.

“Does anybody know what’s become of Monica?” asked she. “I sent her to the billiard-room half an hour ago, charged with a message to Martin, and she’s never come back.”

“Let’s go and see whether Mr. Laffan has eaten her up,” suggested Ethel, going towards the door.

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you, Miss Cray,” Oswin was not displeased to have an opportunity of saying; “but if it were .any one else I should suggest a few moments’ delay, as Mr. Laffan is engaged, and I had to leave the room myself in consequence.”

“Engaged! ” echoed Mrs. Laffan, in surprise. “At this time in the evening. Are you sure? ” “Oh, it’s only with the gentleman called Luke,” replied Oswin. “It was he who brought in the note from Power, and he has probably profited by the trifling occasion to make some appeal to Martin’s good nature.”

Mrs. Laffan sat down again.

“I’ll go back in a few moments,” added Oswin, “and see whether the young man’s taken himself off.”

In the meantime, Martin, in the study, was finding the interview begged by Luke more exciting than he had expected. As soon as they were alone, he turned to the Scamp with his usual good-humored smile.

“And now, Luke, what’s the news?”

The Scamp looked cautiously round him, being careful to step back also, to make sure that both doors were securely closed. Then he approached his master, and putting his hand to his mouth, as if to prevent his words from traveling except in the direction of the one pair of ears for which they were intended, he said, in a deep-voiced whisper,—

“Why, sor-r, here’s another letter the man gave me at the same time.”

And with that he produced from his pocket a second letter, which he handed to Martin with a great air of mystery.

“But this,” said Martin, reading the name written on the envelope with a puzzled frown, “is not for me. It’s directed to Mrs. Martin Laffan.”

“Yes, sor-r,” said Luke, with an air of triumph, “and I was told to give it her myself, when there was nobody by.”

A spasm of fear and pain crossed Martin Laffan’s face. He had already turned so that Luke could not see his features, and now, still further to mask his agitation, he sauntered towards the fireplace.

“Then, why didn’t you? ” he asked quietly.

Luke cleared his throat.

“Well, sor-r, they say ‘ do as you’d be done by,’” said he, sturdily. “And sure I wouldn’t choose, if I was a married man, for my wife to have letters given her when there was nobody by. But, shure, I’ll be afther giving her as many as you please, since you’ve no objection, sor-r.”

And he took a brisk step forward, and held out his hand for the letter.

Martin tried to laugh.

“I’ll give it to her,’’ said he, in a voice which was fairly steady, though he had to speak with great deliberation. “I don't wonder Prickett disapproves of you, Luke. You’re a cheeky beggar. Now you can go.”

And he glanced at the door.

But Luke still stood his ground.

“Wait a bit, sor-r,” said he, “I’ve something else to tell ye.” And again he followed his master up, with confident assurance. “Shure, yer honor,” he said in a thick whisper, when he had come quite close, “Derrick O’Hara’s back in the counthry again! ”

Prepared as Martin ought to have been, he could not repress an exclamation. And he glanced involuntarily at the note in his hand.

“What! ” said he, hoarsely.

“Sor-r, it’s sure of it I am,” said Luke. “He’s been seen by a man that knows him well. I was only tould of it this evening, but it’s as thrue as gospel, I can swear. And I’d like to be afther knowing, if ye please, sor-r, whether you’re still in the mind to hang him for shooting the captain,” persisted the Scamp, while an angry look came into his eyes, and the veins in his dark forehead swelled. “If so, sor-r,” he went on solemnly, “why, I’m satisfied. But if you’re afther wiping out old scores,” he went on, clenching his hands, and involuntarily showing the gleam of his white teeth in his excitement, “shure, sor-r, it’s me-self must settle wid him about my brother’s roan mare.”

Martin Laffan looked at him curiously. The man’s anger was as genuine, nay, as deep, against the fellow who had stolen his brother’s mare as was that of his master against the crirm inal who had shot Captain Malcolm, and sacrificed his own wife to the needs of his shameful existence.

He looked the Scamp full in the eyes, and in his own face there was a steadfast determination which there was no mistaking.

“You may leave him to me, Luke,” he said gravely. “Leave him to me.”

Much impressed by his master’s look and tone, Luke paused for one instant, as if to gather in the full significance of Martin’s expression and of his solemn words. Then he saluted respectfully, and saying simply, “ Right, sor-r, and I thank yer honor,” he left the room without further delay.

CHAPTER X.

A WARNING NOTE.

Oswin had timed his return well, for just as he left the drawing-room, and began to stroll in a leisurely manner towards the billiard-room, Martin threw open the door of the latter apartment, and they went back together to invite the ladies to a game.

Mrs. Cray and her daughters and Mrs. Laf-fan at once accepted the invitation, and Sir Michael followed them, leaving only Beckingham to sulk by himself in the room they had left.

“Oh, Mr. Smith, do teach Gladys to play billiards,” cried Mrs. Cray. “She’s dying to learn.”

“Awfully sorry, Mrs. Cray,” replied Oswin, “but I’m too bad a player myself to teach Miss Gladys. Ask Miss Cray.” And he looked viciously at Ethel. “Now, she can teach anybody anything.”

But Mrs. Cray persisted.

“Oh, but I always think a man teaches so much better than a woman! ”

Sir Michael, cue in hand, now came up.

“I’ll be very happy to teach Miss Gladys,” said he, “if she’ll allow me.”

“Oh, yes, I know you play beautifully,” cried Gladys, eagerly. “Mr. Laffan says you’re the best player about here.”

“Then he’d never have patience with you, my love,” said Mrs. Cray, serenely, as, by an adroit movement, she got between these two and forced Gladys to take a few steps in the direction of Martin. “Mr. Laffan, since the dear girl’s so anxious to learn, you’ll give her a game, I’m sure.”

“Delighted,” said Martin, with a sly grimace at Sir Michael, who still hung about in the neighborhood of the pretty young girl. “Never mind,” he added consolingly to Sir Michael, in a low voice, as Mrs. Cray sailed away to the sofa, “you shall have a look in presently.”

“Oh, if those kings were alive and at my back now! ” muttered Sir Michael, half angry, half amused.

If Mrs. Cray thought that she had warded off all danger for the present from the ineligible Sir Michael, the poor lady was mistaken. But there was nothing for her to do but to watch anxiously from the sofa, while the farmer-baronet assiduously helped Martin to teach Gladys how to hold her cue. Indeed,

Martin did his best, by nods and winks and whispers, to keep Sir Michael away and thus to lessen the watchful mother’s anxiety. But Sir Michael would neither hear whispers nor see nods; and Gladys, poor little soul, though she looked rather frightened, gave him more encouragement than she ought to have done with her pretty, shy glances.

Ethel seated herself in the reading-chair, and glanced through the pages of a magazine.

“Where’s Monica?” asked old Mrs. Laffan from the sofa where she had taken a seat beside Mrs. Cray. “I’m getting so fond of her that I miss her if she goes out of the room.”

“Ah, that’s just as I feel! ” cried Mrs. Cray. “What shall I do when my Gladys is married? ”

“But it’s Ethel’s turn first, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Laffan.

Mrs. Cray began her answer in a very cross tone, and then recollected herself somewhat abruptly.

“Oh, I’ve lost all hope of—I mean I’ve no fear of Ethel’s marrying.” She added in a lower tone, very snappishly: “I shall be satisfied if she doesn’t spoil her sister’s chances by that uncontrollable tongue of hers.”

Mrs. Laffan, though it was impossible for her not to see through the wiles of the matchmaking mother, was not without interest herself in the game of cross-purposes which was being played out under her eyes. She, therefore, good-naturedly set about soothing and consoling Mrs. Cray, who listened and answered with half a mind, the other half being occupied all the time with her daughters and their movements.

Oswin had been standing by the mantelpiece rolling a cigarette, and he now came down to the ladies on the sofa.

“Have we your permission?” As they smiled and nodded acquiescence, he passed them, strolling in the direction of the enemy in the reading-chair. “Miss Cray,” he began, “I was sitting in that seat just now—”

Ethel bounced out of the chair, and stood a few feet away from it, with the magazine still in her hand.

“Your chair!” cried she, purposely misunderstanding him. “Don’t mention it! I’ll stand.”

“Now, do you suppose I was asking you to stand?” asked Oswin, with an air of fierce irritation.

Ethel raised her eyebrows innocently.

“Why not? Such a request seems quite natural from the modern young man.”

“The modern young man! ” cried Oswin, irritably. “Pray, what do you know of the ancient young man? ”

“Well,” retorted Ethel, with leisurely preciseness, “judging from your frequent references to my long experience and ripe judgment, the ancient young man must have been in his prime when I was in mine.”

Oswin took an impatient step away.

Mrs. Cray whispered to Mrs. Laffan, in deep distress,—

“Now, do you hear how Ethel’s exasperating Mr. Smith? So selfish of her. He’ll think Gladys is just the same.”

But when he had walked a few steps away, Oswin turned and came back to the charge.

“I certainly never meant to suggest that you—that you—were old, Miss Cray.”

“Oh, yes, you did. And you’re quite right. I am. I’m eight-and-twenty, at least, and I don’t try to look less,” said Ethel.

Mrs. Cray’s anxiety was becoming piteous.

“Telling him her age now! ” she whispered in despair to the sympathetic Mrs. Laffan. “Just the thing she ought to avoid for her sister’s sake.” And she turned to her daughter with a forced smile. “My dear Ethel, don't make us all out to be quite antediluvian! And you must remember there are years and years between you and Gladys. Years and years, Mr. Smith.”

“I’ve no doubt of it, Mrs. Cray,” replied Oswin, irritated afresh by this interruption, and not quite understanding the meaning which would be put upon his words until Ethel began to laugh. “I mean—I mean—” he began to correct himself, and then stopped angrily.

Mrs. Laffan rose from the sofa.

“Suppose we go and look for Monica, and get her to play us something,” she suggested. Then, as Mrs. Cray reluctantly left her seat, she said in her ear, “Leave her alone, she’ll do Gladys no harm.”

More in despair than in hope, however, Mrs. Cray allowed herself to be persuaded to go back to the drawing-room.

Oswin, with a frown on his face, turned, after an uncomfortable silence, again to Ethel.

“Do pray sit down,” said he, impatiently. “I only wanted to ask whether I’d left my match-box in the chair.”

Ethel, after a perfunctory glance as if in search, sat down again in the reading-chair, and threw back her head.

“I like this chair,” said she. “There’s a cosy feeling of middle-aged comfort about it.”

Oswin made an angry gesture.

“Oh, Mrs. Cray confused me,” said he, with impatience. “I didn’t mean to say what I did.”

“Don’t apologize,” said she, simply, “I’m dated. Nobody’s called Ethel now. I was born at the fag end—the fag end, please, of the ‘Maude and Ethel’ period. We’ve been pushed out by the Gladyses and Barbaras, the Phyllises and the Dorothies. We are now historical monuments merely, and are reckoned as belonging to the Glacial Epoch.”

She uttered these words very deliberately, with her eyes closed, and with a look of contented enjoyment on her face. She seemed to feel that the click click of the billiard balls, the light-hearted laughter of Gladys at her own clumsiness, and the encouraging ‘ bravos ’ from Martin and Sir Michael, made a stimulating accompaniment to her thoughts.

“You are very honest,” said Oswin, rather taken aback.

Ethel suddenly opened her eyes and looked at him.

“No, very audacious. It’s a great relief, after a long course of hypocritical civility to people who have been hypocritically civil to you, to meet a person so frankly rude that you can be rude back.”

“I’ve never been intentionally rude,” said Oswin, stiffly.

Ethel shrugged her shoulders slightly, and still looked at him.

“And your sneers at old-young ladies, matchmaking mothers, well-connected poverty, have been accidental? I think not, Mr. Smith. Of course, it’s very ridiculous to be past one’s first freshness, and so it is to want to get a husband for one’s pretty daughter, and to have to make a.great show on a small income. But I think some men would see a pathetic side to it all too.”

There was a pause. Oswin also felt the piquancy of this curious wrangle to the click of the balls.

“Now, I’m sure,” he said presently, in a plaintive tone, “people would see a pathetic side to the picture of a young man of Christian education and good principles struggling to hold his own with a young woman, who used the excuse of her sex for riding rough-shod over him and his feelings on every possible occasion.”

“Poor Mr. Smith! I’m so sorry for you,” cried Ethel, mockingly.

“I wouldn’t put up with your rudeness if you were a man,” cried Oswin, angrily.

“Well," retorted she, “and if you were a woman, I wouldn't put up with yours.”

And she left her chair and went towards the billiard-table.

Martin came down, cue in hand, to Oswin, who was left alone.

“Scrapping match over?” he asked in a low voice, as he chalked his cue. “Who licked? ”

Oswin growled.

“I wish I were a navvy, and that woman were my wife, so that I could put on a pair of hobnailed boots and kick her.”

Martin shook his head slowly.

“Beware, my boy, of strong emotion about a woman.”

“Emotion! ” cried Oswin, scornfully.

“Yes. Remember, it isn’t the sort of emotion that matters, it’s the strength of it.” Martin went back to the table. “And now, Miss Gladys, for that cannon.”

He was putting her hand right, and perhaps taking a malicious pleasure in prolonging the operation, on account of the longing he saw in Sir Michael’s eyes, when the door opened, and Monica came in.

It was strange what a difference there was in Monica since that last interview she had had with Martin. Instead of being reserved, cold, timid, as she had been with him before, she now stood watching him with the fire of jealous passion in her big brown eyes, as he arranged the pretty little fingers of Gladys into a proper bridge for the cue.

It was not until he had finished this task, and stepped back from the table, that he saw who had come in. He started a little, and his face flushed with emotion. As soon as she saw that he had noticed her, she turned away in an offended manner, and went towards the door which led to the drawing-room.

Martin went after her.

“Where have you been hiding so long?” asked he. And there was in his voice a strange echo of the passion which had thrilled in his veins during that memorable interview. “My mother has been inquiring for you.”

Quite a new Monica it was, proud, cold, dignified, who answered curtly, with a raising of the eyebrows,—

“Mrs. Laffan! Oh, I will go to her, then. She’s in the drawing-room, I suppose? ”

Martin, forgetting his game, followed her quickly.

“What’s the matter?” said he, in a low voice.

“Nothing,” said Monica, loftily. “Don’t let me interrupt your game with Gladys.”

“She won’t miss me while O’Keefe’s about,” said Martin. “They’re playing their own game. I’m only gooseberry, you know. A woman uses me,” he went on, in a lower •voice, “just to bring the other one back.”

Monica looked at him with agony in her eyes. Ethel and Oswin were squabbling again half-way down the room, the man’s angry tones, and the girl’s deliberate utterances coming sharply on their ears, as they stood facing each other near the door. Sir Michael and Gladys had forgotten everything but each other. With four people in the room with them, Monica and Martin could feel perfectly at ease to speak their minds.

“If you knew what I’m suffering,” said Monica, at last, brokenly, “you’d be too generous to say that.”

“Ah! ” said Martin, shortly. “I feel—nothing. A man’s privilege, you know.”

His tone cut her to the heart. They looked each in the other’s face.

“I would give the world,” almost sobbed Monica, “for that to be true.”

“I wouldn’t," said Martin. And, low as he kept his voice, every word rang in her heart and brain. “There’s a torture, which is the next best thing to happiness. While I can feel the pain, I’m alive. When I’m once off the rack—and I count the time by hours now —I shall be past all feeling—forever. The body of Martin Laffan will live for years, I’ve no doubt. But when you go, you’ll take his heart, his soul, the fire of his spirit and the joy of his eyes away with you.”

“I’ll not go! ” hissed out Monica, impulsively.

“You must,” cried Martin, with the assumption of a careless laugh. “I—I— have something for you. A letter—a note! ”

Monica’s eyes lost their light.

“A letter! She paused. “Where is it? ”

Martin took the letter out of his pocket, and gave it to her without a word. At the sight of the handwriting on the envelope her face changed; she glanced at Martin, who was looking away from her, then turned her back to him and opened the note slowly.

These were the words she read:—

“Be prepared to see me, but don’t recognize me.—D.”

She staggered back a step, uttered a little moan, and crushed up the note in her fingers.

Martin caught her in his arms, with a smothered word of burning love.

CHAPTER XI.

A FRIEND.

Monica shivered as she felt Martin’s touch, but she made no resistance as he led her down to the sofa, and gently placed her upon it. She was broken down, but not unconscious; and a moment later, on raising her head, she perceived that Ethel had run towards her with an anxious face, and that Gladys, Oswin and Sir Michael, though they hesitated to obtrude themselves, by coming very near, were all looking in her direction, with faces full of concern.

Monica at once tried to stand up, and to laugh at their solicitude. But Martin restrained her with a kind but firm touch, forcing her to remain seated. She, however, tried to repulse him, giving him one glance which made his heart leap up, though what that expression meant that he saw in her great soft eyes he would have been puzzled to say.

Was it love? He dared hardly tell himself it was that. Was it dread of him, fear of him, distaste? No, most certainly it was not.

He stepped back from the sofa, and turned to Ethel, who was close by, and who was only waiting for permission to come forward.

“You go to her,” said he, in a low voice.

Oswin, glancing at his friend’s face, turned away to Sir Michael, and intimated to him that they had better go on with their game, or at least make a pretense of doing so. These three, therefore, went back to the billiard-table, leaving the small group about the sofa to themselves.

Monica, though she did not again attempt to rise, was still trying to make light of their anxiety.

“It’s very kind of you,” said she, not knowing how the hoarse trembling of her voice betrayed her, “to make such a fuss. But I don’t really know why you do it. There’s nothing the matter with me, nothing whatever. I—I—”

She broke off with a sort of choking sound in her voice, and Ethel went promptly down on her knees beside her, just as Monica’s right hand fell limply down at her side.

And out of the nerveless hand dropped the crumpled note, falling on the carpet at their feet.

Quick as thought, Martin had seen the letter, and stooped to pick it up. Quicker even than he, however, Ethel pounced upon the crumpled bit of paper, and secured it, almost snatching it out of his hand.

She glanced up quickly, flushed and defiant, but trying to laugh apologetically too.

“Surely I have the right,” said Martin, stiffly.

“ To receive it from her, But not from me! ” retorted Ethel, quickly.

And, at once hiding the letter in the folds of her dress, she turned again to Monica, who was leaning against the side of the sofa, with her eyes half-closed, apparently unconscious by this time of what was passing around her.

Martin turned away angrily, and suddenly came face to face with Oswin, who had come down a little way from the billiard-table and was looking at Ethel with an expression on his face which closely resembled admiration. Martin, however, did not perceive this, and took it for granted that, in any grievance against the elder Miss Cray, he should find a sympathizer in Oswin.

“Did you see that?” said he, with irritation. “Cool, wasn’t it? ”

“Well, do you know,” replied Oswin, in a voice as low as his own, while Ethel was gently laying Monica’s head against the sofa cushion, and fanning her with a palm leaf screen, “I— I rather like her cheek—to you! One woman standing by another! It’s—it’s rather fine, you know! Fancy,” he added, rubbing his head in some irritation, “fancy that beastly girl having a spark of decent feeling in her, after all! ” Martin stared at him, but said nothing, and turned again to look yearningly at Monica. Ethel’s voice, speaking imperiously, roused him to definite action.

“Throw back the window-curtains, somebody, please, and just leave her to herself for a little while. It's only the heat of the room that has made her feel a little faint.”

While Martin hastened to open the window and Sir Michael pulled back the curtains for him, Oswin and Gladys retreated to the door which led towards the drawing-room. As he went out, Oswin exchanged looks with Sir Michael, who had by this time joined him.

“Good old heat of the room! ” murmured he, softly, as he went out.

When they had all gone, Martin still lingered. He was afraid of that imperious girl who held guard over Monica, afraid of Monica herself, afraid, most of all, of the secret that lay hidden in that crumpled bit of paper in Ethel’s dress.

Ethel whispered in Monica’s ear,—

“Shall I go? Or shall I send him away?” Monica opened her eyes, and a spasm of piteous pain convulsed her face as she whispered back,—

“Stay with me, you stay. And—send him away.”

Her voice was low and wailing on the last words.

Ethel looked round and made a little gesture, begging Martin mutely to leave her with his wife. But he still lingered, and she had to repeat it.

“Shall I send my mother? ” he asked, with the diffident hesitancy of a schoolboy, as he went with slow steps across the room.

“No,” answered Ethel, promptly, “don’t send anybody. Come back in ten minutes, and she’ll be all right.” As he still lingered, frowning and reluctant to go, she sprang up from her knees and went to him. “Don’t be angry with me for my impudence,” entreated she, with the frankness, half serious, half laughing, which the men who liked her found so charming. “If there’s anything for you to learn, you’d rather learn it from the lips of your wife, the woman who loves you, wouldn’t you, than from a bit of paper? ”

Martin trembled.

“Loves me! ” repeated he, hoarsely.

Ethel answered with a confident smile,—

“You don’t doubt that, surely! ”

For a moment Martin stared in front of him, not at her, with an odd look of which it would have been difficult to say whether it expressed joy or grief, pleasure or pain.

“If she does, poor girl,” said he, at last, in a low voice, “there’ll be the devil to pay! ”

Apparently aroused by his voice, Monica suddenly raised her head from the sofa cushion, and looked round. Ethel gently led Martin towards the door.

“Go and make a bargain with him, then! ” said she, half playfully, half earnestly, as he yielded himself to her guidance.

On the threshold he said to her with feeling—

“You’re a good creature. Take care of her —and God bless you! ”

The moment the door had closed uoon him -A.

Ethel ran back to the sofa. Monica, who had been sitting like one stricken with paralysis, raised her head and looked up.

“Well, and how do you feel now? ”

The direct question roused the crushed woman effectually. Suddenly staggering to her feet, with a helpless look on her face, she began to stammer out, “I—I—” Then, breaking off suddenly, she began to cry.

Ethel put her arm round her, made her sit beside her on the sofa, and said gently,—

“Rest a little, dear.”

“I don’t want to rest; I want to die! ” cried Monica, passionately.

“Ah, but we never can, you know, till we’ve given up wanting to! ”

Monica suddenly turned to her friend, and made an attempt to detach herself from her comforting arm.

“Ethel, if you knew all about me, you wouldn't come near me. I’m a wicked woman! ”

“We most of us are, dear, when we get the chance,” replied Ethel, imperturbably. “Never mind about that now.”

“But you don’t believe me?”

“Yes, I do, dear. Aren’t we all miserable sinners? ”

Monica put out her right arm stiffly, and held Ethel off, looking into her face with eyes that burned with passionate remorse, through her tears.

“But not alh foolish, selfish impostors, unworthy to look an honest man or woman in the face. That’s what I am, Ethel, a creature not worth a thought of any good man. And I’ve spoilt the lives of two, of two men a thousand times better than I am; I’ve brought danger to the one, and wretchedness to the other! Do you believe me now? ”

Ethel answered very tranquilly,—

“Well, dear, it is creatures not worth a thought that men think about most, I understand. But I don’t quite believe you’re one of those creatures, for all that.”

“I am, Ethel, l am,” said Monica, piteously;

“it’s not that I wish to do any harm, but that I drift into things; I let myself be persuaded, without thinking what it will lead to. If only I were clever, like you! it would be very different, wouldn’t it? ”

Ethel looked thoughtfully before her for a moment, before she answered.

“Well, it would be different in this, that you might foresee the consequences of your acts. But—you’d commit the acts just the same.”

Monica stared at her with wide eyes.

“But haven’t you clever people any conscience? ”

Ethel gave her a droll look, and answered dryly,—

“No, dear. It’s the one compensation given us for having to bear the blame of all the mistakes and all the failures of the world.”

“It's true Martin hasn't blamed as much as I deserve,” said Monica, softly. And then she bent her head and plucked nervously at her frock, her breath coming quickly. It was evident that she was burning to make a confession, but that some doubt, some fear still held her back. “Look, Ethel,” she said at last. “What would you do if—if you married a man, a splendid man, better than you had ever thought it possible for a man to be—”

More to herself than to Monica, Ethel, who was still on the floor beside the sofa, murmured, “ Martin! ”

Monica, whose hand was by this time on Ethel’s shoulder, tightened her grip.

“And—and—if there presently came to—to look for you another man whom—whom you’d married years before ’’—Ethel started up to her feet, and looked down in consternation at the unhappy woman—“ but whom you had never expected to see again! ”

“Monica! Is it true?”

Monica clasped her hands together and wrung them fiercely. Her face was white and drawn, her lips were almost gray. Haggard and miserable, she looked ten years older than she had done, in her fresh brunette loveliness, at dinner that evening.

“Yes, yes, it’s quite true,” she went on hurriedly. “I’m not Martin’s wife at all, in name or anything else; I’m nothing but a dressed-up impostor kept here for show, to stave off the scandal till you’ve all gone away.”

“Does Martin know, then? ” asked Ethel, appalled.

“Yes. Pie knows everything, but—but the worst! ”

“Worst! ” echoed Ethel. “Is there anything worse? ”

“Yes,” said Monica,andshe began to search in her pocket and on the sofa for something.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” asked Ethel, taking from her own dress the crumpled note which had fallen from the other’s hand.

“Yes, oh, yes. Read it.”

Ethel smoothed out the paper and read the note, with a puzzled frown.

“I see,” she said at last, when she had read every word three or four times over. “And so the scandal can’t be staved off any longer. This man believes you to be living as Martin Laffan’s wife? ”

Monica’s face flushed suddenly, and became wrinkled with puckers indicative of acute distress.

“I suppose so,” faltered she.

Again Ethel scanned attentively the wording of the note.

“Yet he says, ‘ Don’t recognize me.’ He doesn’t want a scandal, then? ”

“No, lie’s too generous,” cried Monica. “He knows the difficulties I was placed in.”

“And those he was placed in himself, perhaps,” suggested Ethel, dryly. “You think he’ll be ready to leave you alone? ” she asked sharply.

Monica looked astonished at the suggestion.

“Why, no, he’ll want me back, of course, when he learns that, through Martin’s generosity, I’m his wife still.”

“And you’re ready to go back?” asked Ethel, more dryly than ever.

Monica burst out crying.

“Why, yes, of course, of course I am; I love my husband. But then Martin! Oh, Ethel, what would you do? ”

Ethel folded her arms and looked down.

“It would depend which one I liked best,” said she.

Monica rose from the sofa in a furtive manner, and brought her lips close to Ethel’s ear.

“If—if—” her voice dropped lower, as she looked round her in guilty fashion, “if it were the second? ”

Ethel’s answer was deliberate and decided.

“I should snap my fingers in the face of the first, and tell him he ought to have looked after me better.”

Monica looked scared.

“Ethel, Ethel, you don’t mean what you say! ”

Ethel shrugged her shoulders.

“I do mean it,” she replied, “as much as one ever means the advice one gives.”

“You know I ought to go! ” wailed Monica.

There was a short pause. Ethel walked away, deep in thought, and then came back again. Raising her head, and looking gravely and steadily into Monica’s eyes, she spoke out simply and straightforwardly,—

“I’ll tell you this. If you stay here, it will be best for you. If you go away, it will be best for Martin.”

At that Monica began to sob as if her heart would break.

“And you don’t think—you don’t think it would br—br—br—break his heart, as he says?”

“I think even then, dear,” answered Ethel, very gravely, as she caressed the unhappy woman, “ that it would be best for him.”

“You’re quite right, Ethel, but—but it will break mine too! ”

Ethel took both her shoulders in a firm grip and gave her a gentle shake.

“And now, my dear,” said she, kindly, but firmly, “you’ve got to dry your eyes and look pleasant. I can hear some of them in the hall already; and we’ve all got to laugh and talk, to drink coffee and play billiards, just as if there were no such thing as a heart to break in the world! ”

Rather to Ethel’s surprise, Monica, who had never appeared to be vain of her beauty, ran to look at herself in the nearest mirror, and frowned with distress on perceiving the havoc her tears had made in her appearance.

Ethel was glad of the opportunity to laugh at her, thinking that a little gentle mockery would divert her thoughts.

“How vain you good-looking people are! ” cried she, as she helped to rearrange her friend’s disordered hair. “Now, there’s another precious advantage ugly people like me have, that they never have to take the least trouble with their personal appearance, since nothing can make them worth looking at.”

Monica turned to her in real surprise.

“Ugly people! ” echoed she. “Do you call yourself ugly? ”

“Most certainly I do. A sallow complexion and indifferent features, small eyes of no color in particular, a large mouth and a tendency to freckle—this combination may have its charms, but they are not generally conceded.” Monica still looked into her face with a little smile.

“Well, it may be as you say,” she said, softly. “But to me your face is the most attractive in the world, except—one.”

The words were scarcely uttered when again the two ladies heard voices in the distance, and were thus aware that the drawingroom door had been ope.ned. Monica again showed much concern about her own appearance. Turning to face her friend, she asked, anxiously, with childish frankness,—

“Do I look all right? Do I look—pretty?” Ethel laughed.

“Not your best. Why? ”

Monica stifled a sob.

“I want him to remember me—looking pretty, looking my best! ” said she.

“Poor Martin! You must go and wipe away the tracés of those tears, then.”

Monica ran towards the door which led to the hall. But at that moment Martin’s voice was heard on the other side. She stopped short and returned slowly to Ethel’s side.

“No! ” cried she, desperately. ‘‘ Pretty or ugly, I can’t spare a moment’s sight of him now ! ”

Ethel said nothing, but she passed a soothing, caressing hand over the unhappy woman’s beautiful brown hair. There was a struggle, perhaps a tragedy to come, she knew. Her gray eyes shone with kindness, with encouragement, as she whispered in Monica’s ear,—

“Keep a good heart. And hope—hope things may not be so bad; perhaps you may find some way out after all.”

CHAPTER XII.

THE BLOW FALLS.

When Oswin and Sir Michael and Gladys had left the billiard-room at Ethel’s suggestion, their first idea had been to retire discreetly to the drawing-room to wait until Monica should have recovered from her mysterious indisposition.

Lingering, however, for a few moments in the little crooked passage which led thither, a wicked impulse seized Oswin to open a door on the left which led through a disused room on to the terrace, and to say, with a sly look at Sir Michael,—

“What a nice evening! I wonder whether we shall find Mrs. Cray out there enjoying the moonlight! ”

Sir Michael chuckled, and caught eagerly at the suggestion.

“Sure, and it’s the very place she would be, Smith, and it’s obliged to you I am for the hint,” said he. “Miss Gladys, we’ll go and look for her there. She’d never miss such a sight as there’ll be of the harvest moon,”

Gladys giggled, but looked rather afraid to come.

“I—I—I don’t think—” began she.

Sir Michael interrupted.

“Oh, yes, she’ll be there! ” he urged confidently. “Sure, the harvest moon’s a sight to be seen. It’s the prettiest moon in all the universe, you know, barrin’ one.”

“Which one? ” asked Gladys, innocently.

“Well, sure, it’s one I’m not allowed to talk about,” replied the handsome Irishman, rather dismall)''. “But I just think I’ll be telling you what it’s called, all the same, if you’ve no objection to hearing me.”

There was a pause, and Oswin perceived that his own presence was wholly unnecessary and undesired. So he went quietly on to the drawing-room, leaving these two hesitating on the threshold, not only of the room which led to the terrace, but of something besides.

Neither seemed to notice that Oswin had gone. They stood looking through the dusty room at the window on the other side, through which the moonlight was to be seen faintly through the drawn blind.

“I wonder—” began Sir Michael.

And then he dashed across the bare, half-empty room, pulled up the blind and tried the catch of the window. It gave way at once, and he pushed the sash to its full height and looked out. The window sill was only three feet or so from the level of the terrace.

Back he came to Gladys in a couple of strides. She read his intention without a word, and tried to run away. But he put out his hand imploringly, and the girl drew a gasping breath and stopped.

“Won’t you? ” said he, under his breath. “Just ten minutes out there—wouldn’t it be fresh and pleasant after the hot rooms? And Mrs. Cray may be there, you know?” he pleaded.

Gladys shook her pretty head.

“No, she won’t. And it’s no use. I daren’t go. Oh, I daren’t, I daren’t; she’d never forgive me.”

Sir Michael began to pull his long, straggling mustache, and as he did so, he gradually got between her and the way to the drawingroom.

“Gladys,” said he, “You’ve no spirit! ”

“No. I know I haven’t.”

“You let yourself be carried about from place to place, for all the world as if you were a bale of goods! ” protested he, angrily.

Gladys drew breath fitfully, and for a few moments said nothing.

Then she spoke in a whisper, but with desperation.

“I am a bale of goods,” said she. “You know that; and it’s not generous of you to remind me of it.”

She made an attempt, or perhaps it was a feint, to pass him and go to the drawing-room. But he easily prevented this.

“Then, begad, Gladys,”-saidhe, desperately, “since you’re nothing but a bale of goods, it’s no use waiting for you to use your free-will; I must just treat you as valuable merchandise, beyond my means to purchase; but too precious to let pass without a look at the beauties intended for my betters. So now, if you please, you’ll go out by that window—it’s the easiest little spring down in the world—and let me see how you look in the moonlight. And sure, I’ll find a way of delivering you to Mrs-Cray safe, without her having a suspicion that the goods have been so near a fellow that'd be glad to be a thief! ”

Gladys did not laugh. Indeed, under his tone of levity, there was a note of earnest feeling which she understood too well. She drew a sobbing breath, and without a word let him take her gently by the hand, and lead her to the open window. Once there she did not hesitate again. Without any more urging on his part she sprang lightly over the windowsill, and found herself out in the moonlight, with Sir Michael beside her.

There was a nervous agitation in her manner which made her more charming in the young man’s eyes than she had ever been before. Her little practised coquetries, pretty as they were, had had no charm for him to compare with this real anxiety, this evident and genuine distress.

“Sure, why do you look so frightened? ” said he, quite sharply. “You’ve been out here a dozen times with Smith and with Lord Carrick-morne, and with the man who came over to see Martin from the ferry.”

“Yes, oh, yes, of course I have,” said Gladys. Then she added below her breath, “Mama sent me! ”

He almost stamped his foot.

“And so you’d have come out with me readily enough, and laughed and flirted, as you did with Smith, if only mama had sent you, instead of your coming of your own accord? ” cried he, impatiently.

Gladys, who was trembling, answered very quietly,—

“I didn’t come of my own accord. You made me come.”

Sir Michael fell into a fury, bounced away, then returned with fire in his eyes, and pointed to the open door of the house.

“I apologize for my impertinence, Miss Gladys,” said he, stiffly. “I’ll do nothing to prevent your going back again into the house.”

Poor Gladys hesitated, then hung her head like a naughty child and went meekly in the direction he indicated. A spasm of emotion shot through the young man’s breast. He began dimly to understand that the suffering was not all on his side.

“Miss Gladys,” whispered he, from behind her, very meekly, very humbly indeed.

She lingered a little, but did not speak.

“You—you would have laughed and flirted with—with Smith, now, wouldn’t you? ”

The girl turned slowly, and he saw something in her pretty little face more attractive than any of her every-day smiles and airs of frivolous amiability.

“Yes,” said she, quite simply. “Of course I should. I—I shouldn’t have hurt him.”

He was by her side, looking down at her, breathing very fast.

“You’ve got a soul,” said he, shortly. “I knew it, I knew it.”

The girl drew back, a little alarmed again.

“No, no, I haven’t,” said she, quickly. “I —I can’t afford such a luxury! ”

And she tried to laugh, an attempt which seemed to Sir Michael pitiful enough.

“And you'd sell your soul for a big house in town and another in the counthry, and for a carriage to take you about from place to place where it would give you no pleasure to go! Oh, Gladys! ”

She looked up at him, and he saw that her blue eyes were moist.

“Do you think I care for all that—more than anything? I myself? ” asked she. “If you do think so, you’re wrong. I don’t say there wouldn’t be any pleasure in balls and parties, if I could go to enjoy myself, and could do as I liked. But I go under orders, and I don’t enjoy it a bit. I hate it all, and the plottings and schemings and the humiliations! Oh! when I was first out, when I was eighteen, I didn’t so much mind. But now it’s gone on for four years, and it’s getting harder and harder, and more and more dreadful, till sometimes I feel as if I must turn round, and vow that I’ll never smile except to the people I like, and never dance any more, except with the partners I choose myself.”

“Tell me, Gladys, what sort of partners would you choose now?" asked Sir Michael, earnestly. “It’d be smart London men, I suppose, with hair as sleek as a water-rat’s skin, not fellows with the mane of a bushranger! ’’

And he passed a diffident hand through his own brown locks.

“Oh, oh, I like curly hair! ” murmured Gladys, softfy.

And he was conscious that these simple words were uttered from her heart, and had no affinity with the little childish flatteries and civilities which she had been trained to pay under orders to the men of whom her mother approved.

Sir Michael betrayed his pleasure at her words, by a quick movement which the girl noticed. She was recalled to a sense of the enormity of her own offense. What if her mother could overhear this rough Irishman calling her by her Christian name unrebuked, and the awful confession she had just made in spite of herself?

She made a spring towards the door. Just as she did so, a cackling laugh, which she recognized as Beckingham’s, startled her.

Looking along the terrace she saw that amiable old gentleman standing at one of the drawing-room windows, peering out at her and Sir Michael.

“Oh, Mrs. Cray,” he called out, turning for a moment into the room, “here is your daughter. No, don’t be alarmed. She’s all right. She’s only been enjoying the pleasant evening air with Sir Michael. Ha, ha! ”

Mrs. Cray, who had grown very fidgety at her daughter's prolonged absence, sprang up indignantly from the chair where she had been sitting, in conversation with Gerald Power and his friend Hendon.

“I thought,” she said, turning sharply to Martin, “you told me she was with Ethel and Monica in the billiard-room.”

“Isn’t she? ’’said Martin, innocently. “Well, it’s a lovely night. She won’t take cold! I’ll go and scold her, and send her in to you, while I go and find out if Monica’s all right again.”

He had been careful to prevent his mother’s going to the billiard-room. He knew that a great crisis was approaching, and it was desirable to keep every one but the clever, kind-hearted Ethel, and the sharp-eyed Oswin, in ignorance of the truth as long as possible.

Oswin and Sir Michael, both of whom must have guessed that there was something seriously amiss, were honest fellows, and could be trusted to keep their surmises to themselves. Little Gladys would probably have seen nothing of the inner side of things. Martin had said, therefore, that Monica was suffering from the heat and would soon rejoin them, and as the newcomers were announced a few moments later, their entrance formed a diversion which served to keep the elder ladies occupied.

He now returned to the billiard-room, and softly opened the door. Ethel met him, with a reassuring smile on her face. She said nothing, but nodded in the direction of Monica.

“Go and bring Gladys indoors,” whispered Martin. “Poor child, she’s going, if you’ll allow me the expression, to ‘ catch it hot ’! ”

“All right,” said Ethel.

“And,” went on Martin, gratefully, “thanks for all jxui’ve done.”

He passed her, and went down to Monica, who was now, to all appearance, quite herself again.

“Well, better now? ” said he, gently.

Monica’s eyes burned with feverish excitement as she glanced up at him, and, by a look, implored Ethel to remain.

“Oh, I’m much better now. Quite well,” said she.

“You look charming!” said Martin, tenderly.

“Ethel said I didn’t! ”

“Even Ethel is sometimes wrong. You can bear the boys, and their smoke? ”

“Oh, yes,” said Monica.

“Power’s come,” went on Martin, “and his friend Hendon. A most amusing fellow. You’ll like him, I know. Here they are! ”

Monica said nothing in reply. She was listening to the hubbub of voices in the corridor outside, where Mrs. Laffan, having decided not to wait for Martin’s return, was bringing the party from the drawing-room.

A moment later the door opened, and the first of the newcomers, who proved to be Gerald Power, came down to her, holding out his hand.

“This is Gerald Power, a very old chum of mine, Monica,” explained Martin.

And Monica gave her hand, with a smile, to a genial-looking, red-headed man, with a short beard and a snub nose, with goodnature beaming from every feature.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Martin, Mr. Power,” said Monica, as her hand was taken in a hearty grasp.

“It’s very good of you, Mrs. Laffan, to let us come like this,” replied Power. “We only tumbled out of the train two hours ago. But my friend Hendon was so anxious to make the acquaintance of Martin and yourself that he wouldn’t wait till our luggage arrived.”

Monica made some rather incoherent civil rejoinder, but she was listening with strained attention to the voice of some one who was still in the background, hidden from her sight by Martin.

At that moment, however, Martin turned, and going down to her, brought the second guest to be introduced.

He was a slightly-built man, rather under the middle height, with blue eyes, a fair but tanned skin, and curly light hair. He smiled straight into Monica’s face with an unabashed good humor that made her catch her breath.

“Mr. Hendon,” said Martin, “allow me to introduce you to my wife.”

He had no suspicion of the truth. he saw that Monica was pale, indeed, but that he looked upon as the result of the trying incident from which she had only just recovered.

Even if he had been on the watch, however, he would have been deceived, so well did the unhappy woman play her part. No one would have guessed that she was shaking hands with her own husband, now suddenly appearing before her after an absence of three years, as she held out her hand, and said simply,—

“Delighted, Mr. Hendon.”

And after that she was quite calm, and asked both the newcomers intelligently about their journey.

She was stunned, and for the time past feeling. The blow had fallen. And she could do nothing, nothing but wait, wait for the end.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE STRANGER.

Now, thire drawing-room at Abbey Mallow was a delightful apartment, and just about as unlike the ordinary drawing-room as it is possible for a room to be.

In the old days, when Martin Laffan’s father was in residence there, this room had been furnished in the conventional manner, and traces of this period were still plainly evident in the light carpet, with garlands of once gaudy-colored roses of large size; in the wall-paper, with its pale pink ground and pattern of tarnished gold; in the white and gold moldings of the ceiling, the old-fashioned mantelpiece of discolored white marble, and in the scattered relics of a drawing-room “suite ” of curly-legged, early Victorian design, which were to be found among more substantial and comfortable chairs and sofas which had been added in recent times.

An old rosewood grand piano stood up in one corner, near one of the French windows, and a couple of loo-tables stood primly against the walls, the one bearing a lamp and the other a pile of books, papers and pamphlets.

As for the books, indeed, they overflowed into every nook and corner, and formed the most striking feature of the room. Rough shelves had been put up in the wide recesses on either side of the fireplace, and these were filled with an oddly-assorted collection of volumes—yellow-backed English novels, paper-covered French ones, handsomely-bound volumes of all sizes, pamphlets and papers of every age and every color being thrust in anywhere where room could be found for them.

A few old-fashioned water-color sketches hung on the walls, and around these were sporting prints, a map or two, and trophies of old helmets and swords, horns, antlers, stags’ heads and foxes’ pates, pipe-racks, guns, spears, leathern water-bottles and dancing-clubs from the Solomon Islands.

There was a large, plain writing-table in one corner; and near the fireplace, where a small fire burned in the September evenings, were two comfortable easy-chairs with covers of cosy-looking, large-flowered chintz.

On one side of the fireplace was an old oak settle, with an unmounted leopard’s skin thrown over it; and more unmounted skins of lion, tiger and bear were scattered about over the floor,

All the ladies of the house-party had come back to this room, while the gentlemen, with the exception of Sir Michael, who was prowling about on the terrace outside, had remained in the billiard-room for a game of pool.

This arrangement had been brought about by Ethel, who had noticed in Monica’s manner a subdued excitement which seemed to warn that she needed rest and quiet.

Ethel, having brought this about by a few words to Martin, took the further precaution of making Monica lie down on a couch in one corner of the drawing-room, with her eyes closed and her back to the lights of the room.

These lights, by the by, were of a particularly subdued and pleasant kind, being, with the exception of one lamp, all from wax candles, which stood on the piano, on the mantelpiece and in sconces on the walls.

Gladys was seated at the piano, playing walzes with a pretty, light touch; and from time to time Sir Michael, as he got an opportunity,would peep in, unseen by Mrs. Cray, and exchange a few words with the graceful player.

The two elderly ladies were conversing by the fire; Ethel was sitting, with her hands clasped on one knee, on the settle, thinking, when the door was pushed open by Beckingham, who glanced round him with his usual maliciously scrutinizing look as he came in.

“Have they finished their game yet, Mr. Laffan? ” asked Ethel.

“Very nearly. Mr. Hendon is beating Smith by I don’t know how many points. I suppose you're glad to hear that, eh, Miss Cray? ”

Ethel shrugged her shoulders and laughed lightly.

“Oh, Mr. Smith’s victories or defeats don’t interest me one way or the other.”

Beckingham grunted.

“I should have thought, since you two are always quarreling, you would have been glad when he was beaten.”

“No. I'm a generous enemy,” replied Ethel; “or, perhaps, I’m too conscious of my own strength to want an ally in Mr. Hendon.”

“You don’t like him?” asked the shrewd old man, advancing his wrinkled face a little nearer to hers.

“I neither like nor dislike him. I've seen him this evening for the first time.”

Even while she made this answer, Ethel saw that Beckingham’s eyes were traveling round the room in search of Monica. When he had discovered where she was, he took a long look at the prostrate figure, and then, turning his back to everybody in the room except Ethel, he stooped and spoke to her in a lower voice.

“Do you think—h’m—young Mrs. Laffan saw him to-night for the first time?” asked he.

Ethel looked up quickly and angrily; but under her anger there was something like an impulse of fear. She waited a moment to control her voice before she answered.

“Of course. Didn’t she say so? ”

Beckingham shook his head in mischievous amusement, and paused a few moments to glance again in the direction of Monica, before replying.

“I never take any notice of what ladies he croaked out at last. “Only of what they Ethel rose from the settle, indignantly.

“Then it’s wasting one’s breath to talk to you Mr. Laffan,” said she, as she left him and crossed the room towards Monica’s couch.

N.

While this short conversation was going on, Sir Michael O’Keeffe had grown bold enough, under cover of the increased buzz of talk, to enter through the open French window and, half-concealed by the window-curtains, to hang over Gladys, and to exchange a few remarks with her. It was noticeable that both he and she had grown much bolder since their talk on the terrace, and that he now used her Christian name without apology or hindrance.

It was true that he could be seen by Mrs. Laffan at the fireplace, and that a word from her would have put Mrs. Cray, to whom she was talking, on the alert. But Sir Michael had faith in the old lady’s good nature, and had indeed shot at her one imploring glance from his handsome blue eyes, as he sneaked in behind the window curtains. There was only one other person to fear, and that was the ever disagreeable Beckingham, now that he had come into the room.

But, then, there was always the chance that Beckingham would be too happy in thwarting the plans of Mrs. Cray to help her in her task of vigilance.

“I think your playing’s just the prettiest I ever heard, Gladys,” whispered Sir Michael from behind the lace curtain. “It’s just like yourself, like a sort of lightly-thrown-in sketch of music, just as you’re like a water-color drawing of a lovely woman! ”

Gladys softly laughed under her breath.

“I wish I could play something better than these stupid waltzes,” she whispered back, with an eye on mama on one side, and the other peeping adoringly through the lace curtain. “I don’t like them best, you know. I play just what mama buys for me.”

“And what is it you like better, then? Long classical pieces that are all runs up and down, without any tune? ” asked Sir Michael, rather anxiously.

“Oh, no! Now, I like old song tunes, I think, and—and national airs. I think your Irish music is sweetly pretty.”

“Begad and you’re right. And I’ve got a book full of them at home that belonged to my mother. And I’ve got a piano, too, for all Mrs. Cray thinks I live in a mud cabin between a pile of potatoes and the pig! ”

Gladys smiled delightedly. Then it suddenly occurred to her that she had no business to look as if the information about the piano was of interest to her. So she raised her eyebrows with a delicious assumption of indifference which had no terrors for her lover, and then, unluckily, she raised her voice a little in her momentary embarrassment, to reply,—

“Oh, yes, of course everybody has a piano! ”

At that, Mrs. Cray, in her chair by the fire, wheeled round suddenly, and discovered by the movement of the curtain that there was danger lurking behind its folds.

“Oh, Mrs. Laffan, do you mind if Gladys shuts that window?” she asked at once. “Really these September nights are so chilly—”

“She makes it warm enough for me! ” muttered Sir Michael to Beckingham, as he came out sheepishly from his hiding-place, after shutting the window.

“Gladys, my dear child, bring me my work bag, will you, and help me wind some more wool,” said Mrs. Cray, thinking the piano a oangerous neighborhood for her darling. And as the young girl meekly obeyed, her mother went on to Mrs. Laffan, “What a charming room this is! So much pleasanter than the conventional drawing-room! ”

“Well, you see,” answered Mrs. Laffan, who could scarcely repress a smile, so entirely was she undeceived by this rapid change of subject. “Martin has used it as his study during these years that he’s lived here a bachelor. It has been rather difficult to convert it back from a man’s room to a woman’s.”

“And the room has suffered in the process as much as its master has in a similar one! ” croaked out the ill-natured Beckingham to Sir Michael, savagely.

He spoke so disagreeably that his words produced a painful impression upon everybody; and there was a general sense of relief when, at that moment, Oswin entered from the billiard-room.

“Ah, and so at last that interminable game is over! ” cried Mrs. Laffan. “But where are the others? ”

“Yes, where’s Mr. Hendon?” asked Mrs. Cray, with interest.

“He’s coming,” answered Oswin. “I’m sent forward first, to prepare you for the joyful shock.”

“You don’t like him,” said Ethel, shrewdly, from the middle of the room. “And—he beat you at billiards. Cause and effect, Mr. Smith? ”

“If you choose to think so, Miss Cray,’’ said Oswin, dryly.

“But, seriously,” pursued Ethel, coming down towards him, and looking as if she felt a real interest in his reply, “what fault do you find with him? Isn’t he lively and amusing? ”

Oswin looked her straight in the face, with an expression which was a sort of challenge.

“Very. My only objection to him is that which you once stated to be your chief objection to me. He is an insufferable cad! ”

He had gone up to meet Ethel, as she came forward, defiantly, ready to accept any challenge she might like to throw down. He spoke in a low voice, but his words were clearly heard by Monica, whom he had not noticed, so still was she lying on the sofa in her dark corner. She started up so suddenly that he went back a step in surprise.

Her face was flushed with indignation.

“Really, Mr. Smith, I’m surprised—•” she began incoherently, “Surely, surely—Martin’s—Mr. Laffan’s guest—”

Her breathing had grown labored; her hands were clenched; she seemed unable to go on.

Ethel came to her rescue. Laughing brightly, and forcing Monica to sit down on the sofa from which she had risen, she said,—

“Never mind, Monica, I’ll make him explain, apologize, abjectly. Now, sir,” she went on, turning with playful defiance to Oswin, and stamping her foot, “formulate your objections and have them trampled under foot! ”

Oswin was a good deal taken aback. He had been astonished at Monica’s vehemence, and he now was quick enough to perceive, by something in Ethel’s steady, straightforward glance, that he was expected to answer lightly, in the tone she had herself assumed.

“Oh, well, since you will have it,” he said at last, “my great objection is to the way in which he speaks of women.”

Ethel, to her mother’s horror, turned away and whistled in affected surprise.

“Is Saul also among the prophets?” she asked, with round eyes.

Oswin was nettled.

“I don’t pose as a champion of women,” he said dryly.

“Hardly! ” retorted Ethel, with a shrug.

He grew angrier, as he answered severely,—

“Because nowadays women look so jolly well after themselves that they don’t need one!

“Thank you! ” said Ethel, mockingly.

“But on the rare occasions when I hear them spoken of even worse than they deserve,” he went on in the same tone, “I take their part—”

“I see. Just out of cussedness,” put in Ethel.

“Exactly,” said Oswin, nearly at white heat.

The passage of arms was abruptly ended by the entrance of Gerald Power, his friend Hendon, and Martin, who filed in from the billiard-room while the last hot words were exchanged between the two combatants.

“Oh, Mr. Hendon,” cried Mrs. Cray, as soon as they appeared, “we want you to tell us some more of your interesting stories about Colorado, and Mexico, and those places! ”

“I’m afraid I’ve told you all the best,” replied Hendon, brightly''.

“Let us have the second best, then,” said Ethel.

Mr. Hendon, who was the very picture of an attractive, light-hearted, rather noisy young Irishman, answered with an assumption of confusion,—

“The worst of having to tell one’s stories to a mixed audience like this, is that it trebles the risk of being found out. You ladies read one class of paper; the men from London read another. While people who live in the country, like Mr. Laffan ”—and he looked with a laughing eye at Martin—“have a nasty trick of reading books, papers, magazines right through. Even the little corner paragraph, about the snake that swallowed the shark, doesn't escape their eye.”

“You don’t mean to say those stories you told us were not true, then? ” cried Mrs. Cray, in horror.

“In the main they were,” answered Hendon, hastily. “But I won’t swear that in the excitement of narration I don’t occasionally throw in an extra revolver-shot! ”

At that the ladies came round him, laughing and scolding; and in the commotion which followed, Gladys contrived to detach herself from the group and to exchange a little talk with Sir Michael, who was always on the alert, and ready to avail himself of such chances.

And then Sir Michael whispered in the ear of Gerald Power,—

“It’s a little help I’m wanting from ye, Power. Would you be after keeping the old lady talking, while I take Miss Gladys to show her the Great Bear from the terrace? ”

For Gladys had lost some of her cowardice and had expressed her willingness to go out with him again.

“The Great Bear! ” muttered Power, shaking his head, and glancing towards Mrs. Cray. “Sure, you’ll hear some growling presently! ”

But he did as he was asked to do, and joined 12 the group round Hendon, while Sir Michael led Gladys out by the window and immediately followed her on to the terrace.

Martin, who had been exchanging a few words with Beckingham near the door, now crossed the room to the corner where Monica was sitting quietly by herself on the sofa, pretending to look at a ladies’ paper.

Her eyes wandered stealthily from Hendon to Martin, and back again, however, and the feverish flush in her cheeks betrayed the intensity of the excitement from which she was suffering.

When Martin spoke to her, her face softened, and she glanced up at him with a flash of passion in her brown eyes. The next moment she controlled herself, and turned her head nervously away.

“How do you feel now, dear? ”said he gently. “You don’t look quite yourself yet.”

And he leaned over the back of the sofa on which she was sitting.

“Don’t I?” said Monica, making an effort to rouse herself. “It’s true I feel rather dull and stupid.”

“You should get Power’s friend to talk to you,” said Martin. “I’ve never laughed more in an hour than I have since he’s been here! A most amusing fellow! ” As if to give point to these words, a burst of laughter came at that moment from the group round Mr. Hendon. Martin called out across the room to him, “Hendon, tell my wife about the blacksmith-judge.”

Hendon, however, drew himself up with mock dignity.

“I’m grieved that I must decline,” said he. “I find a nasty spirit of incredulity abroad, since Mr. Smith became one of my audience.’

“No, no, Mr. Hendon, it was not Mr. Smith's fault,” said Mrs. Cray. “It was your own confession that shook our confidence.”

Oswin had come down, and was speaking in a low voice to Beckingham.

“The beggar’s as artful as they make ’em! I could have shown up some of his stories myself.”

“You don’t think he’s a genuine traveler?” asked Beckingham.

Oswin shook his head.

Meanwhile, the ladies were still occupied with Hendon, whose lively manners were exactly to their taste.

“Well, if we evidently like the stories,” Ethel said persuasively to him, “what does it matter whether we believe them or not? ”

Hendon replied with mock condescension, after a rapid glance in the direction of Monica, who was evidently listening, though she was not now looking at him.

“If I allow myself to be talked round,” said he, “ will you let me tell whatever sort of story I like? I’ve told you tales to make you laugh. Now, may I tell you one to make you cry ?”

“Have mercy on our complexions! ” cried Ethel.

“I won’t,” said Plendon. “I’m going to touch the heart of every one who has a heart to be touched. The men, of course, don’t count: their hearts are lost.” And he glanced round with a mock bow. “Now this,” he went on with an air of compelling attention, “is astory I heard when I was in the Far West.”

“Hammersmith! ” murmured Oswin to Beckingham with scorn.

But the ladies, one and all, prepared to listen with all their ears.

CHAPTER XIV.

HIS STORY.

“It was told me,” went on Hendon, allowing his voice to drop and to become more serious, “by a poor fellow I met out there, who had been unlucky right through, and who was dying, thousands of miles away from any one he cared for, and still further, I’m afraid, from any one who cared for him.”

Monica was listening with strained intentness to each word. She glanced furtively up at Martin, but he did not notice the look, for he, too, was turning his face in the direction of the fascinating story-teller.

Oswin, however, was still incredulous and disdainful.

“Thought that dying man, with story, was played out,” sneered he to Beckingham.

“I came across him in an odd way,” pursued Hendon, ignorant of these murmurs of comment. “ One day when I was out prospecting in Colorado—”

“They don’t prospect in Colorado,” growled Oswin below his breath.

“I was startled,” went on Hendon, “by the sound of horses’ hoofs on the road behind me, and, turning quickly, found myself face to face with two mounted horsemen and with two revolvers pointed at my head.” The ladies punctuated this recital with little exclamations of horror, and he went on. “‘ Hands up! ” cried they, and up went my hands pretty quickly, I can tell you. For if they hadn’t, if my right hand had made the slightest movement in the direction of that revolver, without which no Colorado gentleman’s wardrobe is complete, I should have been a dead man.”

“Were they robbers? ” asked old Mrs. Laffan.

“No, the}^ were marshals. They are the men who are responsible for what law and order there is out there.”

“And what did they want with you? ” asked Mrs. Cray.

“Well, nothing, as it happened. They were in pursuit of a fellow who had shot another man dead in a row in a saloon the night before, and coming across me on the road they knew he’d taken, they at first mistook me for him. I satisfied them as to my identity, and they passed on.”

“Without even a shot at you? Oh dear, that’s very disappointing! ” cried Ethel.

“Wait a minute,” said Hendon, with emphasis, “No sooner were they out of sight, than a man crawled out from a clump of bushes by the side of the road, and owned to being the very man they were looking for.”

“Weren’t you afraid to speak to him, a murderer? ” cried Mrs. Laffan, rather shocked.

Hendon shook his head and smiled.

“We get used to these things out there. You put a bullet into a man there, where in England you’d take out a summons. The poor chap had had a shot fired into him too, and was evidently not long for this world. I gave him some whisky, and did what I could for him, and while I stayed with him, he told me this stoiy. He’d been a wild sort of chap, it seems, and had left behind him in the old country a poor little wife, who had no reason to bless his memory. To do him justice, he was sorry, and the only concern he had was for her and for her happiness. ‘ I’ve been a scamp,’ said he, ‘ a wild, careless fellow, but I loved her’— Hendon spoke with deep feeling, and Monica turned away so that no one could see her face— “as only a worthless fellow like me can love! ’ ”

“Why do the worthless fellows always think their love is better than anybody else’s? ” interrupted Martin, with some irritation.

“Ask me another, Mr. Laffan,” replied Hendon, airily, “I’m only telling you what this fellow said.”

Beckingham had been watching Monica with furtive mischief.

“Young Mrs. Laffan seems interested,” said he aside to Oswin.

But Oswin, on having his attention thus directed to Monica, was startled into suspicions which he had no wish to share with the malevolent Beckingham. He therefore answered, as lightly as possible, as if the matter were trivial in the extreme,—

“All ladies like having their feelings harrowed.”

Meanwhile Hendon was going on with his recital.

“‘ During all the years I have been away from my wife,’ the poor fellow went on to me, ‘ I have hardly ever written to her, hardly ever let her know where to write to me.’ ”

“Just the sort of love I should have expected from such a scamp,” interrupted Martin, hotly. “Wasn’t that the way to break her heart? ”

“Exactly what I said to him,” answered Hendon, promptly. “But his idea was that it would be better for her to forget him, to look upon him as indeed dead, since he was dead to her forever.”

“But why was he dead to her?” asked Ethel, with curiosity.

“He’d got into some scrape or other, which prevented his going back to her,” said Hendon.

“And wouldn't she go to him? ” asked Ethel.

The voice of Monica suddenly broke in upon the discussion from her obscure corner,—

“Perhaps he never asked her to, never gave her the chance! ”

“I asked him that,” said Hendon, turning imperturbably in the direction of the voice. “He said she was goodness itself, a heroine, an angel, but that he could not expose her to the hardships of the life he was obliged to lead! ”

Martin came forward and struck the back of the settle sharply with his fist.

“That man’s love wasn’t worth having,” cried he, emphatically, “or he’d have half-starved himself to have her with him, and then have starved himself again to keep her! ”

“Ah! ” suggested Hendon, wheeling round, and speaking in the easier tones he had used before he began his story, “but if he’d had to starve her too! ”

Monica rose, and without coming down to the others, hung on to the side of the sofa as she spoke. Her voice was subdued, but her eyes burned with a strange fire.

“She wouldn’t have minded that,” said she, “there’s a starvation that’s worse than hunger! Didn’t he know that? It was cruel, cruel! ”

Martin turned to Hendon in triumph.

“There! you have a woman’s opinion of your precious scamp! ”

Hendon laughed, as if amused by the strength of their interest.

“But what can a lady, like Mrs. Laffan, a happy wife, surrounded by comfort and luxury, know or care for the feelin gs of a wretched outcast, without friends, without money, who lives the life of a hunted animal, and dies like a rat in a hole? ” asked he.

Monica shuddered, and said nothing. Ethel it was who spoke next.

“But what about the story? Go on with the story,” said she, imperiously.

“There isn’t much more,” said Hendon' “He died, and there was an end of him.”

“Well, it isn’t so moving as I expected,” said Ethel.

“That’s not the fault of the story,” said the narrator, readily, “but of the hardness of your heart.”

Mrs. Laffan, though she did not know of any particular significance in the story, was rather interested by it.

“Was he an Englishman? ” asked she. “A gentleman? Did he tell you anything about himself? ”

“He was a fellow-countryman of my own,” answered Hendon, “to judge by his accent and his name.”

“And what was his name? ” asked she.

“O'Hara. Derrick O’Hara. Regular Celtic name that! ”

At the mention of the name there was a general and marked sensation of surprise and excitement in the room. The ladies uttered exclamations, and began to explain, incoherently and all at the same time. The men exchanged comments on the unexpected announcement.

Monica alone appeared quite unmoved by it. She stood in the same position, with her hand upon the end of the sofa, leaning heavily upon it, and staring steadily at Hendon.

Martin, after a moment’s pause, went up to her, and laid his hand upon her shoulder with an impulse of extravagant joy which he tried in vain to conceal.

“Dead! ” exclaimed he. “O’Hara dead! Are you sure? ”

Hendon was looking about him, from one to the other, with a smile of amused surprise on his face at the consternation he had created, which he appeared unable to understand. He turned to answer his host’s question.

“I’m as sure as a man can be,” he replied confidently, “since it was I who buried him.”

Martin was looking at Monica, and everybody in the room was occupied with the news. In that moment, when attention was diverted from him to the intelligence he had brought, Hendon looked at Martin with a momentary change to a sullen and sinister expression in his light eyes.

Mrs. Cray, though she shared in a vague way in the general excitement, was the last to wake to its full significance.

“But wasn’t that the name of the man who shot your agent, Mr. Laffan? ” she said at last.

“Why, yes,” answered old Mrs. Laffan for her son. “That’s why Martin came over here, to try to catch this man and have him hanged; wasn’t it, Martin?”

Martin answered in a low voice,—

“Yes. I suppose it was.”

Hendon burst out into an amused laugh.

“And now he’s cheated you, by dying out in Colorado! the rascal! ” cried he.

“Poor devil! ” said Martin, as if to himself. Then he turned abruptly to Hendon. “Have you got any proofs? Any papers of his, or anything belonging to him? ”

From out of one of his pockets Hendon produced a small revolver, in good order, but by no means new.

“Nothing but this—his revolver,” said he. “Perhaps the very one he shot the man with in the saloon.”

Mrs. Cray uttered a little scream. Monica came quickly forward, with an air of desperation.

“Let me look at it,” said she.

Hendon smiled at her, but the look in his eyes, in response to her pleading glance, was not a pleasant one.

“No, no, these little things are not toys for ladies,” he answered, as if playfully, while he put the revolver back in his pocket.

She retreated in silence, without daring to give him another look. Gerald Power, who saw that the evening had been in a great measure spoilt by Hendon’s unlucky story, and the discovery which had ensued, now came forward to bid Monica good-by, and met her as she was going back to her corner near the sofa.

Old Mrs. Laffan, however, was too much interested in the narrative not to ask more questions and make more comments.

“I never heard that this Derrick O’Hara had a wife,” she said to Hendon, as he also prepared to take his departure, and turned to shake hands with Martin. “I believe the story he told you was all made up! ”

“ That’s possible, of course,” replied Hendon, with a shrug.

Mrs. Cray rose in her turn and joined the group.

“You’re too hard, Mrs. Laffan,” she said sentimentally. “Now I always feel my heart go out to a story of unhappy love! ” Something, perhaps it was a sound that came involuntarily from Oswin Smith’s lips, made her glance around her in search of her younger daughter. The result was an instant and surprising change of tone. “Where’s Gladys? And Sir Michael? ” she said sharply.

Oswin, who was near the window, answered her in a tone as sentimental as her own had been a few moments before,—

“Miss Gladys is out on the terrace, Mrs. Cray, watching the stars? Shall I tell her to come in? ”

Mrs. Cray tried in vain to conceal her anger.

“Yes, please do, Mr. Smith,” said she. “Tell her to come in at once, or she’ll have a most shocking cold in the morning! ”

Nobody was deceived by this solicitude on the good lady’s part; and Oswin, though he went out on the terrace at once with a very grave face, was more amused than anybody.

Gerald Power was profuse in his thanks to Monica.

“It’s awfully good of you, Mrs. Laffan, to let us come in like this, just as we used to do when Martin was a bachelor,” said he. “And my friend Plendon—” At that moment he perceived that Hendon, having said good-by to Martin, was at his elbow. “Oh, here he is to speak faor himself! ” added Power, as he turned to Martin.

Hendon had taken advantage of the fact that Monica had withdrawn a little away from the rest; and, by standing with his back to the others, he was able, while shaking hands with her, and pretending to thank her for her hospitality, to exchange a few words with her which nobody but themselves could hear.

“I must see you to-night, in here,” said he. “Leave the window unfastened.”

“No, not here,” replied Monica, rapidly, in the same tone. “I will come out to you; I will meet you where you like. But—”

Hendon interrupted her sharply, but without raising his voice.

“Do as I tell you; I have a reason.” He added in a louder tone, “A most delightful evening, most delightful! ”

He shook her limp hand and left her. Monica sank cowering on the sofa, wondering vaguely what she looked like, and whether she should be able to answer if any one spoke to her.

CHAPTER XV.

A TRUCE.

Fortunately for poor Monica, who was in no state to answer questions or to take part in small-talk, everybody else was too much occupied, with the two departing guests, Power and Hendon, to take much notice of her. So that her retreat into the darkest corner of the drawing-room seemed to be only the natural result of her having been indisposed earlier in the evening, and of her not feeling so well as usual in consequence.

Poor Sir Michael, with a frown of discomfiture on his face, had come in by the window a few seconds after Oswin had gone out, and had been twitted by the spiteful Beckingham on his confusion. To increase Sir Michael’s uneasiness, he could see through the window that Oswin remained on the terrace chatting and laughing with Gladys.

Mrs. Cray, perfectly satisfied with this changed position of affairs, was still talking to Hendon, whose lively manners pleased her.

“Sorry I can’t give you a lift, O’Keeffe,” said Power, on his way to the door. “But I only brought the gig this evening.”

“You can be giving him a lift all the same,” interrupted Hendon, briskly. “I remember the way we came, and I should like to walk.” Monica raised her eyes in alarm, and lowered them again immediately. She lost not one word of what Hendon said.

“Would you really? ” said Power. “Then I can take you, O’Keeffe.” He turned to Martin. “ Laffan, I want you to see my new mare. I think you’ll like the look of her.”

“ All right,” said Martin, “we’ll go round to the stables and see her put in. Will you come too, Monica?” His voice grew soft as he addressed her. “I know you love horses.” But she shrank away, making some murmured excuse about feeling cold, and Martin drew back, looking pained and surprised. Old Mrs. Laffan came to the rescue.

“Yes, of course she’ll come,” said she, going up to Monica and drawing her arm through hers. “ It isn’t really cold at all, child. And going out into the air will do you more good than harm. We’ll all come, won’t we?”

And she turned to the two other ladies. “Oh, yes, I adore animals,” said Mrs. Cray, “and so does Glad—”

But at that moment she glanced through the window and perceived that her younger daughter was talking very earnestly to Oswin, and she stopped short and turned away, without finishing her sentence.

“Shall I call Miss Gladys, Mrs. Cray?” asked Beckingham, officiously.

“No, no, no, never mind,” replied the good lady, quickly. “Come, Ethel.”

And Ethel, who was secretly maddened by seeing how transparent these little ruses were, and how much amusement they gave to everybody else, followed her mother out of the room, they and the whole party leaving for the stables.

No sooner was the room empty than Gladys ran in by the window and, looking out through the doorway into the corridor with straining eyes, caught sight of Sir Michael, who was the last of the party. With a little grimace, which made her pretty face look prettier, she then turned to Oswin, who had followed her in by the window.

“Oh, Mr. Smith,” she lisped out, softly, “would you just see if I’ve dropped my rose on the terrace? I’ve lost it somewhere.”

“Certainly,” said Oswin.

And he retreated at once by the way he had come.

For a few seconds Gladys was left by herself; and as she stood looking askance through the open door into the comparative darkness of the corridor, a little look of anxiety began to pucker up her features. For Sir Michael, though he had looked back at the sound of her voice, and though he had slackened his pace, appeared at first unwilling to accept the invitation her eyes gave him.

It was not until she had turned her back sharply, and made as if she would return to the terrace, that the baronet slowly returned to the drawing-room. Gladys turned to him at once with a little sigh of relief.

“Do you know—I almost thought—you weren’t coming?” said she, softly.

She was irresistible. Sir Michael had to speak.

“What did you want to be staying out there with that fellow Smith for? ” growled he.

Gladys laughed softly to herself, enjoying her own astuteness.

“Well, I thought perhaps—it would make you come back—to see what I wanted to do it for! ”

Sir Michael gave her one look, and was vanquished. Then he plucked up heart and took his revenge.

“Sure, I’ll not be fetched back for nothing,” said he.

And before the startled girl guessed what he was about to do, he seized her, turned her face up to his own and kissed her full on her pretty little mouth,

“Oh! oh! oh! ” cried Gladys.

Sir Michael would not let her go.

“Sure, now, don’t pretend you’ve never been kissed before, Gladys,” said he, half angrily.

Gladys held herself back, though she did not get away. She was trembling a good deal, and a momentary flush had left her face, which was now very pale.

“I don’t say—I’ve never been kissed,” she gasped out in a low voice. “But—I’ve—I’ve —I’ve never liked it.”

“Do you mean you like it now?”

Nobody could have overheard these words, nor the answer,—

“I—well, I don’t mind.”

So Sir Michael kissed her again; and before he let her go Ethel came quietly to the open door.

Gladys was the first to catch sight of her sister. With a gasping breath of terror, she drew herself quickly away from the forbidden embrace.

“Good-by, Sir Michael,” she said, primly.

The baronet glanced round, and looked rather relieved on discovering that the intruder was only Ethel, and not her mother.

“Good-by, Miss Gladys,” said he. And then, with an imploring look, he added humbly, “Good-by, Miss Cray.”

Miss Cray replied only by a little bend of the head,,and Sir Michael went out rather mournfully.

Then Ethel sat down deliberately on the settle and crossed her feet and folded her hands.

“Mama has sent me to see what you were doing. Am I to tell her?”

Gladys, who had been standing in the middle of the room like a naughty child, plucked up a spirit and answered defiantly,—

“You can do as you like. I know I’ve got to be married to please mama; but I’ll just be kissed to please myself.”

And having thus thrown down the glove, she had not the courage to wait for her challenge to be taken up, but ran out of the room, panting with excitement and fear.

Ethel unclasped her hands, and clasped them again, in great distress. Then she turned round towards the fire, put her elbow on her knee and her head in her hand, and had just drawn a long sigh when a footstep inside the window startled her. She jumped up, and found herself face to face with Oswin, who had come in quietly from the terrace.

“You saw—” were the words which involuntarily escaped her lips.

“I did,” replied Oswin, with quiet triumph. “And you thought, I suppose—” began Ethel, sharply.

Oswin interrupted her.

“Yes, I couldn't help thinking.” Then he paused. “I thought, for one thing, that it was a pity you didn’t bestow upon Sir Michael some of those warnings on the subject of Miss Gladys with which you were good enough to honor me.”

By this time Ethel had recovered all her coolness.

“Sir Michael fell in love and couldn’t help himself,” said she. “No warning can save a man from that.”

Oswin looked surprised.

“Might I not have done the same? ” asked he, very coldly.

“No, your affections were engaged.”

“I suppose,” said Oswin, nettled, “you think me incapable of falling in love with anyone but myself?”

“What does it matter what I think—to you? We are in the delightful position of having such a bad opinion of each other that neither need care what the other thinks.”

And she seated herself again on the settle with the air of one who is tired of the conversation.

There was a long pause. From where she sat she could not see Oswin, but she could hear him moving about softly. He seemed unable to decide exactly where he should sit or where he should stand, whether he should stay or whether he should go away.

And at last he stood quite still.

“You began it,” said he.

Ethel affected to start, as if she had forgotten the fact of his presence.

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t know I was here,” said Oswin, crossly. “You began it, I say! ”

Ethel answered with an air of weariness,—

“We needn’t discuss that. I think you— well, you know what I think of you. You think me hard and vulgar.” Oswin started, and made an attempt to protest. “Oh, why not? You have a right to think what you please. And even if you do your thinking aloud it doesn’t hurt me.”

“Well, if I ever said such a thing, we probably don’t mean the same thing by it. Now, what do you mean by a vulgar woman? ”

“Well,” said Ethel, after a pause, “I call a woman vulgar who gets more attention than myself.”

“But that isn’t anything so very dreadful, is it? ” asked Oswin.

Ethel uttered a sound which was like a smothered laugh.

“I think it is—shocking!”

“Well, then, you see I was right,” retorted Oswin, triumphantly. “For you certainly contrive to get more attention from me than all the other ladies put together.”

“But yours is the sort of attention I could very well do without! ”

“You should be more civil then.”

Ethel gave him a comic glance of horror.

“I really couldn't—to you! ”

“You haven’t tried,” objected Oswin, gravely, as he ventured to seat himself on the arm of the settee on the opposite side of the fireplace. “It’s most awfully easy, when you’ve once begun. Think of me,” he went on, in a tone which was half persuasive, and almost diffident, “as a fellow human being, who, after years of cold water, has suddenly had poured down his throat a long draught of wine, which has got into his head. A fellow who, after knocking about the world third-class, suddenly finds himself able to afford a special train! ”

Ethel shook her head with the same sort of gravity as his.

“There’s no greater hardship in going third-class than in traveling by special,” said she, sententiously; “it’s much harder to do as we do, and travel through life first-class on a third-class ticket! ”

Oswin looked up suddenly, with quick appreciation of the notion.

“By Jove, I hadn’t thought of that! ” said he,

Ethel rose and went towards the door.

“When you’ve got used to that wine you spoke of, you’ll see a lot of things clearly that you see double now.”

“I believe I’m getting sober already,” said Oswin, following her. And then he hesitated, and looked at her askance, speaking in a different tone. “I saw very clearly the way you snatched up that note, and refused to give it to Laffan.”

Ethel started and looked at him anxiously.

“Did you? ” escaped her lips involuntarily. Then at once she changed her tone, and spoke lightly. “Oh, well, there was nothing in it.”

Oswin laughed, but without much indication of amusement.

“Oh, no. There’s never anything in a note which causes a lady to faint—from the heat of the room.” And then he added softly, “Poor Martin! ”

“Poor Monica!” retorted Ethel.

“Well,” said Oswin, condescendingly, “I don’t blame you for taking the woman’s part.”

“Don’t you, indeed? That’s very good of you! ” said Ethel.

Oswin looked at her for a moment with a perfectly grave face. Then he went to the fireplace, picked up the brass poker, tied his handkerchief to the end of it, and came back to the middle of the room, waving it over his head.

Ethel stifled a laugh.

“Flag of truce?” asked she. Oswin nodded. “All right.”

“Mind, I don’t want a long peace,” he carefully explained. “It’s too monotonous. But simply an armistice to look to our killed and wounded.”

“Killed and wounded?” repeated Ethel, a little puzzled.

“Yes. You to young Airs. Martin, and I to her husband. In the eternal war of the sexes, which you and I are conducting with so much spirit, they have both, I think, got some ugly wounds. Of course, Martin deserves his for his asinine folly in getting married at all.” Ethel turned quickly, ready to protest. But he put up his hand. “Sh—sh! But still, it’s my business, as a good general, to try to set him on his legs again. You on your side have got to see that your forces don’t—run away.”

Ethel started, in real alarm and consternation this time.

“What do you mean?” cried she, breathlessly. “What do you knoiv? ”

Oswin replied steadily and with great deliberation,—

“I know that Mr. Laffan is troubled, that Mrs. Laffan is ill; and all about a note.

That’s all.” His manner changed. He put down the poker, and came a little nearer to the girl, with real concern peeping through his habitual nonchalance of tone and of movement. “But you know more. Now, I love Martin, and I’d give my hand to see him happ}\ And I can do nothing. But you can. He came nearer still, and spoke more and more earnestly. “You can get hold of the rest of the trouble—the woman. Now since he’s idiot enough to care for her, I want you to point out to her what a brick he is, and drive her into treating him as he deserves.”

Ethel was touched. The tears gathered in her eyes, as she shook her head sorrowfully.

“I can’t,” said she. “If you know too little, I know too much. Do you see? ” She paused a moment, trying to command her voice, for she was much moved by his earnestness. “Good night,” said she, at last, in a subdued way, not at all like her usual manner.

And she went with bent head to the door.

“Good night," said Oswin. Then he coughed, and said in a low voice, “Won’t you shake hands? ”

She raised her head, and tried to look defiant. But it was a poor attempt.

“Well, then, only during the armistice,” said she, at last.

And she gave him her hand.

“Am I still an insufferable cad? ” asked Oswin, as he detained her hand.

She summoned her energies; for this, she held, was a mean attempt to administer a sharp thrust under cover of the white flag.

“No. A sufferable one,” said she.

The next moment she could have bitten her tongue out with remorse; for the young man drew back, stung to the quick, and she herself went out, uneasy and ashamed of herself.

No, decidedly she should not have said that.

CHAPTER XVI.

r A QUIET PIPE.

Ethel felt so guilty that she waited a moment, with her hand on the half-open door, inclined to turn back and apologize for what she had said.

At that moment, however, she felt the door yielding under her hand, and she stepped back in time to make way for Martin Laffan, who looked much surprised as he glanced from the one to the other. His big Newfoundland dog, Rover, ran past him into the room; and Ethel with a hasty good-night, went quickly down the corridor, leaving the two men together.

“Hallo! ” cried Martin. “Did my eyes deceive me, or did I see you two shake hands? ”

“You did,” answered Oswin, angry and mortified, “but, by Jove, you won’t see me doing it again! ” He paused a moment to steady his voice a little, but his hand shook as he took out his cigar-case.

“Where are the others? All gone to bed?” he then asked, in a tone as much like his ordinary voice as he could manage.

“Yes,” said Martin, perceiving that the matter he had broached was an unpleasant one. “Have a pipe with me; I always finish up the day in here like this.”

And he sat down by the fire and took out his pipe, while the dog settled himself comfortably on the rug at his feet.

“No thanks, old chap,” said Oswin. “I’m off to bed.”

And nodding good-night, he left the room.

Martin leaned his head on his hands, in an attitude of deep dejection, and began idly raking out the ashes of the fire, with his unlighted pipe between his teeth. The dog roused him, by pricking his ears, looking round with a low growl, and finally rising to his feet.

“What is it, old man, eh? ” asked Martin, as he struck a match and lighted his pipe. Rover growled again, went to the window, and began to sniff. “Burglars, eh, Rover?” The dog barked sullenly.

Martin looked round, and before he could speak again, there came a light tap at the door.

“That’s not a burglar, Rover,” said he. And then he called, “Come in.”

The door opened softly, and the pretty little face of Gladys, troubled and even slightly tear-stained, appeared in the opening.

“Oh, Mr. Laffan, may I speak to you?”

Martin got up and came down to her, much surprised.

“My dear child, yes, of course you may. Why, what’s the matter? ”

The girl struck him as strangely altered from the frivolous little butterfly she usually appeared to be. She was grave and earnest, and the traces of tears, instead of spoiling her face, gave it a new interest.

“Oh, Mr. Laffan, I want you to speak to mama! ”

Martin, who was offering her a chair, stopped short in surprise, with the rail in his hand. Glad5's would not take the chair, but went up to the fireplace, and sat down on a low stool on the hearthrug, looking into the fire with a very melancholy expression.

“To mama! ” echoed he, and his face fell. “Oh, dear ”—he put down the chair, and began to walk about—“dear, dear! About O’Keeffe, I suppose?’’

“Yes,” said Gladys. “Oh, Mr. Laffan, you know him awfully well, and you like him, don’t you? Can’t you persuade mama to let—to let me marry him? ”

Martin rubbed his chin doubtfully.

“Well, you see, mama’s such an awfully difficult person to persuade to anything! And when it comes to such a hobby of hers as your marriage—why, my dear child, I’m sure she wouldn’t listen to me if she wouldn’t listen to you! ”

“Oh, what shall I do, then?” wailed the girl, disconsolately. “Mama’s angry because he talked to me this evening, and she says ”— Gladys sobbed—“she says—if I don’t promise not to speak to him again, she’ll take us back to town the day after to-morrow! Yet he’s ready to do anything to please her. He says he’ll buy a dress-coat! ”

And conscious that this was a great concession on her lover’s part, Gladys clasped her hands, and turned an earnest face to her listener.

“Good gracious! ” murmured Martin.

He remembered at this juncture that he had forgotten to put out his pipe, and removing it hastily from his mouth, he was about to knock the ashes out against the side of the mantelpiece, when the young girl checked him by saying, in a low voice,—

“No. Don’t put down your pipe. I like it. It reminds me of Michael.”

“Oh, what a wife you’d make! ” cried Martin, in ecstasy. “I can understand O’Keeffe’s infatuation now! ”

“And can’t you understand mine too?” asked Gladys, ingenuously.

Martin smiled.

“Well, hardly. He’s a dear old chap; but I should have thought a dainty little Dresden china maiden like you would like somebody more polished, more like the men you meet in town.”

“I hate the men I meet in town,” cried Gladys, emphatically. “When I talk to them I have to be acting—acting all the time. Mama says, ‘ Be frivolous; it suits your style.’ Buti Mr. Laffan ’—and Gladys addressed him in such an earnest voice that he stopped short in his walk up and down and watched as he listened to her—“I’m not frivolous, not a bit. I hate balls and garden parties and the feeling that I’m on sale, and that I’m dressedup better than mama can afford just in the hope of catching a bidder’s eye. I should like to live in the country,” she went on eagerly, “ and potter about the poultry-yard with a basket on my arm, and then—and then go indoors and darn socks.”

“Provided they were Michael’s socks! ” put in Martin half gravely, but with a smile hovering about his mouth.

“Ye-es, but don’t laugh at me. It seems such a modest wish to have, and yet I can’t have it! ”

Now Martin, although he had listened to her with only a half-serious air, had really been giving his mind to the attentive consideration of her case; and as he thought it over, some-14 thing that seemed like a ray of light shot through his brain. He brightened up into sudden alertness.

“Well, well,” he said briskly, “don’t despair. I—I almost think it might be managed.” He paused a moment, and then went on more cautiously. “I suppose if one of you two were to make a brilliant marriage, mama would be satisfied, eh? ”

Gladj^s stared in wonder.

“Oh—oh, yes,” said she. “But ”—her voice sank to a mysterious whisper—“but is there any chance that Ethel—”

And she rose from her footstool, as if afraid that the wonderful thing they were discussing might carry itself on the air to indiscreet ears unseen.

Martin came up to her and raised his forefinger in warning.

“Hush! Don’t breathe so rmtch as a whisper of this to anybody, anybody, mind! But don’t give up hope. And—and be sure I’ll say a word to Mrs. Cray that’ll keep her here as long as we like.”

“Oh, you don’t mean it! Really! really! ” cried the girl, her eyes sparkling with joyous excitement.

“I do mean it, really, really. And now you must run away upstairs as quickly and as quietly as you can. If we were to be caught down here at this time of night we should both lose our characters.”

Gladys laughed as she gratefully shook his hand.

“No, Mr. Laffan, you’re too good,” said she, confidently.

Still holding her hand, Martin turned suddenly towards a small door at the end of the room. It had been opened very quickly, very noiselessly; and Monica, with a light wrap on her arm, had advanced some steps, making for the window, before she perceived, on coming round the high screen that stood round the fireplace, that she was not alone in the room.

“Monica! why, what’s the matter? ” cried Martin.

She grew very white as she glanced from him to Gladys.

“I—I thought I heard—” she began in some confusion. Then she drew a long breath, and said in a more assured voice, “I didn’t feel sleepy, so I thought I’d come down here and read for a little while. I thought everybody had gone upstairs. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she added in an offended tone.

“Oh, Monica, don’t speak like that. It’s silly,” cried Gladys. “I only came to ask Mr. Laffan to help Michael and me with mama.”

“Oh—oh, yes,” said Monica, in a dreamy voice, as if she hardly heard.

And she went quickly back to the door at the end of the room, by which she had entered.

Gladys nodded good-night to Martin, rather frightened, and ran away by the other door. He followed Monica up the room.

“I’m going upstairs this moment,” said he, “so that you'll have the room to jmurself.” Still she went on, not heeding him, till she had almost reached the door. Then he stopped her, seizing the wrap she was carrying. This action disturbed her for the moment, but the next, she made another movement in the direction of the narrow staircase, which the open door disclosed.

“Aren’t you satisfied when I tell you that you’ll have the room to yourself? ” repeated he.

Monica stopped and looked down, much agitated.

“But—I—I—I don’t want to drive you away,” said she.

He came up to the door and shut it gently.

“Well, if I don’t want to drive you away, and—and if you don’t want to drive me away, need we drive each other away at all? ” He took a step towards her, at which she turned and came down the room in a nervous and hesitating manner, glancing furtively at the windows. “Monica, if that story of Hendon’s should be true—if O’Hara is dead—”

Monica interrupted him sharply.

“He’s not dead.” Then she glanced at him with fear in her eyes, and went on in a more subdued tone, “I—I should have heard of it. His mother would have known. It must have been another man of the same name, another Derrick O’Hara.”

“Hardly. These coincidences don’t happen.” Then a suspicion shot into his mind. “This Hendon—is he a friend of O’Hara’s? A messenger from him? ”

“Why don’t you suggest that he is Derrick O'Hara himself?” said Monica, with sudden calm.

“I’m not quite a fool,” said Martin, scornfully. “Do you think you could meet a man you loved, in my presence, without my knowing it? Do you think you wouldn’t betray yourself to me, the very first time your eyes met his? Why, Monica, you never look at another man without my eyes following yours, jealous of every glance.”

She retreated in alarm from his impassioned advance, and held out her hands, imploring him to restrain himself.

“Oh, but it’s wrong, silly,” cried she, “when I’m not your wife, when I’m nothing to you! ”

“Nothing to me but the light of my eyes, the breath of my nostrils,” cried he, passionately. “Nothing to me but the creature whose presence makes the dark days full of sunshine, the bright days a revelation of heaven! ” Nothing to me but the opening of a new life; nothing to me but the woman I love! ”

He had come nearer and nearer to her, until at last he was speaking close to her ear, hovering over her with looks and tones full of passionate love. Monica listened as if spellbound, and although she kept her head turned away, her eyes were shining with a rapturous delight. At last his hand lightly touched her, and she sprang away with a little cry.

“Oh, don’t touch me, don’t come near me,” wailed she. “You don’t know what you’re doing! ”

Martin’s eyes shot fire.

“Monica, you love me! ” cried he.

But she shook her head and hid her eyes.

“Love you? How dare you say so? ” gasped she, at last daring to look up. “Don’t I tell you not to come near me? ”

“You say so with your lips,” cried Martin, hotly, pressing ever nearer and nearer to her, “ but in your eyes I can read an invitation. Monica, you married me of your own freewill.”

”No, no,” sobbed she, faintly.

“And while you wished,” pleaded he, “I left you to yourself. But now that you’re read}' to yield, now that your own heart speaks for the man who loves you, why do you fight against yourself? Remember, you’re my wife already, in the sight of the world, and by all the laws of heaven.”

“Don’t talk tome about the laws of heaven,” replied Monica, passionately. “I don’t know anything about the laws of heaven. But I know that as long as Derrick O’Hara lives, I’m his wife.

“You forgot that,” retorted Martin, “when you let me marry you.”

“I didn’t forget it,” cried Monica, piteously. “I didn’t forget anything. I was like a miserable, weak slave, who lets herself be sold, not knowing that she has a right to protest.”

“You felt that? I made you feel that? ”

”No, no.” With a sudden change of voice, Monica turned quickly towards him, her face full of gratitude, of humble entreaty. “From the moment that we walked out of the little church that morning I was in a new world, the world that men like you make for the women that belong to them, mothers, sisters, daughters, wives. A world full of tender kindness, and gentleness, and chivalry. And something— conscience, I suppose, or soul—something woke up in me then, and I felt that I couldn’t deceive you, couldn’t go on smiling into your face and living a lie. And I meant to run away as soon as we got here.”

“To run away without a word of explanation!” cried Martin, appalled.

“What good has explanation done?’’ asked she, piteously. “Shall I leave you now any happier than I should have left you then?”

Martin clenched his fists.

“Leave me now? ’’ He came towards her again. “Oh, but you won’t, you can’t. If you don’t love me, you can trust me.”

She turned to him with a sad look in her big brown eyes.

“I can trust you; I can’t trust myself,” said she, simply. Then it was she who approached him, and enlacing the fingers of her right hand in those of her left, she whispered, .“Oh, have pity on me, and help me to do what is right. I’m not clever; I can’t persuade myself into this or that. I only know that I did wrong, terrible wrong once, in marrying you; and that now I’m sorry, and want to do right. Oh, help me, help me! ”

Martin looked at her with dull eyes.

“How am I to help you?” asked he.

She looked down at her clasped hands and wrung them afresh.

“Say—good-by,” said she, brokenly.

Martin started.

“Good-by! Now! ” He paused, and then he understood something of what was happening, though not all. “That note you got to-night was a summons? ” She bowed her head without looking up. “Very well. I can’t detain you; as you say, I have no right, no right at all.” Monica sank down in a chair and covered her face with her hands. He did not come near her again. “To-morrow morning, then, you’ll be gone? ” He went slowly down to the door, having got no answer but her silence. But he could not leave her yet; and presently he turned back, and bent over her, with a hovering hand outstretched close to her brown hair. She heard him, felt him, and sprang up, looking towards the window. A spasm of horrible pain contorted Martin’s face, and he drew back quickly, muttering hoarsely, “Good-by, Monica! ”

In a stifled voice she said, “Good-by.”

He waited for a moment, hoping that she would give him another word, another look. But she did not dare. So he walked down to the door, lingering yet another few seconds, hoping against hope.

But, putting strong constraint upon herself, Monica kept her head bent and her hands up to her face till the door had closed. Then she just looked up, and held out her arms, without one word, but with a world of sad and hopeless longing for the tender love she had had to reject and repulse.

Then she stood up, smiling drearily to herself and at her own folly, and picking up the wrap which Martin had laid on a table, put it round her, and went straight to the nearest window.

She had scarcely lifted the latch when a man’s hand was thrust in from outside, and she was pushed back into the room. The little smiling face and curly head of Mr. Hendon next appeared. He put his finger on his lips to enforce silence, and shut himself into the room with her.

CHAPTER XVII.

MISUNDERSTANDINGS.

When Martin left the drawing-room, he was brought to a sudden standstill half way down the winding corridor which led to the billiard-room, by a violent collision with the person of Mrs. Cray, who came out without warning from a narrow passage that led to the back staircase.

“I—I beg your pardon,” cried Martin, taken aback.

Mrs. Cray, who was in her dressing-gown, had uttered a little suppressed scream.

“Anything the matter?” said Martin, as the lady looked at him fixedly, in a suspicious manner.

“I’m very much worried,” said Mrs. Cray, at last, fretfully, “about my daughter.”

“Which one?” asked Martin, incautiously.

She stared at him with more suspicion than before.

“Oh, I think You know,” she said at last, with pursedlips. “I don’t think any one would accuse Ethel of an indiscretion.”

“No, certainly not. Nor the little one either,” responded Martin, heartily. “They’ve both been far too well brought up.”

Mrs. Cray looked at him askance, at first inclined to be molified by this adroit compliment. On second thoughts, however, she pursed up her mouth again.

“I’ve done my best to bring them up well, I know,” she said, rather severely. “But unhappily I find my efforts thwarted by persons, no doubt well meaning, but who cannot have so clear an understanding of what is best for my girls as I, their mother, have.”

Martin began to feel uncomfortable. It was plain that he had fallen himself under the ban of the good lady’s displeasure.

“No one would dispute that you know what is best for them,” he said, with all the heartiness he could muster.

“And you will understand, I’m sure,” she went on, “that it is not from lack of appreciation of your hospitality that I have decided to take my girls back to London the day after tomorrow.”

Martin saw that she had made discoveries. He affected a blank and bland air of innocence and surprise.

“So soon! I’m really sorry to hear that. Uncommonly sorry! Especially as—” He stopped short, with an ostentatious air of having gone a little further than he had intended.

As he had hoped, Mrs. Cray looked rather curious.

“What special reason have you for feeling sorry, Mr. Laffan? ” asked she.

“Oh, well, it’s nothing. As you say, you must know what is best for your daughters. And after all, Oswin Smith is, of course—” Again he broke off, and held out his hand with a smile. “Well, I ought not to keep you talking here in the draught, ought I? I can only say again that I wish you had been staying longer, and that I hope you’ll come again next year. Will you, now?’’

Mrs. Cray had not taken his hand. She was beginning to look anxious.

“Er—er—thank you, thank you very much. Er—by-the-bye, what was that you were saying about—er—about Mr. Smith? ”

“Oh, nothing of any consequence. Indeed I think the less one talks about these things, when they’re only in the bud, you know, the better. Don’t you agree with me? Anyhow, it’s all ‘ off ’ now that you’re going away, even if there was anything in it. I’m sorry I opened my mouth at all about it.”

And again the artful Martin affected to be anxious to get away.

Mrs. Cray, however, was obdurate.

“I’m sure, Mr. Laffan, you know too well how deeply anxious I feel about my daughters’ happiness and welfare not to tell me anything concerning them which you may have noticed. Won’t you explain a little? ”

And she led the way to the billiard-room. Martin, still pretending to be reluctant to speak out, followed her, shut the door, and lit a couple of candles.

“Now,” said she, seating herself with the air of bringing him to book, “please tell me what you mean? ”

“Really, Mrs. Cray, I didn’t mean anything,” said Martin, plunging his hands into his pockets and staring up at the ceiling. “It’s a sort of betrayal for me to say anything about it. But I certainly thought, from what I saw when I came in this evening and interrupted your daughter and Oswin Smith—”

Mrs. Cray started.

“Then it was Oswin she came down to see? Not Sir Michael Laffan.”

Martin saw in a moment how matters stood. Mrs. Cray had found out that Gladys had left her room after retiring for the night, and had promptly concluded that she had gone down to keep an appointment with O’Keeffe, whom she supposed to be lingering near the house on purpose. He was quick to take advantage of this mistake, the more so that something might really come of the temporary reconciliation between Oswin and Ethel, which would certainly advance much better if Mrs. Cray could be misled into thinking that Gladys and not Ethel was the object of Oswin’s attention.

If Mrs. Cray were to understand that there was the least chance of her plain daughter making a good match, she would, he argued to himself, be so excited by the notion that she would promptly proceed to spoil everything by her usual over-anxious tactics.

“It was certainly not O’Keeffe your daughter came down to see,” said Martin, carefully avoiding mention of any particular daughter’s name. “O’Keeffe’s been gone ages ago; he went with Power.”

“And—and what was it you fancied—you, saw? ” pursued Mrs. Cray, with ill-concealed eagerness. “Of course I’ll be discreet. But knowing how anxious I feel, I should be very grateful if you’d tell me.”

Of course I’ll tell you; the more so that it doesn’t matter now you’re all going away,” said Martin, readily. “After all, it doesn’t amount to much.” Mrs. Cray’s face fell. “It was only that, when I went to the drawingroom with my pipe, I found Smith and your daughter there, shaking hands, at the end of what must have been a very, very interesting conversation, to judge by their earnest looks.”

Mrs. Cray was struck dumb for the space of ten seconds.

“To think of her never having told me! ” she gasped at last.

“And if I were you,” said Martin, promptly, “I should copy her discretion. The girl is sensible enough to know that these things shouldn’t be put into words too soon.”

Mrs. Cray could only nod her head submissively. She began to feel that she was a fool compared to her own child.

“But—but I don’t understand,” she ventured at last. “Why shouldn’t she have spoken out when I was scolding her? Why shouldn’t she have told me the truth? ”

“Perhaps you frightened her," suggested Martin, shrewdly. “So that she just contented herself with saying that it wasn’t Sir Michael she was talking to.”

“Yes, that’s just what she did say,” admitted Mrs. Cray. “Except that, when I pressed her, she said it was you, Mr. Laffan, that she went down to talk to. And when I asked her what she was talking about, she hesitated, and evaded the question. I see; she was afraid I should speak to you myself to-morrow, and find her out.”

“Very likely,” said Martin, getting a little bewildered by the mesh of deception he was weaving round himself. “Now take my advice and don’t worry her with any more questions. And, if you should decide to go away the day after to-morrow—”

“Well, I’ll think it over,” broke in Mrs. Cray, hastily. “Since you’re so kind as to wish us to stay on, perhaps I’ll let the girls talk me over.”

She looked very graciously upon Martin as she shook hands with him and went upstairs.

Poor Martin smiled a little at the lady’s simple cunning, and at the ease with which he had got her to swallow the bait he had held before her eyes.

But the smile died quickly from his lips, for he was face to face with questions of far deeper import to him, and was approaching, as he felt sure, one of the most momentous crises of his life.

That Monica had by this time left the shelter of his roof he felt sure. Loving this weak but affectionate woman with a deep and strong passion, Martin had forgiven her long ago for the wrong she had at the outset been persuaded, by stronger natures, to do to him. All through the five weeks during which she had lived under his roof, his heart had been wrung by her constant and piteous attempt to atone for her wrong-doing, by working with her own hands and with her watchful eyes to promote the comfort of himself and his guests.

Sure as he had been that Derrick O’Hara would be heard of sooner or later, the news that he had held communication with Monica, by means of the letter she had received that night, had come upon Martin Laffan with a great and horrible shock. It had begun to seem possible that some other way out of the difficulties they were in would be found than that of Monica’s departure.

Now that he realized that she must go, therefore, other problems had come to add their weight to the burdens on his heart and mind.

What should he say to his guests next morning to account for her disappearance? After long deliberation he decided to take counsel with Oswin on this point. That shrewd young man must certainly have guessed that all was not right in the household; and even a qualified confidence would find him ready with advice dictated by good sense and knowledge of the world.

There was a second point of great difficulty. Martin felt certain that, even if Hendon were not, as he suspected, an emissary of Derrick’s, that rascal was now in Ireland. He had not thought it fair to interrogate Monica upon that point; but the fact that she was apparently preparing to leave the house with nothing more substantial by the way of outdoor cloth- ing than a woolen wrap, seemed to suggest that Derrick was somewhere very near at hand, waiting for her.

Now Martin had promised Monica not to pursue Derrick if he were innocent of the crime of killing Captain Malcolm. She had later, when her own belief in Derrick’s innocence failed, tried to persuade him to abandon pursuit of Derrick, even if he were really the criminal. But Martin, to this, had only promised not to bring Derrick to justice if Monica remained under his own roof.

If, therefore, she went away, he was no longer bound to withhold his hand.

And although Martin could not, in honor, entrap the rascal by means of his wife, he did not doubt that, once back in Ireland, Derrick could be traced by the police easily enough.-

But, on the other hand, if Monica went away with him, it would be a proof that she still loved him; and Martin felt that her love would put an effectual shield before her criminal husband.

But again, if Derrick should learn from her that Martin had bound himself by a promise, he might tell her to return to the roof of the man who now passed as her. husband.

These conflicting thoughts, the pangs of parting with the woman he loved, his thirst for vengeance on the double-dyed rogue who had thrown him and Monica into this difficulty, all combined to make Martin too restless and uneasy to retire to rest.

When he had got rid of Mrs. Jesmond-Cray, therefore, he went out on the terrace, not to play the spy on Monica, whom he supposed to have left the house before this, but to feel the cold air on his hot forehead.

Instinctively he turned his steps in the direction of the room in which he had left Monica.

And the last of the three windows of the room was unlatched.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FACE TO FACE.

When Mr. Hendon burst in upon Monica, thrusting her back into the room, and fastening the window behind him, his next care was to run across the floor to the inner doors of the room, and to turn the keys in both. While he did so, he kept an eye upon Monica, smiling all the time, and then he ran down to her and seized both her hands.

She shrank back with frightened eyes. But he only laughed very softly, and still looked at her, with his head held critically on one side.

“That’s better!” said he, with a sigh of relief, and speaking all the while in a subdued voice that would not have reached the ears of a listener outside the door. “Thought that fellow never would take himself off. And it was cold out there, I can tell you. And dull too; for I couldn’t hear anything; and I couldn’t see much: now we can have a talk; how are you, old girl? Glad to see me again, eh? ”

He suddenly bent forward with the intention of kissing her. But she drew back so stiffly and with such a frightened exclamation that he only laughed, released her hands, and patted her on the shoulder. Monica recoiled from the touch.

“Of course I’m glad to see you, Derrick,” said she, in a stifled voice, husky with unshed tears, “but why, why didn’t you come before? ”

Derrick looked at her with an expression of comical dismay.

“Oh, my dear, don’t put me through my catechism. Because, you know, if you do, you’ll have to answer some awkward questions, too.”

He sat down by the fire, shivering a little, then went on his knees and poked the embers softly.

“What questions?” asked Monica, coming nearer, and speaking in a low, anxious voice. “What awkward questions will you have to ask me, Derrick? ”

Derrick turned round, poker in hand, and looked at. her curiously.

“I like that! I, your lawful husband, come back from a miserable exile, and find you comfortably settled down as the wife of another man, and you ask me, ‘ What questions?”

Monica drew the wrap closely round her shoulders, and walked towards one of the windows.

“Let us get outside, Derrick, and I’ll tell you everything. I couldn’t put a hat on, for fear of meeting anybody, but I’m ready to go.”

He turned round and stared at her.

“To go where? ” he asked blankly.

“Anywhere. I’m ready to go anywhere, to suffer anything, but not to be left alone again.”

Derrick laughed mockingly.

“Alone! You don’t seem to have been much alone. But, my dear child, let that pass.” He waved his hand to check her as she tried to protest. “I haven’t come here to reproach you; Heaven knows I’m not perfect myself. And I haven’t come to disturb you either, or to turn you out of the very comfortable nest you have taken care to build for yourself.” Again she tried to speak. “Oh, I don’t blame you. A lofty ideal of fidelity and devotion’s all very well; but the mouth has to be filled and the back to be clothed all the same, eh? ”

Monica sank into a chair, as if stupefied.

“You’re changed, different!” cried she, faintly. “You’re not the same Derrick”—she broke off, and looked at him with straining eyes. At last a faint smile, a sort of sickly hope came into her face. “I know! ” she cried, starting up; “you’re pretending to be hard, you’re speaking in that coarse way on purpose to put me at my ease, to make me think you don’t care. It’s all put on,” she went on eagerly, coming a step nearer to look at him more closely. “For, if you hadn’t cared, you wouldn’t have come to see me. Wouldn’t have risked yourself in the house of the very man you want to avoid.”

Derrick moved uneasily, and looked up at her out of the corners of his eyes.

“To avoid! Why should I avoid him? ” Monica came a little nearer, and looked round her fearfully. The words on her tongue seemed to gain added horror as she flashed them out.

“He believes you murdered—”

In strong contrast with the dread, the sickening mistrust and misery with which she hissed out the words, was the flippant, airy manner of Derrick as he answered her.

“St—st, child! That little matter was the affair of Derrick O’Hara, and Derrick is dead; dead—and buried—and forgotten.”

Monica shook her head.

Not forgotten by his mother or his wife. And not forgotten either by a man who is always about the place, a man they call Luke, the Scamp.”

Derrick uttered an oath and started up, with a frown on his face and an involuntary glance at the windows».

“Curse him! Is that fellow about here? I shall have to square him, I suppose! ”

“To square him! ” cried Monica, shocked. “Why should you square him if you’re an innocent man?"

Derrick glanced at her with a slight frown, irritated by her simplicity, and not quite sure whether he believed in it.

“There are degrees of innocence, my dear,” he said after a pause, “in man as in woman. And remember, the same wooden-headed magistrates who would call me a murderer would undoubtedly pronounce you a bigamist.”

Monica looked surprised at these words. She was utterly puzzled, simple creature that she was, by the growing difference between the Derrick of her girlish memories, of her imagination, of her dreams, and the actual man before her. Having been under the influence of himself and his mother from the time that she was left an orphan at fifteen, she had always taken his mother’s view of him as a charming, high-spirited fellow, full of mischief and devilry, no doubt, but at heart chivalrous, noble, incapable of wrong-doing. It was dawning upon her that she had been deceived, that the view taken by Martin Laffan of this selfish scapegrace was the right one. Nevertheless, she would not yield up her ideals without a struggle.

“Don’t you know why I married Mr. Laffan, Derrick? ” she said earnestly, coming nearer to look into his face, and to try to read its enigmas. “If you had seen your mother she would have told you. It was she who advised me, persuaded me, saying that then the police would believe you dead, and you would be able to come back and see her before she died. It was because of her—and you—and her longing to see you when she grew ill, that I did this dreadful, wicked thing! ”

And she bent her head and began to cry.

Derrick, however, was unmoved by her grief. He spoke in a very stern voice, one which, after his flippant manner of a few minutes before, was another shock.

“A pretty story that, madam, for an injured husband. For a man who has been living for nothing but the hope of clasping his wife in his arms, the same pure and stainless woman that he left three jmars ago! ”

Again at these words Monica, eager to believe the best, yet filled at the same time with a reluctance to speak which she herself was unable to understand, looked earnestly into his face. He did not look at her, but kept his head turned towards the fire, into which he gazed with a steadiness which seemed to the simple-hearted woman to be the result of an intensity of feeling which made him unwilling or unable to meet her eyes.

“Did you hope that, Derrick? ” she asked at last in a soft whisper. “Did you really? Have you wanted to come back to me, just as I thought, just as I said? Oh, if I can only believe you, if you can only persuade me that that is true, I have something to tell you, something ”—she broke down into incoherent detached utterances—“which—which—will make you—very—very happy! "

Then she cried again, and clasped her hands, crouching on a chair, and not knowing why it was that she shuddered while she spoke.

Derrick, however, was calm and collected. H e rose and addressed her in a tone of flourishing rhodomontade.

“Nothing can make me happy now,” he said solemnly. “Nothing, at least, but the knowledge that you are tenderly cherished, well cared for. I bear this man no malice for having supplanted me. Poor fellow, he did it innocently enough. We must remember that, Monica.” And he paused, as if to recover from a sudden overflow of feeling. “I did remember it when, this evening, I permitted myself to clasp his hand. All that I ask now is that you should think of me kindly, for the sake of what I have felt.” He affected to sob at this point, and paused again, taking care, through the hand he put over his face, to take note of the effect his words were having upon his companion. Then he went on in a pleading tone, “And that, out of your abundance,” and, as if instinctively, he held out his right hand, “you should give me a little help, a very little, fifty pounds, forty, thirty, what you will, to take me out of your way, out of sight of the happiness I cannot share.”

He acted this very well, not making his voice too soft, too entreating, but speaking as if he knew that he was magnanimous, but would not take advantage of the fact.

Innocent as she was, however, and conscious as she was of the extent of her own wrongdoing towards Martin, Monica felt that this was not the attitude she had expected Derrick to take, nor could she reconcile it to her own ideals of honor, honesty, even of good taste. Yet even now she doubted rather her own perceptions than his good faith, and stared at his open hand with a confused struggle going on in her own mind.

“Could you take his money? ” she asked at last, in a very low voice, hoping against hope that his reply might not be that she feared. “Martin Laffan’s money! ”

Derrick turned upon her quite fiercely.

“Indeed I could not. Do you think I have no spirit, no pride? But for your own sake,” he went on in a softer tone, as he drew near her, in the attitude of one who is ready to bestow a caress if it is invited, “I may take yours, not as blackmail to keep your secret, Heaven forbid ! but to take me away out of a neighborhood where an indiscreet word, wrung from me by my bitter feelings, might betray you, ruin you! ”

And, as she made no attempt to encourage his friendly approach, he turned away again, as if his feelings were too much for him.

Monica stared in front of her with a puzzled frown on her face.

“It seems strange that you should ask me for money! ” she found voice and courage to say at last, drying her eyes, and evidently trying to reconcile two conflicting views. “That you should be too poor to go away, when— when you were not too poor to come! ”

For a moment Derrick was rather disconcerted. Then putting a bold face on the matter, he shook his head dolefully, and said,—

“If your heart hadn’t been chilled towards me, you would understand the feeling that made me spend my last shilling in coming to assure myself of your welfare! ”

Monica sobbed.

“Indeed, I’m very grateful to you, Derrick,” she whimpered. “And if you’re in want of money, I wish I had some to give you. But I haven’t any; I haven’t any at all.”

Derrick looked incredulous.

“Surely this Laffan isn’t so mean as to keep his wife without money! ” said he.

The accusation brought back the colour to Monica’s face, and a flash of spirit into her limp frame.

“Mean! ” she cried indignantly. “He’s the most generous man in the whole world. He would be giving me presents all day long if I would take them! ”

“You should take them,” said Derrick, impatiently. “It’s unnatural in a woman to refuse presents. It will make him suspect—”

“Men like Martin Laffan don’t suspect,” interrupted Monica, shaking her head with confidence. “He thinks all men are as good as himself, and that all women are better.”

“He seems to have been able to inspire you with a very good opinion of him! ” sneered Derrick.

Monica looked up, straightening herself under the influence of her enthusiasm.

“It’s not better than yours will be when you know! ” she cried. “Derrick, I’m not quite the wicked impostor you think me. I did deceive Martin Laffan into marrying me; but I couldn’t keep up the deception long. Within a couple of hours of leaving the church I confessed who I was.”

Derrick startled violently.

“You confounded fool! ” snarled he, between his set teeth, while he clenched his fists and glared at her as if he would have struck her if he dared.

But Monica was not frightened. She had made one confession, she was eager to make this other.

“Think what you like of me! ” cried she, not loudly, but with deep earnestness. “But Martin—Mr. Laffan—he listened to me ” (her eyes melted into a warm glow of loving memory). “He took pity on me. He was given me the shelter of his house, of his name; and all the while he has treated me as a sister, and not as a wife.” Her voice sank still lower, and she drew her breath in gasps. “Now, now,” she went on quickly, not daring to look up, “now what do you think of him?”

“Why, that he is as great a fool as you are yourself! ” retorted Derrick, with a harshness which made her shiver, as he walked angrily up and down the room, with one hand in his pocket, and the other sawing the air, while she watched him, listened to him in dumb horror and disgust. “And my advice to you is to keep up the merry little game as long as he’s fool enough to stand it ; for you are certainly as well-matched a pair of idiots as ever I’ve met! ”

Monica did not cry now. She rose up slowly, and looked at him in dry-eyed amazement and dismay. Ever}' feature of the man seemed to have altered while she gazed, every movement of his now filled her with concentrated detestation.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered at last, “

I understand! This is the real Derrick! ”

He took her up briskly upon the last words.

• “It is—it’s the genuine article,” said he, sharply. “And you can judge for yourself whether you’d care to take him in exchange for your precious Martin, or whether you hadn’t better stay where you are, and contrive to bestow an occasional five-pound note upon your good-for-nothing but unobtrusive Derrick! ”

“Martin was right then! ” whispered Monica, not looking at him, not even knowing that she had uttered the thought in her mind.

“Of course, Martin always is,” retorted Derrick, lightly. “But you’ll find that, on this occasion, Derrick’s right too. Come, on second thoughts, don’t you think so? ”

She had found her voice; the struggle within her was over. She turned upon him.

“Do you think I could stay —and let him be blackmailed? ”

“My dear girl, what else is there for you to do?”

Derrick was quite bland now, quite easy. Surely, if the woman was not quite a fool, she must see reason in the end.

“Why, you must take me away with you,” said Monica, decidedly.

“But I don’t want you. And this Martin Laffan does. And you do like him, and you don’t like me,” persisted Derrick, frankly.

Monica pleaded in her turn,—

“But I’ll be a good wife to you, Derrick, if you’ll take me away. I’ll work for what I want, and for you; and I’ll live on so little! And I’ll be obedient and helpful to you in every way I can.”

“Her voice was soft, and her eyes were eloquent. Even the rascal she was dealing with was rather touched.

“By Jove, I believe you would!” said he. “I almost wish—” But here he pulled himself up with a laugh. “But no. It’s no good. I've made other arrangements. I can’t take you away. If you persist in going, you must go by yourself.”

She shook her head in alarm.

“Oh, no, no, Derrick, not by myself, not by nyyself! How could I hold out, then, when I remembered that he was here, all alone, wishing l6 for me to come back? And that nobody else wanted me at all.”

On Derrick’s face there began to appear an ugly frown.

“I see. It’s all on this precious Martin’s account that I’m to saddle myself with you? And all the while you are too virtuous to give me so much as a kiss! ”

As he approached her, a look of dread and repulsion crossed Monica’s face. She tried not to shrink, but wheeled suddenly away as his hand touched her shoulder.

“I’ll kiss you, of course I’ll kiss you, Derrick,” she whispered hurriedly. “But let us get away first out of the house, away from here! ”

She edged away and reached the nearest window, the latch of which she unfastened. Derrick sprang after her, angry, savage.

“Away, away!” echoed he, dragging her from the window roughly. “Yes, I shall get away fast enough. But not with you. Do you think I’m going to take you away for the sake of that Laffan, who has hunted me like a fox, who wishes me dead? ”• As he spoke, they were both startled to hear some one outside the half-opened window. “There, he is! ” said Derrick, hurriedly. “ There’s your saint!

Go to him, go to him, and be d—d to you both! ”

Monica had seized his hand, mutely entreating him. As he threw her off, sent her staggering backwards, and made for the second window, Martin Laffan stepped quickly into the room, and cut off his retreat.

“Monica! Hendon! Ah! ” cried he.

With awakened intelligence in his voice and manner, he advanced upon Derrick, as the other retreated before him into the room.

Monica ran between the two men.

“No, no, your promise, your promise!’’ cried she, turning with agony in her eyes to Martin.

“Derrick O’Hara! ” ejaculated he.

Derrick turned sharply upon Monica.

“Why couldn’t you hold your tongue?” growled he, savagely.

“Don’t blame her for my discovery,’ said Martin, very quietly. “It’s obvious that nothing but the fact of your being her husband would have induced this lady to grant an interview to such a repulsive rascal! ”

Monica uttered a cry, and clasped her hands imploringly, but she did not say another word.

Derrick assumed an attitude of dignity.

“Sir, sir, those are brave words to use to a man whose wife you have stolen! ” said he.

But Martin, without answering him except by an impatient movement of disgust, addressed himself to Monica, who was still trying to drag Derrick away to the window.

“Are you going with him, Monica?" asked he.

“Yes, yes, I must,” replied she, piteously.

“Then God help you with a husband who was read}' to sell his wife for purposes of blackmail! ”

And he passed them both, and flung himself down upon a couch opposite the fire.

Monica tried with more earnestness than before to lead her wretched husband away. But Derrick marched up till he was within a feet of Martin, and looked down at him with a lofty air of scorn.

“I’d have you know, sir,” said he, “that I’m one of the O Haras of O’Hara, and that that’s not the manner in which I choose to be spoken to! ”

“And pray,” retorted Martin, hardly troubling himself to glance at the scoundrel, “in what manner do you suppose a bench of magistrates will speak to you, when you’re brought before them to answer for the murder of Captain Malcolm?”

Derrick, with a quick downward glance, put his hand unobtrusively to his inner pocket. Then he turned to Monica.

“Go away, child. I’m coming,” said he.

She had stolen, weeping, wistful, to Martin’s side. He touched her arm gently.

“Yes, go,” said he, in alow voice. “There’s no help for it.” As she still remained there, sobbing, he stood up, and took her hand. “God bless you, Monica! ” said he.

For a moment they stood with their hands clasped, and exchanged one look in which soul met soul. Then Martin it was who gently withdrew his hand, indicating with a glance that she was to go.

“You forgive me,” murmured she. “I know you do! ”

He gave her no answer in words, but with a smile which pierced her to the heart, so tender, so mournful was it, he waved his hand, sending her away. She went sobbing to the window. Derrick imperiously intimated by a gesture that she was to leave them.

With her head bent, stumbling, and with tears, Monica went out upon the terrace and left the two men together.

“Is it of any use,” asked Martin, in a cutting tone, “to tell you to be good to her? ”

“That’s my affair,” said Derrick, shortly, snapping out his words like a snarling cur. “And as I don’t mean to be hanged in order that you may marry my widow, why, this is my affair too! ”

He drew his revolver quickly from his pocket, and shot Martin full in the breast.

Martin uttered a sharp cry, ' as Derrick backed to the window.

“What was that? ” cried Monica, back in the room, with white cheeks.

She saw the look on Martin’s face, saw him put up his hand, and she flew across the room towards him.

Derrick tried to catch her as she passed.

“Come, Monica,” said he, as he leaped towards the window.

Martin had sunk down again upon the sofa.

“He’s shot me,” said he.

Monica uttered a long, wailing cry, and flung her arms round him.

“Now I may stay! ” whispered she, as she kneeled at his feet and tore open his coat.

CHAPTER XIX.

A MYSTERIOUS WOUND.

Martin layback very still, and Monicashud-dered as she looked at him. She knew very little about wounds, but his evident faintness, and the sight of the blood which had stained his shirt-front, filled her with a deadly fear.

He smiled at her, however, and told her he was all right.

“The only thing to do,” he said in a weak voice, “is to settle ”—he paused a moment— “to settle what sort of story we are to tell. We don’t want—”

He stopped. Monica, who had been doing her best to check the flow of blood from the wound, gathered all the strength of her lungs and called out,—

“Help! ”

For she dared not leave him.

In that moment of distress and anxiety on his account, she cared little for exposure, for the curiosity of the crowd. The one thing was to get proper attention for Martin, and to get it speedily. As for Derrick, he must take his chance; she did not even remember him except as the instrument of a malevolent power working for Martin’s hurt.

Martin said nothing when she called out. She repeated her cry again and again, until at last she heard footsteps outside the door and some one tried to turn the handle.

“Thank heaven! ” she whispered hoarsely.

But the door was locked, and Oswin Smith’s voice called out,—

“I can’t get in. Can’t you open the door? ”

Unable to take her hands away, Monica called out in a trembling voice to him to come round by the window.

In a few moments he was in the room.

“Hallo! What’s happened? ” asked he, in deep concern, when he saw his friend, by this time scarcely conscious, and the kneeling, frightened woman.

She answered without hesitation or reserve. The truth must be known and the proper remedies applied without delay.

“He’s been shot.”

“Shot! Who by? ” asked Oswin, sharply.

She hesitated. And he went on,—

“We must send for a doctor and the police.

Then Monica turned, and he saw in her eyes that there was a story here that must not be told.

“Yes—a doctor, and as quickly as you can. But not—not the police.”

She saw, however, in his face, as he rang the bell as loudly as he could, that he would pay no heed to her instructions in this latter respect.

‘‘ Not the police,” she repeated more firmly, “until you’ve spoken to Martin. Do you hear, Mr. Smith? It would be his wish, as it is mine.”

He was unlocking the door.

“What am I to say, then? ” he asked briefly.

“Say—the truth; that, you know nothing, but that he’s been shot.”

At that moment the door opened, and Prick-ett, in much alarm at this late summons, appeared, followed at a little distance by Mrs. Cray.

They had been roused, before the ringing of the bell, by Monica’s cries, and had therefore been ready to come as soon as the ringing began.

The butler was despatched at once with orders to send a groom, for the nearest doctor; but Mrs. Cray, whose curiosity was roused, was not so easily got rid of.

“Shot, you say? ” said she to Oswin, while Monica still kept her place by Martin’s side, indifferent to everything that passed around her. “But who shot him? And,” she looked round with scrutinizing eyes, “where’s the thing that did it? ”

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” said Oswin, hastily, most anxious to induce her to go back to her room. “The question is how to help him as quickly as we can. Doesn’t your daughter know something about first aid? I think I’ve heard her say she had attended classes for that sort of thing.”

But Mrs. Cray, who would not have hesitated to summon her daughter for a patient whom she considered “interesting,” could see no good purpose to be served by bringing out one of her lambs in the cause of a man who was married and not concerned in the market for wives.

“Oh, I believe Ethel did go in for that sort of thing once,” she said grudgingly. “But I’ve always heard that amateurs at first aid are likely to do more harm than good, especially when they’re girls.”

“It might be so in the case of some girls,” replied Oswin, rather sharply. “But not in your daughter’s. She wouldn’t take up anything unless she did it thoroughly.”

Now, if Mrs. Jesmond-Cray had had a grain of sense, this speech might have opened her foolish eyes as to the way things were tending. As it was, she saw in his words only a fresh sneer at the fact that Ethel was not pretty enough to be anything but useful. So she drew herself up.

“I certainly shouldn’t allow either of my daughters to be mixed up in anything that looked like a sort of mystery, much less a scandal,” she said with dignity. “And a pistol-shot where’s there’s no pistol is a mystery. It’s the most mysterious thing I ever heard of. Besides, she might make his wife jealous. I shouldn’t allow her to do anything which exposed her to that.”

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray, too curious to go away, remained as if rooted to the floor, looking defiantly at Oswin. But even while she uttered these words, with her attention for the time diverted from the wounded man to his friend, she saw a look of relief cross Oswin’s face.

The next moment the following words, uttered in Ethel’s quiet, incisive manner, made her start and turn round,—

“Mr. Smith, send the housekeeper to me, if you please. Tell her to bring me a sponge, some cold water, and something I can use as a pad, and some bandages.”

Mrs. Cray uttered a little scream. Turning, she saw that Monica had yielded her place by Martin’s side, and was now supporting his head, while Ethel was kneeling beside him.

“Ethel! I—I can’t allow this. You should have—”

“Yes, mama, so I will,” the girl cut in promptly. “But not now. Mr. Smith, do please—” She looked round. “Oh, that’s right, he’s gone.”

“And utterly disgusted by your ordering him about like that, no doubt,” quavered Mrs. Cray, thoroughly thrown off her balance by this open defiance. “You never will think of your sister, or of anybody but yourself.”

“Well, we’ve all got to think of Mr. Laffan now,” replied Ethel, in the same even tone as before. “Don’t you think, mama, you’d better go up-stairs and reassure Gladys and Mrs. Laffan, in case they’ve heard anything?” But this advice came too late in the case of one of the ladies. For at that moment old Mrs. Laffan came down by the little staircase at the end of the drawing-room, and after trying the door, asked to be let in.

Ethel moaned.

“Oh, these people! "these people! ”

A voice behind her spoke reassuringly,—

“They’ll soon be gone, those of them that aren’t any use. And you needn’t mind the old lady; she’ll be discreet, I’ll answer for it.” It was Oswin Smith who uttered these words rapidly in her ear, and then passed on to unlock the door for old Mrs. Laffan.

It was just as he had predicted. To Mrs. Cray’s exclamations and explanations and surmises that there was a mystery about the accident, the wiser lady replied with that imperturbable way of putting facts behind her as beneath her notice in which every British matron is a past mistress. Mrs. Laffan considered mysteries undesirable, therefore there was no mystery.

“Of course it is an accident,” she said, her face very white as she looked at her son, but her lips in a resolute shape. And she glanced round her at the many fantastic firearms, which were among the trophies on the walls. “Of course he was playing with one of those old guns, or cleaning it perhaps, and it was loaded, and hfe didn’t know it. These things are always happening.”

And she waved her hand as if to dismiss Mrs. Cray and the subject together. The other lady, however, insisted.

“Where is the gun that he did it with, then? None of these look as if they’d been touched.”

“What does it matter where it is? ” retorted Mrs. Laffan, losing patience. “It would be more to the purpose if we were to see if we could give any help.”

Rebuffed on all sides, Mrs. Jesmond-Cray thought it best to beat a retreat to discuss the affair with Gladys, the one person who would not dare to contradict her.

But when she had gone,the others looked with more concern into each other’s faces. What they would not admit to the indiscreet Mrs.

Cray they were forced to allow with each other; there was a mystery, and an ugly one, about the wound which Martin had received.

There was no discussion of the affair, however; whatever their inclination might have been, the presence of Monica and the housekeeper prevented that. Old Mrs. Laffan, Ethel, and Oswin, who were all busy with surmises in their own minds, went about the work of doing all they could for the patient without so much as a question.

Old Mrs. Laffan, indeed, boldly told the doctor, when he arrived and asked what had caused the wound, that it was done by a bullet from a revolver with which Martin had been playing.

Ethel and Oswin involuntarily looked at Monica andthen exchanged a glance of intelligence. It was curious how these two, by virtue, not of sympathy, but of keen intelligence, knew always how any remark that was made in their presence would strike the other.

“Playing with it! ” remarked the doctor, raising his eyebrows, “odd, if it was fired so close, that it hasn’t burnt the shirt! ”

Nobody made any comment on this, and nobody, when the doctor asked to see the weapon, made any attempt to fetch it. He was an elderly man, and perhaps he perceived, from the faces round him, that he should get no help in that direction. At any rate, he did not repeat the request, but turned his whole attention to the wound itself.

After a brief examination, he pronounced a verdict which was, on the whole, as good a one as they could hope for. He would not probe for the bullet then, but he thought it could not have reached a vital part; and the hemorrhage, though it seemed alarming to the ladies, was less so than if it had been internal.

He remarked on the good fortune by which Martin had been tended from the outset by loving and skilful hands, and Monica and Ethel exchanged a look, the one of gratitude, the other of pity.

“Can we take him upstairs? ” asked Monica, anxiously, “into his own room?”

“I don’t think I should risk moving him so far,” said the doctor. “Make him up a bed in here.”

Involuntarily Monica grew whiter, and glanced at the windows. Oswin saw the look, and pondered.

“I agree with Mrs. Martin,” said he, “that he would run less risk of disturbance upstairs. The birds have a habit of nesting in the creepers by these lower windows, and they do really make an awful row there.”

Monica gave him a grateful look in spite of herself. He pretended not to notice it.

So they prevailed upon the doctor, and then, with the greatest care, they all joined, with the help of one of the men-servants, in transporting Martin upstairs to his own room. When he had been safely placed in bed, Monica accompanied the doctor to the outer door to take his last instructions, and to endeavor to get more encouragement and comfort from his assurances that there was no immediate cause for alarm.

When he had gone, she, however, did not at once return to Martin’s sick-room, where she had announced her intention of watching by his bedside. She went first to the back of the house, choosing the dining-room, as being more removed than the other apartments from the quarters where the servants were still congregated to discuss the recent event.

Opening the window softly, she looked out.

As she had expected, Derrick was hovering about in the shadow of the trees. The moment he saw her, he boldly crossed the path of moonlight that made the terrace in one place almost as light as by day.

“I was waiting for you,” he said quietly, and as coolly as if he had but just turned out for a last cigar. “You have something to settle with me.”

“Yes,” said she, looking at him steadily. “I have to tell you that, unless you go away from this place altogether, I’ll let the whole story be known. I’ll let the police take you if they will.”

“If they can, you mean,” retorted Derrick, quickly. “Well, do as you please. And just hear what I have to say now. If you do put the police on my track, I’ll finish off your chivalrous husband. I understand he’s not dead yet? ”

“How do you know?” asked Monica, sharply.

“I asked one of the servants as she came to the door just now to let the doctor in,” replied Derrick, imperturbably.

As a matter of fact this was not true; he only guessed that Martin was not dead by Monica’s comparative calm. But these words, implying, as they did, an unparalleled effrontery, made Monica’s blood run cold, and frightened her effectually.

“You see,” said he, with a laugh, that I’m not a man to be easily frightened, when I’ve made up my mind on any point. So now you’d better listen to me. You want to get rid of me, don’t you? ”

“I—I—I only want—”

“You want to stay^ here quietly and unmolested?”

“Until he’s well. I’ll come away the moment he’s well,” she pleaded, breaking down.

“Very well. That’s all right. Quite natural and admirable, and all that sort of thing. But in the meantime you’ve got to help me to get away. I want a hundred pounds.’’

“Last night you said fifty,” interrupted Monica.

“Price has gone up since then. Now, as I say, it’s a hundred.”

“I can’t give it you; I haven’t got it.”

“All right. Then I stay.”

Monica drew a long breath, and looked helplessly about her.

“What do you mean to do? ”

“Oh, nothing in particular. I shall only keep my eyes on the place, and—”

“And Luke. What of Luke? ”

“Oh, I’ll keep my eyes on him too.”

These words contained, so it seemed to • Monica, another threat. She grew icy cold with fear as she listened to him.

“You’ll only bring suspicion down upon yourself if you do stay,” she said at last. “You will be seen hanging about, and after what has happened, any one who does anything like that will be suspected at once. Whatever we say, the thing will get known, and you know best whether you would care to be watched.”

“I should not care for it. Nevertheless, it must be risked. I haven’t the money to take me away, and you won’t give it me.”

“Can’t, not won’t,” pleaded Monica.

He went on without heeding.

“So I’ve made up my mind. I shall hang about here, exposed to danger myself, and a source of danger to others.” And he gave her a look out of the corners of his light eyes which froze her blood, “until I get the wherewithal to go away. You will have to feed me, unless you want me to starve. When you hear the tinkling of a handful of stones against your window—I’ve made myself acquainted with the fact that the third window is yours— you must come out to me. Mind, I say you must. Now, I won’t detain you longer. But —think over what I’ve said.”

With a nod, he was gone, disappearing into the thick growth of trees and bushes to the east of the terreace with lightning rapidity.

Monica shut herself into the house with a shiver. Although she had been long in learning the truth about Derrick’s character, she had now learnt the lesson well. She knew that he was daring, unscrupulous, cruel, and absolutely selfish, knew that he would as soon shoot a man dead whom he considered to be an obstacle in his path as he would brush away a wasp.

She pressed her hands to her head and tried to think, tried to find a way out of the awful difficulties in which she was placed, the dangers which hedged Martin round.

If she had had the money to pay Derrick for going away, she would not have hesitated an instant. She now understood the man, knew that as long as he had money to spend on his own pleasures he would not trouble his head about such trivial matters as revenge and retaliation. But she had no money; Martin gave her indeed certain small sums for housekeeping, all that she would accept from him. But the greater expenses, the accounts from the I Stores,’ and all heavy bills, he paid himself by her own wish.

She had perhaps had hanging over her the notion that she might some day be placed in some such difficulty as that she was now in; at any rate, she had been shy from the first about receiving any sums from Martin beyond what were absolutely necessary. Now she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry for this; glad that she was in no temptation to pay over to Derrick money which belonged to Martin, or sorry that she had left herself without the means to purchase, in however degrading a manner, Martin’s safety.

For that he was in danger while Derrick remained in the neighborhood she could not doubt.

She went slowly upstairs to Martin’s room, passing on the way only one person, Oswin Smith, who looked at her, she thought, in a furtive manner, as if he had some suspicion of the errand on which she had just been engaged.

She watched by Martin’s side all night, her heart heavy with anxiety, yet with a strange joy underlying her distress in the thought that now she was free to stay with him, to tend him, to look unchecked upon his face, to give, herself, the cooling drink he asked for, to put her hand under the dear head she loved so well.

For she deceived herself no longer. She had fought, struggled with herself, believing herself to be still loyal to the memory of Derrick, her husband; she had tried to think that it was gratitude only which she felt for Martin, respect for his goodness to her, admiration for his honest manliness. She knew better now. There was one word, and one word only, to describe her feeling for him: that word was love.

So she sat by his bedside through the night, comforted by an occasional look from his kind eyes, in his intervals of wakefulness. He would have talked to her, but she forbade it; forbade the utterance of a single word with so much tenderness, with such a sweet smile in her brown eyes, that he submitted without a murmur to her commands, and gave her with his grave looks of love the assurances which his tongue might not utter.

So the night wore on, and in the gray hours of morning old Mrs. Laffan came to take her place by the bedside.

Reluctantly, with a pang at even the temporary parting, Monica left the room where she had experienced, during the past hours, such a strange mingling of distress and happiness. With one soft kiss upon Martin’s forehead, light as the touch of a butterfly’s wing, holding her breath lest she should wake him, she smiled into Mrs. Laffan’s eyes guiltily, received her tender kiss on her cheek, and went out into the corridor.

She hesitated with an uneasy fear of some unknown danger on the threshold of her own room, then summoned her courage, and went softly in. The morning light was beginning to stream coldly through the blind. The shadows on the furniture struck her newly with a sense of uncanniness. She shut the door very gently, afraid of making the least noise. And as soon as she had done this a chill seized her heart; for she heard the sound of a handful of small pebbles thrown against her window.

Derrick meant to keep his word.

CHAPTER XX.

BLACKMAIL.

Monica crept down-stairs, shivering so much, not with cold, but with fear, that she could scarcely keep her footing, and had to support herself by the bannisters.

No one was about, as far as she could discover, and she had her choice of doors and windows through which to hold parley with Derrick. She decided to go to the drawingroom, where she could provide herself with a weapon of defense in case he should resort to violence with her, a danger which seemed not remote, when she remembered his savagery of the night before.

She even went up towards a trophy of weapons on the wall, and looked at hatchets and firearms, spears and yataghans with timid eyes. But she did not touch them. Recognizing, with a sudden opening of her mind’s eyes, what a futile resistance she could make in the face of Derrick’s resource and daring, she turned away with a shuddering sigh, and proceeded to grope her way to the nearest window.

Although the September morning light was fairly strong outside, for it was near six o’clock, it was dark in the Abbey Mallow drawing-room. For the curtains were drawn over the windows, and outside the trailing creepers hung in the untrained, bushy fashion Martin loved.

She opened one of the windows and peeped _ j out. Derrick, who was on the watch, met her face to face almost immediately, and before she could step outside.

%

“Well, what have you brought me? ” he asked in a harsh whisper.

“Brought you! I’ve brought nothing. I didn’t know—’’

“You knew that I should want food and money. The first you must get; the second I should advise you to get if you can,” said Derrick, who looked gray with cold, but who was as determined and as cool of manner as ever.

“I can get you food, of course. But, oh, Derrick—”

“That’ll do. You might let me come inside.”

But for answer Monica promptly fastened the French window, and made a sign to him that she would fetch what he wanted if he would wait outside. Derrick frowned with anger but shrugged his shoulders, put his hands in his pockets, and turned away with an intimation to her to be quick.

As she went away from the window, a sound from the interior of the room caught her ear, and made her utter an exclamation of alarm. The next moment a man came towards her in the obscurity.

“Who are you? ” gasped she.

“Don’t be frightened. It’s only me.”

“ Mr. Smith! You saw—you heard—”

“Nothing. I hope I didn’t alarm jmu. It was Miss Cray’s idea, Miss Ethel’s, that we should both be on the watch all night, she in her room upstairs, and I down here, in case you might want any assistance.”

Monica was touched, but frightened also.

“Why,” cried she, nervously, “what assistance should I need? The idea seems very strange? ”

“Yes, yes, of course. Just a—a lady’s whim, you know,” said Oswin, quickly. “At the same time—” He hesitated, and looked at her askance.

Her eyes, now becoming accustomed to the gloom, saw something in his face that reassured her, but at the same time broke down her composure. She suddenly turned away from him, and burst into tears.

“I’d—I’d do an)dhing, anything in the world to bring any sort of help or comfort to Martin, Mrs. Laffan,” began Oswin, with great energy. “If there’s any way, any way in which I could be of use—jmu would tell me, wouldn’t you? ”

He was so heartily sincere, so earnest, that Monica’s heart leapt up with a bold thought.

“I know I can trust you, I’m sure I can,” she said, peering up at him, as if to pierce to his inmost thoughts. “But I—I don’t think there’s any way—”

“Would you—excuse my asking such a strange question—would you tell me if you wanted money? ” asked he, abruptly.

Monica drew a long breath.

“No—3ms—I don’t know,” muttered she, incoherently, as the thought of purchasing a few weeks’ peace suddenly appeared before her eyes in tempting colors. “I shouldn’t like to borrow of you,” she added hastily.

“It’s no question of liking,” said Oswin, quickly. “You have onty one question to ask yourself, and that is: would it do Martin any good? Because, if you can say yes to that, you’re bound to come to me and say so. Now, think it out.”

Monica’s mind was soon made up. The very suggestion, made by this shrewd fellow who knew or guessed something, had its weight with her.

She turned to him suddenly.

“Will you lend me a hundred pounds?” said she.

“Certainly. You want it now? I’ll bring it down to you here.”

Before she could utter a word of thanks, he had left the room. Monica went out more slowly, and finding her way through the dark passages to the servants’ quarters, found bread, ham and wine, with which she was returning to the drawing-room, when Oswin met her at the foot of the wide oak staircase.

“I’ve signed an open cheque,” said he, “for a hundred pounds, and left it to you to fill in the name. It’s on a London bank, and I don’t suppose it will be easy to cash it out of London. Will that matter? ”

Monica’s eyes, lighting up with joy, told him that it would not. Then her face fell a little. Would Derrick have money enough to take him to London? Without trusting to his stories of destitution, this might really be the case. Oswin was shrewd enough to suspect the difficulty.

“And if you should want ready money,” he began, and produced a purse, from which he took some notes and gold.

“Yes, please,” whispered Monica. “It’s very, very good of you. May I have ten pounds? ”

“You don’t know,” said Oswin, smiling as he handed her the money, “what a delightful feeling it gives me, after the years I’ve been hard up, to have anything in my purse to lend.”

She thanked him with her eyes for his jesting tone, and, having put down the things she was carrying on the stairs, she held out both her hands to him.

“I can’t thank you,” she whispered gratefully. “But if you knew what you are doing for me and Martin—”

Her voice broke, and she turned away sobbing. Picking up the little tray, on which she had placed the food she was carrying, she ran into the dark corridor and escaped.

Oswin went slowly up the staircase, listening for any sound from the direction of the drawing-room, but none came to his ears. He was hanging over the carved balustrade on his way up when he heard a mock sigh from the landing above him, and glancing up, saw Ethel Cray looking down at him with a rather critical expression.

“Hallo! Good-morning, Miss Cray! You’re about early, aren’t you?” he said with a touch of the old aggressiveness with which they had always been wont to treat each other previous to the past evening.

“Very; and it’s rather lucky for you and Mrs. Martin. I have already met and turned off into another route a couple of servants who were on the point of surprising your rendezvous.”

“Miss Cray! ” cried Oswin, indignantly.

“Oh, it’s of no use to look indignant; you ought to be grateful.”

“Grateful! What on earth for? ” asked he, with irritation.

“Well, ask yourself whether it would have been pleasant or advisable for you to be caught in tender converse with your host’s pretty young wife on the stairs at six o’clock in the morning, receiving her thanks for what must have been, to judge by her effusiveness, a very handsome gift.”

“ Miss Cray, how dare you—” began Oswin again.

“Oh, I dare anything, you know. Especially I dare to remind you that I couldn’t see exactly what the gift was.”

“I can’t understand you this morning. That you should dare to insinuate—”

“I don’t insinuate. I kept off other people who would have done more than insinuate,” said Ethel, in a dry tone.

“Do you—do you m—m—mean to tell me,” said Oswin, stammering in his irritation, “that you suspect, you presume to suspect—”

“No. I don’t mean that.” And she turned upon him with a straightforward and provoking frankness. “For it was all too obviously improper for there to be anything wrong in it! ”

Oswin looked at her in a sort of desperate amazement for a moment. Then he bowed, and with difficulty, kept himself from smiling.

“None but yourself can be your parallel,” said he at last.

“That’s not a compliment, I suppose?”

“A compliment—between you and me! What a preposterous notion! ”

“Oh, I thought perhaps the truce had not yet been broken?” suggested she. “But it's just as you please. I’m quite ready to buckle on my sword again.”

Oswin made a gesture of terror.

“For Heaven’s sake don’t,” said he. “I’m not in spirits to do any more fighting at present.”

“Neither am I. Sh—sh, here comes Mrs. Martin.”

At that moment Monica came in sight at the foot of the stairs, and began the ascent very slowly, but with such an indescribable look of relief, as the sun began to light up the big staircase window and to shine through on her face, that both Oswin and Ethel were inexpressibly touched.

“I’ll go away,” muttered Oswin. “I don’t want to meet her again just yet.”

And Ethel feeling the same, they both disappeared along opposite corridors, before Monica reached the top of the staircase.

To this eventful night and morning there sue-ceeded a period of beautiful calm. Martin was for some time in a dangerous condition, but he particularly desired that the house-party should not be broken up on his account, and as the house was large and roomy, there was no need for them to disperse to ensure quiet for the patient.

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray was easily persuaded to stay, now that she had been induced to believe that Oswin Smith was attracted by her younger daughter. And Oswin, for some occult reason, did his best to encourage her in her fond belief.

In the meantime, Gladys continued to take her morning walks, and to return from them with a very bright color and a cheerfulness of manner that lasted through the whole of the day. On nearingthe house, on her return from these solitary promenades, she would frequently be met by Oswin, who would converse with her for a few moments as they came in sight of mama’s windows.

And whether this was part of a deep-laid plot of Sir Michael’s, or whether it was “devilment ” of Oswin’s, it had a very soothing effect upon Mrs. Cray.

A sort of shamefacedness had come over Oswin and Ethel in their relations with each other. Neither seemed to have energy for more than an occasional half-hearted skirmish. But this was just enough to keep the rest of the household amused, and to prevent their suspecting that the combatants were really ready to lay down their arms on the smallest excuse.

And then came the joy of knowing that Martin was out of danger, and he and Monica passed into a haven of peace and rest, all the sweeter, perhaps, that both knew they could not hope to stay there very long.

Neither spoke of the future at all, and little of the past; it was enough for both that for the present each could see the face of the other, feel the touch of a beloved hand.

Monica knew that this restful time was helping Martin to recovery. Martin knew that while she could remain under his roof she was safe.

So the days went by, until another month had passed, and the days began to shorten towards winter. The breaking up of the party was talked of again and again; and in Monica’s eyes there came the anxious look which foreboded the parting she knew to be inevitable. Still Martin kept his room, perhaps pleading hie slow convalescence to induce Monica to stay with him.

Mrs. Laffan said nothing, whatever she may have thought of her son’s strange accident. And although Mrs. Cray still had a good deal to say upon the subject, nobody paid any attention to her.

While things were going on thus smoothly, and outwardly in perfect peace, Monica got another shock. She had retired to her room one chilly October evening to dress for dinner, when she heard the rattle of the little pebbles against the window.

And this time the summons meant farewell to Martin, farewell to happiness.

Monica drew near the window with a weight as of lead at her heart.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE SUMMONS.

It was fortunate for Monica that, at the moment when she heard the sound of Derrick’s summons, the rattling of the pebbles against the window, her maid was out of the room.

She took the precaution of turning the key in the lock of the door before she opened the window.

On the terrace below, she could just make out his figure in the darkness.

As soon as she appeared, she heard Derrick’s voice, in a hoarse whisper,—

“I must see you. Don’t go down to dinner. Go into the room over the portico.”

And without waiting for any answer, the figure disappeared.

She closed the window with trembling fingers. She did not dare to disobey, knowing well how resolute Derrick’s character was, and how unscrupulous he was as to the means he used to gain his ends. It was evident that he was more determined than ever to get whatever it was that he wanted, since this command of his, to go into a particular room, seemed plainly to denote that he intended to make an entry into the house by that way.

At first she thought of consulting the shrewd Ethel upon the dilemma in which she found herself. But what could the girl do? If she were to take the possible course of telling Martin of Monica's difficulties, there would be another meeting between the two men, and Monica could not but fear that the honest one would again be made the victim of the knave.

So she unlocked her door, keeping as calm a demeanor as she could, and, instead of dressing for dinner, put on a warm tea-gown and sent her maid down-stairs with a message to Mrs. Laffan that she had a headache and should not be able to come down.

Then she went into the room indicated by Derrick, drew an old-fashioned davenport near the lire that was burning brightly in the grate, and taking out her writing materials, sat down to write a letter.

It was a very short one, and when she had finished it, she directed it simply to “Martin Laffan, Esq.,” and pressed a kiss upon the name. Then she sat back in her chair, and laying her head against the cushioned back, closed her eyes and waited, with mouth firmly shut and her hands gripping the sides of her chair.

It was a beautiful room, this oddly-shaped apartment, stretching out over the portico in the front of the house, which Martin had appointed to be her own boudoir, and had insisted on doing up for her. The walls were of a deep rose color; and the old-fashioned furniture, the painted cabinets, the papier-mache chairs, the harp, upon which Martin’s mother had played in her youth, harmonized pleasantly enough with modern rose and pale blue hangings, a few quaintly-shaped easy-chairs, and with the handsome silver candlesticks and candelabra which held the wax candles which afforded all the light to be had except that from the fire.

Monica, in her warm-looking gray cloth gown, with its border and trimming of dark fur, made a beautiful picture in the arm-chair by the fire.

Martin thought so when, in answer to a very soft tap at the door, Monica called out, “Come in,” and he stood on the threshold.

For a few seconds he did not advance, neither did Monica turn round. She expected her maid with a message from old Mrs. Laffan, or one of the other servants with something for her to eat. When there was no further movement however, she turned her head, and sprang up on seeing who the intruder was.

During the last few days he had been well enough to have joined the family circle, as she well knew. It was only the fear that, when he was once off the sick list, Monica would leave the house, that had kept him a convalescent so long.

She trembled as she stood up before him.

“Ought you to leave your room so soon? asked she, trying to speak with reproachful coldness.

“Oh,” said he, simply, “you know that’s all right. Why are younot going down to dinner?”

” Who told you I was not going down? ”

“Do you think a movement of yours escapes me? Do you think I take no interest—” As he spoke he came forward, and looking at the davenport, to see how she had been engaged, he saw the note adressed to himself. She would have taken it up and thrown it into the fire, but he was too quick for her.

“This is mine,” he said gravely, as he snatced the note. He did not open it, however, though Monica turned away quickly to give him the opportunity of reading it. There was another pause, and then she turned round impatiently. “Why don’t you read it?”

“Because there’s no need. This letter is to tell me you’re going away.”

She leaned against the mantelpiece, her whole attitude telling of despair so deep that it had become recklessness.

“Yes. Well?”

“Why at this particular time?”

“What does that matter? It must be done. The sooner it’s done the better. It’s—it’s only getting harder, you know. Don’t try to stop me any longer. The greatest kindness you can do me now is to let me go as quickly as I can.”

“Very well.” There was a short silence. Then he asked, “Will you let me know where you are? ”

A struggle with herself. Martin shivered for he knew what was going on in her heart. At last she said, without looking at him,—

“No.' The severance must be complete, you know that.”

“Are you going alone? ”

She drew a long breath, and then turned upon him with a wild fire in her eyes.

“Don’t ask me that. Don’t ask me anything. Just—just let me go.”

“Very well, Monica. You won’t—you won’t kiss me, I suppose?”

“I—I—mustn’t.”

“Yet you’ve kissed me every night while I was ill? ”

She turned upon him with surprise.

“How do you know that?” she asked in a whisper. “I always waited till you were asleep! ”

He laughed a little, sadly enough.

“And I always waited till you had kissed me before I went to sleep."

“You deceived me, then? ”

“Yes, I suppose so. It was my turn."

Monica uttered a sob.

“Never mind. Good-by."

He was walking towards the door. She flew after him, and held out her arms.

“Right—or wrong—” she murmured. “For the last—last time.” They clung to each other, looked each into the other’s sad eyes, and exchanged o'ne long kiss that carried the fire in the heart of each to the lips of the other.

Then it was Monica who tore herself from him, and waved him away. He left her, staggering out like a blind man, and she remained by the door, listening hungrily to his footsteps as they died away on the stairs.

Then she went back to the fire, shivering.

She had hardly regained her seat when there came a sharp tap at the window. Springing up from her chair, Monica ran to each of the two doors, and locked them before she raised the window-sash.

“Oh, don’t come in, pray don’t come in! ” cried she, imploringly. “Somebody may come up at any minute! ”

Without paying the smallest heed to her entreaty, Derrick had already climbed from the ivy which was supporting him over the sill; and bending low to avoid the sash he came nimbly into the room.

“I’ll not stay more than a quarter of a second, if you’ll give me what I want,” said he.

“More money; oh, I can’t, I can’t,” cried Monica. “Last time, when I gave you that hundred and ten pounds, you promised to leave me alone.”

“My dear girl,” said Derrick, who was by this time standing in the middle of the room, shaking the leaves and twigs from his clothes, and looking round with an attentive scrutiny of the furniture, “there’s nothing I should like better than to be able to leave you alone. But unkind necessity forbids. This brute Luke, who is so rightly called the Scamp, has recognized me, as you said he would, and he threatens all sorts of nice things if I don’t pay him for his brother’s roan mare, a piece of animated cat's meat that I borrowed just before I left the country, and that walked into a sausage-machine before I had had time to return it.”

“You had better get away as fast as you can, then. Luke’s not a man to be played with.”

“1m sure I don’t want to play with him. It’s not all amusing. I want to pay him off, if only you’ll be good-natured, and lend me the money.”

“I tell you I haven’t any, really haven’t any. I had to borrow the last.”

“Borrow this, then.”

“No,” cried she, with spirit. “I gave you enough money before to pay this debt of yours, and to keep you out of danger. You didn’t choose to use it for either of those things, but that wasn’t my fault. And nowyou have no excuse for risking yourself here again, for Martin Laffan’s out of danger, and I’m going away at once.”

Derrick looked bitterly disappointed.

“You haven’t made it up with him, then? I thought—really I did—that a little light flesh-wound would give you just the excuse you wanted for remaining with him.”

Monica made a gesture of impatience and disgust.

“You had better go now,” she said shortly. “If Mr. Laffan comes up, I shall not intercede for you again.”

Derrick laughed disagreeably, and began to feel in one of his coat-pockets.

“Perhaps, my dear, he’ll need your intercession more than I. Remember, my love, that I carry my life in my hand already, and ”—his tone assumed extraordinary ferocity—“that your lips are sealed.”

Monica’s spirit flashed up into her eyes.

“You would hurt Martin again! ” cried she, the hatred and loathing she felt expressing itself in look and tone and gesture. “Oh, but you shall not! I will give you up myself rather! ”

And she ran across the room to the wide bell-rope that hung near the fireplace.

But the agile Derrick seized the rope at the same time, and taking out his pocket-knife, hacked at the old-fashioned worsted work until he had severed it high up above Monica’s head.

“No, no, dear,” said he, in the easiest of tones, as he did this, “no unladylike violence, please. Let us remember, above all things, our exalted social position, and let us act, in this most trying situation, with dignity and calmness.” His tone changed again abruptly, and became excited as he went on. “What are those things in your ears? And on your fingers? Eh? Diamonds, ain’t they? Well, well, you won’t begrudge me those, surely! ”

And as he spoke, he turned from the severed bell-rope, seized her hands, and began to twist the rings off the fingers with great dexterity.

Monica struggled with all her strength.

“But they’re not mine. They’re Mr. Laf-fan’s. They’re part of the family jewels that he’s had made up for me! ”

But Derrick struggled more successfully than she. Already two of the rings were in his pocket.

“Ah, what it is to have a family! ” cried he, with mock admiration, as he proceeded to try to get out her earrings, which were a pair of fair-sized diamonds. “And jewels to correspond! Now I could never afford you those, alas! ”

But Monica, not sparing herself in her attempts to get away, fought like a tigress to protect the jewels which belonged to Martin, and succeeded in freeing herself before Derrick could get out the earrings.

Seeing himself foiled, he assumed a still more good-humored tone.

“Not the earrings? Oh, very well. I won’t insist, since you object so strongly.” And he turned over in his hands the four rings he had seized. “Perhaps one of these will satisfy Luke! ”

“You’d better not try,” said Monica, scornfully. “Luke’s not a thief.”

“Come, my dear, don’t be spiteful,” retorted Derrick, coolly, as he pushed up the window-sash a little further, and got one leg over the sill. “Good-by, dear, good-by. If you’re going away, I daresay I shall run across you some day, and you can make yourself helpful and useful to me, as you promised. I wish Laffan would keep his ivy properly nailed up,” he added petulantly, as the creeper gave way under his foot at his first step downward. “Good-by, dear, good-by! ”

And, waving his hand airily, Derrick disappeared below the window-ledge. Monica watched him for a few anxious moments as he went down; then the sound of some one trying the handle of one of the doors of the room startled her.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE BURGLARY.

“Mayn’t I come in, Monica? ” cried Ethel’s voice.

Monica shut down the window as softly as she could, ran to the door and unlocked it, crying,—

“Ethel! Oh, yes, do come in.”

Ethel looked round in surprise.

“Locked in? And you’ve been crying? What’s the matter? ”

Monica tried to smile.

“It’s nothing, at least—nothing new.”

“The fact is you’ve been overdoing it since Mr. Laffan’s accident,” said Ethel,- severely. “ Sitting up all night with him while he was ill, and running about all day with his mother. No wonder you have headaches now that he’s about again.”

And she looked at Monica suspiciously.

“Why do you look at me like that?”

“My dear,” answered Ethel, “I never believe in headaches: I’ve suffered too much from them myself. There’s the sulky headache, the savage headache, the jealous headache, and a few other varieties. Which sort are you suffering from? ”

“You’ll know to-morrow,” said Monica, laying her hand on the davenport. “I’m just going to write to Mrs. Laffan. You were quite right, Ethel; I ought to go. And this time I’m really going.”

“Oh, but Martin! What will happen to him? ” said Ethel, in a voice full of alarm. “If you were going at all, you ought to have gone before. Now that he’s still pulled down by his illness, I don’t know how he’ll stand the shock.” Monica turned away to hide the tears that welled up to her eyes. “To-night, at dinner,” went on Ethel, “he was restless, nervous, looking at your place a hundred times, and showing in his eyes that he was missing you, though he knew you were only up here.”

“Was he at dinner, then? ” asked Monica.

“Yes. Can’t you—don’t you think you had better stay a little longer, now you’ve .stayed so long?”

Monica burst out wildly,—

“No, no, no. You may trust me, Ethel, I’d stay if I could.”

“You’re not afraid,” said Ethel, diffidently, “of—of Martin’s doing some harm to himself ?”

A low cry escaped Monica’s lips at this suggestion. Pale and trembling, she turned to her friend.

“Oh, no, no,” she said quickly. “He wouldn’t, for my sake he wouldn’t. I’ve seen him; and he understands.”

Ethel bowed her head in silence, and the two sat beside the fire, both unhappy and dejected, until they were startled by a knock at the door by which Ethel had entered the room. Instead of saying anything, they looked at each other inquiringly.

“May I come in?” said Oswin Smith’s voice.

Ethel jumped up.

“Mr. Smith! ” she exclaimed impatiently. “One can never get away from him! ”

Distressed as she was, Monica smiled a little.

“I don’t think you try very hard,” said she. “And why should you? He’s a good fellow. He has helped me in the most chivalrous manner.”

“Has he? ” asked Ethel, without surprise.

“Yes. He has lent me money, money I can never pay back.”

Again the voice spoke louder than before,—

“Mayn’t I come in? ”

It was Ethel who, at a sign from Monica, called out, with her head in the air, in an impatient tone,—

“Oh, yes, yes, come in, pray! ”

And in he came, with a rather grave look on his face.

“I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily,” he began; “but I thought it better to come and warn you that—that—that, well, to put it shortly,that there’s going to be no end of a row.”

Ethel sprang up from the chair in which she had been sitting,

“Row! What! Where? ” cried she.

“Everywhere,’’replied Oswin, simply. “It’s down-stairs at present, but it’s coming up directly.” Monica, who had not uttered a word since he came in, crept round Ethel’s chair, and watched his face intently. “The fact is Mrs. Cray has seen—” He broke off, and turned apologetically to Ethel. “You know what a knack she has of seeing things. She saw from the window of the dining-room a man climbing down the ivy at the side of the portico.”

“Oh, what did she want at the window?” cried Ethel, irritably.

“Well! ” said Monica, sharply.

“She screamed, very properly,” Oswin went on, " and also very properly, turned to tell Martin and the rest of us that there was a burglar running away.”

“And what—what did Martin do—say?” asked Monica, faintly.

“He said it was nonsense, imagination, and he shut the window. That made Mrs. Cray angry, very properly, and she’s coming upstairs to show him whether it was nonsense or not.”

Monica tried to laugh.

“Of course it was nonsense. Could a burglar have got into the house and out again without my seeing him, when I’ve been up here all the time?”

“Of course not,” replied Oswin, promptly. “That’s what you’ll have to tell her. But she won’t believe you.”

Monica began to walk up and down the room, much disturbed.

“I think you’d better not see mama just now, dear,” said Ethel. “Until she’s—she’s got over her fright a little, and—and grown calmer. I’ll say the headache’s got worse, and you’ve gone to lie down.”

And as she spoke, she put her arm round Monica’s waist, and led her gently towards the door which led to her bedroom.

Monica yielded. She had felt horribly alarmed indeed by the prospect of meeting Mrs. Jesmond-Cray and her impertinent questions.

“Thank you, thank you, Ethel. You’re always kind,” whispered she. She turned at the door to look at Oswin, and to add gratefully, in alow voice, “And you too, Mr. Smith.”

The moment she had left the room, closing the door behind her, Oswin glanced significantly at Ethel, and then looked down at the floor. He had something else to tell, she felt sure.

“Well, was that all mama said?” asked Ethel, in a low voice.

“Unfortunately, no.. She said she didn’t believe it was a burglary at all, and advised Martin to come and see if his wife’s headache was better.”

“Oh, how could she? ” cried Ethel.

“Upon my word I can’t think why people haven’t more tact than to guess the truth like that.”

“The truth! ” cried Ethel, startled.

“Why, yes. I know something about that burglar, and so, I think, do you! ”

“I didn’t until this moment,” answered Ethel, confused. “But now—I begin to guess.” She paused a moment, and then asked with great abruptness, “What do you know? ”

Oswin was cautious. He did not answer immediately. When he did he spoke like an old diplomatist.

“If I give you my information, will you give me yours? ”

“Yes.”

“You can trust me? ”

“Well, Monica says she does. She says you’ve lent her money. Now, why did you do it?” And her tone became judicial. “You must have known it was to be spent in blackmail.” Oswin answered with a sort of desperation,—

“Well, even if I did guess, what could I do? Martin was ill, and would have nobody but her near him. I remembered the note. Knew there must be another chap. Thought other chap had better be kept quiet till Martin was well again. Now, your information, please! Who is the other chap? ”

“Her husband,” replied Ethel, laconically. Oswin whistled softly.

“No! And who’s he? ”

Ethel answered in the same tone as before,—•

“The man who shot Captain Malcolm.” Oswin brightened up a little.

“That’s all right. Then we can hang him.” But Ethel took him up impatiently.

“No, we can’t. He won’t give us the chance, for one thing. And for another, you can’t marry the widow of a man who’s been hanged.”

“Can’t you? Then you don’t know Martin Laffan!” retorted Oswin, with decision. “Besides the man who’s mad enough to want to marry any particular woman, is mad enough for anything.”

Ethel raised her eyebrows and looked prim.

“I thought jibes at marriage were the private property of the comic papers.”

“Oh, I'm not jibing at marriage,” said Os-win. “Marriage is a necessary, if an overrated, institution, of which most of us avail ourselves at one time or other. But the sane man marries because he wishes to be married; it is only the mad one who marries because he believes that one particular woman is necessary to his happiness. Monica's very sweet and charming now, but she will grow into quite a commonplace old lady, with a fidgety fear of draughts, who will be bored when Martin reads her the political articles in the paper.”

“If she did allow him to read any such thing, she’d deserve to be bored,” retorted Ethel. “ But, I only wish,” she added with a sigh, “your forecast might come true.”

“It will,” said Oswin, with decision. “If you wish hard enough for anything, there's always a danger that you’ll get it. But to wish for a woman, is absolutely fatal. A woman for whom one has shot oneself too.”

Ethel looked at him furtively.

“You don’t believe then that he shot himself by accident, as he said? ”

“Of course not,” replied Oswin, contemptuously. “If all the reported accidents with firearms were accidental, Government would prohibit the use of firearms to men just as mothers forbid the playing with matches to children.”

There was a long pause. At last, after glancing at Ethel several times, and getting no hint of any intention on her part to reply, he asked sharply,—

“Well, why don’t you contradict me? ”

She hesitated a few moments, even then, before saying soberly,—

“Because I think perhaps there’s something in what you say.”

But this answer, instead of molifying Oswin, seemed to fill him with consternation. He stared at her and frowned.

“But that never used to be reason enough for your agreeing with me,” he grumbled at last.

Ethel drew up her head. “You’re quite right; the truce has lasted too long. We’re losing our martial spirit. We—”

But before she could get any further, they both heard Mrs. Cray’s petulant, querulous voice outside, accompanied by Beckingham’s croaking laugh. Ethel started.

“Oh, there’s mama! Hunting up poor Monica, I suppose.”

The door burst open, and Mrs. Jesmond-Cray sailed in, with Beckingham stumbling over the train of her dress. She went direct to the window, pointing to the catch, which had not been drawn.

“There, Mr. Beckingham, what did I tell you? ” said she triumphantly. “There’s the window the man got out of, I’ve no doubt. And this was the room, I understand, where Monica was left with a headache, when we went down to dinner. I should be very sorry to be uncharitable, or unkind; but I really think, if it was only a burglar, that Martin Laffan had no right to snap at me and almost tell me to hold my tongue when I suggested that the case should be inquired into, and that we ought to look about for any traces of his presence.”

And Mrs. Cray pushed up the sash noisily, and looked out.

Ethel went up to her mother, and put a coaxing arm around her. At the same time she threw a glance full of indignation at the old mischief-maker Beckingham. For she knew very well that Mrs. Cray had not courage or initiative enough to have made this disturbance if it had not been for the support and encouragement of Martin’s uncle.

“Mama, I wish you wouldn’t,” whispered she. “You’re only making everybody uncomfortable. No doubt Mr. Laffan is now making all necessary inquiries.”

Mrs. Jesmond-Cray turned upon her daughter with a lofty manner.

“My dear, you’re too young to know anything about these things! ” said she.

And she shook herself free from the girl’s hands. Ethel stepped back and looked at Oswin.

“Oh, am I? ” said she.

Mrs. Cray continued her investigations with an air of importance.

“Mr. Beckingham, look for yourself. The ivy’s all torn down. And the footprint here,” she turned and pointed to a dark mark on the carpet, “is not that of a hobnailed boot. And look at this and this.” At each word she pointed out traces of Derrick’s entrance in twigs and leaves on the floor, and in the fireplace. “Now, is this the sort of thing that goes on in a properly-conducted establishment? ”

Old Beckingham croaked out his mischievous laugh. Things were in splendid train, he considered, and pointed to a break up which would be all in his favor.

“My dear madam,” said he, dryly, with a shrug of the shoulders, ‘you never know what does go on in a properly-conducted establishment! If the master takes too much champagne, it’s a fall in the hunting-field. If his wife has a black eye, it’s influenza. And when the bailiffs are in, the house has been let for the season.”

And he chuckled at his own wit.

“Then you agree with me in thinking this was something more than an attempted burglary? ” persisted the lady.

The old man shrugged his shoulders again.

“Well, if it was,” said he, “I’m told it’s not the first attempt that has been made lately. Of course, we must all of us hope,” he went on, with evident relish of his own malicious suggestions, “that there won’t be a scandal, and an elopement, or anything of that sort. But really—”

Oswin Smith came forward, and cut in with a very cold, decided tone,—

“May I suggest that this is scarcely the tone in which to discuss the affairs of the people whose hospitality We are enjoying?”

Mrs. Cray treated this remark, however, with superb scorn.

“Mr. Smith, there is something more important than tones to be thought of now,” said she. “ As the mother of two young daughters—”

“Oh, mama, do leave us out this time! ” interrupted Ethel.

But Mrs. Cray went on without heeding her.

“My first thought must be for them. And a scandal ”—at this point she broke down in agitation which was quite real—“a scandal about the- place where they have been staying so long—”

Ethel, really sorry for her mother's distress, now that she had dropped her dignified tone, and shown her heart, went up to her. Mrs. Cray sank on a sofa.

“Oh, mama, we’re all right,” said she, reassuringly.

But Mrs. Cray repulsed her in an accession of grief.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter for you!” cried she, dismally.

Ethel drew back with a comical look. And Oswin, who was near enough to whisper to her, said in her ear,—

“That’s kind, isn’t it?”

Ethel, with a little shrug of acquiescence in her mother’s verdict, dismissed Oswin with a look, intimating that he had better go up and distract Beckingham’s attention, if he could, from her mother’s silly speeches. He understood and obeyed, with intelligent discretion for which the girl felt grateful.

And Mrs. Cray went on with her moanings.

“But Gladys—what will become of Gladys now? It’s impossible not to see that this has spoilt her prospects. ’

With a brilliant inspiration, Ethel assented gravely to this view.

“I’m afraid it has a little, perhaps,” said she. “But, mama, you might do worse than fall back upon Sir Michael O’Keeffe.” Without looking up, Mrs. Cray shuddered. Ethel went on, “He’s awfully fond of her, and he’s really a good fellow, who would make her a good husband.”

In the midst of her sobs, Mrs. Jesmond-Cray suddenly paused to consider this point.

“I’m really almost afraid it’s the only thing left to do! ” she moaned out at last. And as she went on, she brightened up a little. “Of course she would have to live in Ireland, so we needn’t say anything about the farming; and we could speak of her as Lady O’Keeffe of Ballina—whatever it is; and we needn’t say it’s three cottages thrown together in a peat bog! ”

“I really think she’d be happy, mama,” said Ethel, more brightly.

Mrs. Cray sighed, but spoke briskly.

“Oh, well, I’m sure I hope so! But, of course, that’s her lookout. Where is the man? ” she asked with a sudden determination to lose no more time.

“He’s down-stairs in the drawing-room, with Gladys, now, I think. Shall I send to him to speak to you? ”

Mrs. Cray dried her eyes with energy.

“Yes, if it has to be done, we may as well bring him to the point at once,” said she, with a sigh, “before he hears too much about this affair! ”

“Oh, mama, it wouldn’t make any difference to him,” said Ethel, confidently. And she turned to Oswin. “Mr. Smith, will you ask Sir Michael if he’ll come and speak to mama? ” Oswin, who had been keeping Beckingham busy in talk, so that he could hear nothing of this, interrogated Ethel with his eyebrows. Receiving an affirmative reply, he said,—

“Certainly.”

And he went at once to the door. Beckingham hobbled after him.

“What, what?” asked the old mischief-maker before they were well outside. “Has she hooked O’Keeffe? ”

“No,” said Oswin, drily; “it’s O’Keeffe, I think, who has hooked her! ”

“What, what! Don’t you think he’ll come up to the scratch, then? ” asked Beckingham, eagerly.

There was something antipathetic to the malevolent old gentleman in the idea of this little love-story ending happily.

Oswin looked dubious.

“Don’t know, I’m sure,” said he. “But if something O’Keeffe hinted at is correct, Mrs. Jesmond-Cray won’t have it all her own way at the forthcoming interview.”

“What, what! Will O’Keeffe have the pluck to jilt her? ” asked Beckingham, hopefully.

Oswin looked at him inscrutably.

“We shall see,” said he, as he went into the drawing-room.

CHAPTER XXII.

A SHOCK FOR MRS. CRAY.

Now Ethel felt rather sorry for her mother; much as she hated the maneuvers and stratagems by which Mrs. Jesmond-Cray tried to obtain a rich husband for the pretty youngest daughter, Ethel knew that the sentiments which, prompted her were in a measure honest ones, and that she firmly believed that she was doing the best possible thing for Gladys, when she considered not the man but the money in the matter of the young girl’s marriage.

But at the same time she knew how tactless and simple-minded her mother was, and now that good fortune seemed to hover over Sir Michael and his suit, Ethel was afraid that Mrs. Cray might, by some injudicious speech, so irritate the hot-tempered Irishman that she would prevent, instead of forwarding, a marriage which would be all for poor Gladys’s happiness.

She was therefore anxious to remain in the room, during the coming interview with Sir Michael O’Keeffe, to temper her mother’s new graciousness, and make it seem less sudden.

Mrs. Cray, however, was determined to have no interference from her elder daughter, whom she underrated in the most preposterous manner.

“You can leave me now,” she said, turning in a superb manner to Ethel, “while I speak to this boor.”

Ethel could not but think this epithet most unpromising.

“Oh, mama, you’d better let me stay,” said she. “It won’t do for you to talk to him as if you looked down upon him, you know.”

“I hope, Ethel, you’ll allow me to know something of the attitude I ought to assume,” said her mother, tartly. “I don’t think I’ve looked after two daughters for all these years to take lessons from you at last.”

“Very well, mama. But remember that Gladys’s happiness depends upon this man, if you mean to accept him as her husband.”

“Will you please leave me, Ethel, and allow me to know best what to do and what to say? ” repeated Mrs. Cray, more loftily than ever.

Ethel moved slowly to the door which led to Monica’s room. Anything was better than irritating her foolish mother further.

“Very well, mama. I’ll go and see how Monica is,” said she.

But Mrs. Cray, elated with her first success in getting her self-willed daughter to do what she wished grew more autocratic than before.

“I forbid you to do anything of the kind,” said she.

Ethel’s lips tightened.

“Yes, mama,” said she.

But she opened the door as she spoke.

“Do you mean to obey me?”

Ethel paused, but she did not hesitate.

“No, mama,” was her soft-voiced reply.

“And why not, pray? ”

“I’m too old. You know, mama, I always obey you when you tell me to do anything that’s for your good and my good. But when you tell me to do anything which is bad for everybody, why, then—the lamb turns round and goes the other way!

There was a knock at the other door at that moment, and, without waiting for permission, Sir Michael opened it and came in. He was in evening dress, and he looked particularly handsome; but in his merry blue eyes Ethel was sure that she detected a roguish twinkle which boded ill for her mother’s peace of mind during the forthcoming interview. Indeed, Sir Michael gave Ethel a merry look which seemed to threaten danger to the pompous lady who was sitting in state on the sofa, trying with some difficulty to twist her face into a grimace full of affectionate welcome.

Ethel gave him a look of entreaty. It seemed to say, “As you are strong, be merciful.”

Then, Mrs. Cray not having any more time to spare upon her, Ethel was suffered to leave the room and go in search of Monica.

The baronet persisted in standing rather stiffly at a little distance from the sofa, though Mrs. Cray repeatedly invited him, with stately gestures, to take a chair near her.

“Smith tells me you wish to speak to me, Mrs. Cray,” he began.

“Yes, Sir Michael, it’s quite true that I do,” replied the lady, with a little sigh. “And I thought we could talk better up here than down-stairs, where there are people coming in and out all the time.”

“Indeed, and it’s glad I am you care to speak to me anywhere,” said Sir Michael, “for we all know I’m not a favorite of yours, Mrs. Cray.”

Mrs. Cray tried to laugh, but she did so rather nervously. She noticed already a change in Sir Michael’s manner from the excessively humble to a more self-confident if not slightly aggressive mood.

“Oh, it’s not fair to say that. I have always given you credit for splendid qualities under- neath the surface; and perhaps it was my own fault rather than yours that I thought I noticed a certainbrusquerie which was hardly sympathetic, after the more polished manners of the men I see most of in England.”

“I’m afraid I am too rough a fellow for ladies of your fashion to get on with,” said Sir Michael, modestly, but with the same twinkle in his eye.

Mrs. Cray took him up quickly.

“Not at all. The very fact that you have taken to wearing just what our own friends wear—and I’m sure it’s a great concession— shows that you haven’t taken my suggestions and remarks in the wrong spirit. And really, Sir Michael,” went on the good lady, putting up her long-handled eyeglasses, “I wonder you haven’t taken to the dress before, for you look better in it than any of the other men do. It’s true, I assure you.”

Sir Michael made a slight bow, with a suggestion of mock gratitude which made Mrs. Cray a little uneasy.

“Pray take this chair, Sir Michael,” she said, with a little twittering laugh, as if she felt that he was very humorous and found him delightfully entertaining, “and listen to what I have to say. And I may tell you,” she went on playfully, “that it’s something very nice.” Sir Michael sat down with portentous gravity. The twinkle had gone out of his eyes, and he seemed determined not to be amused.

“You must know that Ethel’s been with me,” went on Mrs. Cray, with cheery archness, “and Mr. Smith also, and they’ve been talking to me, and coaxing me, and persuading me, and telling me how fond you are of my darling daughter Gladys—”

Mrs. Cray came to an abrupt stop at the name, for Sir Michael, who had at last accepted her invitation to be seated, had started back, causing the lady some consternation by his abrupt movement.

“Your daughter Gladys! ” said he, as if no subject had been further from his thoughts. Mrs. Cray gave him an anxious glance.

“They were saying,” she went on quickly, “ what an excellent fellow you are, and quite the most kind-hearted and amiable man in—in —in—well, anywhere, in fact.”

Sir Michael appeared for a moment quite overwhelmed by this unexpected graciousness. At last he said, in a very humble and diffident manner,—

“And me brogue, Mrs. Cray, sure, what did they say about me brogue? ”

Mrs. Cray was taken aback by these words, and was rendered still more uneasy by the tone she detected under his assumed excessive modesty. It was with a rather wry face that she smiled and answered,—

“Oh, well, really there’s something piquant, something characteristic about that. As long as it’s not too strong, and yours certainly is not —when one’s used to it, in fact, it’s rather pleasant than otherwise.”

Sir Michael, sitting very upright, answered with the same menacing gravity as before,—

“I’m glad of that now, Mrs. Cray: people told me you didn’t like it.”

“Well, you know,” and she smiled as sweetly as she could, “I like it better now that I know you better.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been so long learning my good points,” said the baronet rather dryly. “But sure it’s better you should find them out late than that you shouldn’t find them out at all, anyhow.”

“Well, you see, Sir Michael,” went on Mrs. Cray, insinuatingly, “it wasn’t so much the man as the circumstances that I objected to. When you proposed to my daughter—”

Sir Michael started up from his chair.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cray, but I never proposed to you for your daughter.”

Mrs. Cray was rather taken aback.

“You did not, to me—that—er—was one of my causes of complaint against you. But,” and her tone grew rather anxious, “you spoke to Gladys.”

Sir Michael frowned and answered very gravely,—

“I’m afraid, Mrs. Cray, that your daughter Gladys didn’t tell you all I said to her.”

“Oh, yes, she did,” answered Mrs. Cray, quickly. “She said you were afraid to speak to me—that you were too proud—since you knew it would be of no use. But that you loved her very dearly—”

Sir Michael, frowning, and not looking at Mrs. Cray, interrupted her.

“That’s true, that’s true enough.”

“And that she was your ideal of a wife,” went on Mrs. Cray. “Well, Sir Michael, I withdraw my refusal. Since you love her so dearly, and—and she loves you, I consent to your marrying her.”

“Then Gladys did not tell you everything,” said Sir Michael, firmly. “I’m sorry, very sorry, Mrs. Cray, but I can’t marry Gladys, much as I love her.”

Mrs. Cray stared at him in horror.

“Can’t marry her! Can’t, do you say? And why not? ”

“Because,” replied Sir Michael, calmly, “I’m married already, and Gladys knows it! ”

Mrs. Cray rose from the sofa, and looked at him, for the moment speechless with indignation.

“You’re married! ” she said at last in a choking voice. “And Gladys knows it!” He only folded his arms and looked down solemnly. “And pray, pray, did the Laffans know—when they introduced you to us—as a bachelor—that you were not—not what you described yourself to be? ”

“No, Mrs. Cray, they did not know. It’s my secret, and you wouldn’t have known it now if you hadn’t forced it from me? ” said he, gravely.

Mrs. Cray was already on her way to the door. She paused with her hand upon it to give him a withering look.

“Sir Michael,” said she, in a voice which was half choked with genuine sobs, “I knew before I came to Ireland that it was an uncivilized country. But I expected to find humanity at least in its barbarians. You’ve broken my daughter’s heart, and mine! ”

And with a final sob, half genuine, half dramatic, Mrs. Cray left the room.

The door had scarcely closed when the unfeeling Sir Michael began to perform a jig step, whistling to himself softly the while.

“Egad,” said he to himself, aloud, “there’s one of those two breakages wouldn’t trouble me much.”

And then he opened the door and listened, with a mischievous laugh in his eyes, to Mrs. Cray, who, on reaching the bottom of the staircase, was pouring out her woes, in mingled anger and mortification, to some one she had met.

When the last sound of her voice had died away, Sir Michael, in his turn, went down-stairs, and in the hall he met Ethel, with Oswin, if not exactly in her train, yet hovering at no very great distance.

“Sir Michael, what have you been doing to mama? ” asked Ethel, as he came down the staircase towards her.

“Yes, what have you been doing to mama?” echoed Oswin.

Sir Michael made his face as solemn as he could.

“Sure, it’d be more to the point to ask what mama’s been doing to me! She’s called me a barbarian, for one thing: now what do you think of that? ”

“Well, I think that, whatever annoyance you gave her,” answered Ethel, looking rather worried, “she’ll go and visit it on poor Gladys.”

His face changed.

“No, do you think that? ” said he. “Then I’ll go and give the poor child a helping hand.”

And he ran off quickly in the direction of the drawing-room.

Ethel had been wandering about the house disconsolately, unable to see Monica, who had shut herself up in her room and would not admit even her friend. She paused with her foot on the bottom stair.

“I wonder what Sir Michael’s been saying to mama, to make her dance off like that! ” said she. “She wouldn’t even speak to me! ”

“Or to me,” said Oswin.

Ethel took her foot off the stair, and came down with a spark of the old aggressiveness in her tone,—

“Oh, well, you know you’re in permanent disgrace for not trying to cut Sir Michael out."

Oswin opened the door of the billiard-room, and Ethel went in. They both felt that a refreshing skirmish was in store for them.

“That’s your fault,” said Oswin, as he followed her into the room. “I’ve a good mind to tell Mrs. Cray how you choked me off at the very first.”

“Very well,” said Ethel, indifferently. “You can if you like.”

Oswin stamped his foot.

“Will nothing rouse your spirit?” said he, impatiently. “I’m dying for one of our old quarrels, but you won’t show fight.”

“Well, you see,” said Ethel, apologetically, “you’ve been so awfully nice lately, and you’ve made yourself so useful while Mr, Laffan has been ill, that you’ve appeared in quite a new light. Now, I can’t quarrel with a person with any zest unless I am spurred on by a little real dislike.”

Oswin began to stroll, as if unconsciously, a little nearer to her, looking up at the ceiling as he came.

“And has the real dislike of me disappeared then?” asked he, not without a catch in his voice which sounded uncommonly like the result of nervousness. “Have you forgotten that—I’m an insufferable cad?”

Ethel quivered with hot and hearty indignation.

“I never said such a thing! ” cried she.

Oswin’s answer came quick upon her words.

“Of course you didn’t! ” cried he, echoing her own tone. “I’m sure you’re a person of too much discrimination to say such a thing.” For some reason she would have found it hard to define, Ethel looked down at her foot, which was on the fender, and began to move her hands nervously. Oswin went on, “But I wish you could pluck up enough spirit for one of our old battles, all the same. They were so—so—so bracing! ” There was a pause. Ethel only shook her head quite meekly, and said nothing. Oswin seemed to he struck by a happy thought. He came close beside her, and putting one of his own feet on the fender within half a yard of hers, he leant on the mantelpiece, and said softly, “I know hoiv we could get back to the old footing, always quarreling and bickering from morning till night! ”

There was another pause. Ethel did not speak, nor did she for a long time even raise her eyes. When she did that, with a sort of shamefaced inquiry, Oswin laughed, quite as shamefaced as she. Then lie looked down again, and there was another pause.

“It’s a strong measure, but it’s never known to fail,” he went on presently.

But Ethel, laughing incredulously, suddenly took her foot off the fender, and went over towards the billiard-table, as if indignant at such folly.

“Now, don’t you know what I mean?” asked Oswin, following her.

Ethel laughed again, and then he laughed too.

“Wouldn’t it be a surprise for Mrs. Cray? ” said he at last.

At last she spoke contemptously.

“Yes,” cried she, turning upon him with a heightened color and flashing eyes, “and wouldn’t everybody in town say,” and she mimicked the words of a young man at the clubs, in the drawling tone which a woman usually puts on for that purpose: “I say, have you heard? Mama Cray’s hooked young Smith for her ugly daughter! ” She turned to Oswin, and spoke in her own voice. “Now you know they'd say that,” said she.

“It’s very possible,” said Oswin coolly. “But if the ugly daughter didn’t mind, I’ll answer for it, young Smith wouldn’t!”

Ethel looked down at the billiard-table and hesitated.

“Do you really think me ugly? ”

Oswin did not immediately answer. The light was on her face from the lamps over the billiard-table. He frowned with an air of careful consideration, held his head first on one side and then on the other, examining her features with a minute scrutiny that brought the blood tingling to her cheeks. “I’m not sure that I’m altogether an impartial judge,” he said at last, “ but if you’d only let me—” He proceeded to take her chin in his right hand, to put his left arm round her shoulder and to raise her face gently towards his. Then, while her eyes were still cast down, and she still remained silent, he suddenly kissed her. “No,” said he; then, in a judicial tone, “I don’t think you ugty. “I’ve considered the matter carefully too! ”

Ethel sighed.

“All this is against my principles,” said she. “I’ve never been condescended to before, and I’m really not sure that I like it.”

“It must be galling,” assented Oswin, as he gave her another kiss. “In the abstract I’m sorry for you, but only in the abstract,” as she tried to draw herself away from him. “On other grounds, I think I’m doing right. I feel as if I were drawing your teeth, you know, for the sake of humanity at large.”

“Sacrificing yourself, in fact?” suggested she.

“And such is the nobility of my nature,” said Oswin, solemnly, but with a smile on his face which made Ethel’s heart beat fast, “that I’m enjoying the fine deed more than I’ve ever enjoyed anything in my life before.”

“Oh! ” cried Ethel, suddenly trying to free herself from the arm he still had round her shoulder, “there’s somebody at the door.” There had been no knock, no sound. But turning quickly, Oswin saw that the dark face of Luke, the Scamp, was peering at them from the doorway.

CHAPTER XXIV.

AN ACCIDENT.

Oswin stared at the man in surprise. Luke was not in his best clothes, and this intrusion, though not unprecedented on the Scamps part, was unusually informal.

“Luke, is that you? What do you want? ” asked Oswin, sharply.

Luke saluted him respectfully, but made no apologies. He seemed excited, and his black eyes flashed and his hands moved nervously up and doum the door as he advanced a step or two and said,—

“Could ye be afther telling me udiere I’ll find the master, sor-r? That owld Saxon thief Prickett won’t tell me where he is, so I’ve got to look for him.”

Oswin gathered from the man’s manner that something serious was in the wind, and he answered at once,—

“I haven’t seen him since dinner, Luke. What’s the matter?”

“Shure, it’s an accident I’ve had, sor-r,” said Luke, in a low voice, “that I must be afther tellin’ Mr. Laffan about.”

He had got no further with his explanation when Mrs. Cray, heralding her approach by muttered exclamations as she came across the hall, burst into the room.

She uttered a little scream on seeing Luke.

“The burglar? ” cried she, in alarm, as she ran to Oswin.

Luke turned that she might see his face, and frowned.

“Shure, no ma’am, I’m no burglar. I’m Luke and I want the master.”

“Mr. Laffan is in the drawing-room,” said Mrs. Cray, sitffly,when she had recovered from her momentary fright. “But as he would not let me in, I presume it would be useless for you to attempt to enter.”

“I’ll be afther thrying, anyhow! ” muttered Luke, as he saluted and went out of the room.

Mrs. Cray, angry and excited, crossed the room and seated herself on the sofa.

“I simply give up trying to understand the people of this place,” she said tartly, while Oswin listened politely, and Ethel slunk away into the background. “I wish to see Mr. Laffan, and he shuts himself up with my daughter and his own infamous friend, this Sir Michael O’Whatever he calls himself. I try to see his wife, and I am directed to come in here and wait till she comes. But of course she won’t come; she won’t dare to appear.”

“She’s coming now, mama, I think,” observed Ethel, who had caught the sound of Monica’s voice in the hall.

A moment later the door opened again, and Mrs. Laffan and Monica came in together. Monica, who w^as dressed in her outdoor things, seemed to be too feeble to stand without the support of old Mrs. Laffan’s kind arm.

“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, Mrs. Cray,” began Monica, gravely. “But I’ve been summoned away rather suddenly, and I had something to say to ”—she turned and smiled affectionately into the face of Martin’s mother —“to Mrs. Laffan before going.”

“My dear child! ” whispered the elder lady tenderly into her ear.

“Don’t call me that. I don’t deserve it,” whimpered Monica. “You know everything now, and you know I don’t. Ethel,” and she held out both hands towards the younger lady, ‘ ‘ good-by, dear. Nobody knows how good you are,” she went on, when Ethel had run across the room and taken her outstretched hands, “except me.”

‘‘ And me! ” said Oswin, with great unexpectedness.

And he came up behind Ethel, put his hands lightly on her shoulders, and lightly kissed her forehead.

Monica looked from the one to the other, and laughed aloud, in the face of her own distress. Poor Mrs. Jesmond-Cray, however, to whom this action came with all the force of a revelation, started up from the sofa, without breath for so much as a cry, and remained staring through her eyeglasses at Oswin and Ethel, her lips moving, but no words coming forth. Then, while Monica and Oswin and Ethel still laughed softly in each other’s faces, the poor woman sank down in her seat again, trembling, paralyzed by the blow.

“I understand,” said Monica, softly, as she looked from the one to the other of tire two friends who had helped her in her troubles. “But then I guessed, long ago, what was going to happen.”

Mrs. Cray found voice at last.

“I didn’t! ” she murmured faintly.

Oswin turned to her.

“I hope, Mrs. Cray, you have no objection to offer? ” said he.

Whereat Mrs. Cray, utterly nonplussed, could only shake her head, feeling that words were too weak to express the half of what she felt.

Everybody felt rather relieved when the sound of many voices in the hall turned their attention from the overwhelmed mother; the guilty pair who had brought her to such confusion retired to the end of the room, behind the billiard-table, as Martin, with Gladys on his arm, followed by Sir Michael, entered the room.

There sneaked in after them, without any noise, the Scamp, Luke, who took up a modest position near the door, behind the baronet, and stood there like a statue while his master spoke.

At the first sight of Monica, who had sunk down into a chair, where she sat with old Mrs. Laffan's kind arm about her, Martin had started forward as if to go to her. He resisted this impulse, however, and turned to Mrs. Jesmond-Cray.

“Mrs. Cray,” said he, and he patted the trembling hand of pretty Gladys, as if to tell her to take courage, “I’ve been taken into the confidence of a naughty boy and an exceedingly naughty girl, who want me to intercede for them with you, and explain something.”

Mrs. Cray rose nervously, and began to speak in a tremulous voice unlike her own.

“Really, Mr. Laffan, my daughters, both my daughters, and—and everybody, in fact, have been behaving so strangely this evening that you will have to explain very clearly to make me understand at all.”

“I will,” said Martin, gravely. “These unprincipled young people,” and he looked with an indulgent smile from Gladys to handsome Sir Michael, “in the delusion that they couldn’t get on without each other, and in the fear that they might suddenly be parted, resorted to the extreme measure of getting quietly married—’’

“Married! ” almost shrieked Mrs. Cray.

“Ten days ago, at a registry office,” added Martin.

Mrs. Cray moaned.

“A registry office! Only one degree better than jumping over a broomstick! ”

“Sure, mama, dear,” sang out Sir Michael, gaily, “we’re ready to do it over again. Gladys is rather sore over missing the cake.”

For the first time Gladys herself spoke. She was merry and happy under all her nervous tremors.

“Oh, Mike, I’m not! I hate sweet things. And besides, the cake always gets eaten up by the other people.”

Everybody began to laugh at her, while Gladys, very prettily escaping from Martin, went to her mother and kissed her into pardon.

While this was going on, Prickett came in, followed closely by old Beckingham, who was looking very jubilant.

“The carriage is at the door, ma’am,” said the butler.

“Yes, yes, I’m ready,” cried Monica, starting up.

Beckingham came down with a carefully-prepared face of condolence which deceived nobody.

“What’s this, what’s this, I hear? Monica obliged to go away suddenly? No family bereavement, I hope? ”

And he advanced his curious eyes close to her face.

Mrs. Laffan put herself between him and Monica.

“Oh, my dear child, must you go?” she whispered.

Beckingham, by no means put out by the snub he had received, trotted over to Mrs. Cray, and croaked out gleefully into her ear—

“Looks like a split up, doesn’t it, going away suddenfy like this? ”

Mrs. Cray, who disliked Monica, looked across at her severely.

“You don’t think she’ll come back?"she asked in a low voice.

Beckingham did his best not to chuckle.

“Well, so I’m beginning to hope—I mean think,” said he, hurriedly correcting himself on the last word.

“Monica, meanwhile, was preparing to make her farewells. She had left old Mrs. Laffan’s side, had passed Martin, who was looking at her with tender watchfulness, eloquent of his feelings, and was holding out her hand to Mrs. Cray, who took it coldly enough.

Then she turned to Beckingham, whose effusiveness was as oppressive as Mrs. Cray’s coldness had been.

“I do hope,” said he, as he held her unwilling hand in his, “that you won’t stay away from us very long? ”

At that moment there was a little involuntary movement and stir among the onlookers. It had been caused by no word, but by a sudden change in Martin’s face, which seemed to flash upon them all, as he raised his head and looked at Monica. Before she could get away from Beckingham, she found Martin’s hand upon hers, and it was he who disengaged her from the malevolent old man.

“You may be quite sure she won’t stay away long, uncle,” said he, in a clear voice that could be heard all over the room, “I can answer for it.”

Beckingham’s face fell a little. Mrs. Jes-mond-Cray spoke rather acidly.

“You allow your wife plenty of freedom, Mr. Laffan!”

Martin, without releasing Monica, who was faintly struggling to get away, turned to her with a commanding air.

“Not quite so much as you think, or as she expects, as you will see,” said he, very quietly, but with great firmness. He turned to the butler. “Prickett, the carriage won’t be wanted to-night.” Monica started violently, and tried in vain to withdraw her arm from his grasp. He only laughed a little, and, as if to support her, threw his arm round her waist. “You’re much too tired to start to-night, and it’s too late besides,” said he. “Put it off till the morning, and my mother will go with you." Mrs. Laffan and Monica exchanged glances of astonishment, but into the face of the elder lady there came a look of pride and pleasure at the manful tone her son was taking, for she felt that he knew where his happiness lay, and that he meant to keep it. “You see, Mrs. Cray,” went on Martin, quietly, with a tender glance down at the beautiful head that was bent under his gaze, “Monica wants a change of air badly. She’s been a good deal pulled down by her devotion to me while I was ill, and to-night she has had a great shock.” At that Monica uttered a little cry, and raising her head abruptly, tried to speak. Martin stopped her, good-humoredly putting his hand over her mouth, as he went on,—

“Sh—sh, I’ll explain. You must know, Mrs. Cray, there really was a burglar, as you thought. And Monica saw him, but wouldn’t alarm us by telling us of it. But—” As he went on, his supporting arm came more closely round Monica’s form, and he watched her intently as her agitation grew with every word, “he was seen and followed by a man.”

There was a muttered exclamation from Luke, who came forward at these words from his master. Monica looked .at him with a strained expression of awe, fear and horror in her'eyes, but she uttered no sound.

“By Luke here, in fact,” went on Martin. “Luke sent a shot after him ”—Monica drew a sharp breath—“just to frighten him—and— and—by accident, of course—”

He stopped, checked by the wild look in Monica’s eyes as she slowly turned them upon his face. Luke went on with his master’s broken speech briskly enough.

“By accident, of course,” said he, demurely, “I killed him.” Monica covered her face, and was saved from falling by Martin’s arms. “You don’t think they’ll be afther bringing it in more than manslaughter, do ye, sor-r? ” went on the Scamp, turning to his master.

Martin looked at him gravely.

“I think not, Luke. We’ll do our best for you,” he said.

Beckingham, who had grown livid with rage while this explanation went on, came down the room with his shuffling step, and addressed Monica in a tone the animosity of which was unmistakable.

“And pray, what does Mrs. Martin think of the killing of—of this man? ” asked he.

Martin quietly moved in such a way as to intercept Beckingham’s view of the shaken, trembling woman.

“She echoes my sentiments about it, as a good wife should,” said he.

With a long face and a crestfallen manner, Beckingham moved away.

“I shall go back to London to-morrow,” said he.

And nobody tried to persuade him to stay.

It was over, the revenge, the explanation. Monica was free to acknowledge her love, to give herself to the man who had won her heart by his generosity, who had forgiven her for her sin against himself, with noble pity and greatness of soul.

The tension which had been on the spirits of all the party was removed, and Oswin and Martin looked each other full in the eves with a frank smile.

“What about the desert island now, eh? ” asked the latter, with a merry glance at Ethel.

“I’m quite ready, if you can find one,” replied Oswin, imperturbably. “Only now I shouldn’t propose to go there alone! ”

“You’re cured,” said Martin, with a grave nod, as he unfastened Monica’s cloak.

There was an anxious time to be gone through still; there were difficulties to be faced and overcome before Monica could come back to the home of the man who loved her, his wife in fact as she had already been in name. But they could now be content to wait, sure each of the other’s heart, and of the happiness to come.

THE END.