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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

CHAPTER L

The time was July, and the roses were out in great pro-
fusion in tlie rectory garden. The garden was large,
somewhat untidily kept, hut it abounded in all sweet old-
fashioned flowers ; there was the invariable tennis-court,
empty just now, and a sweet sound of children laughing and
playing together, in a hay-field near by. The roses were
showering their petals all overthe grass, and two girls,
sisters evidently, were pacing up the broad walk in the
centre of the garden arm-in-arm. Tiiey were dark-eyed
girls, with chestnut, curling hair, rosy lips full of curves
and smiles, and round, good-humored faces. They were
talking eagerly and excitedly one to the other, not taking
the smallest notice of the scene around them — not even
replying when some children in the hay field shouted their
names, but coming at last to a full stand-still before the
open window of the old-fashioned rectory study. Two
men were standing under thedeep-mullioned window ; one
tall, slightly bent, with silvery-white hair, aquiline features,
and dark brown eyes like the girls. He was the Rector of
Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and the man he was addressing was
his only son, and the brother of the eager bright-looking
girls.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

i .^

*■ '*"■' f,

" I can't understand it, Gerald," he was saying. " No,
don't come in at present, my dears ; " he waved his white,
delicate hand to his daughters. " We'll join you in the
tennis-court presently. Yes, Gerald, as I was saying, it
SiCems the most incomprehensible and unheard-of arrange-
ment."

The girls smiled gently, first into their brother's face,
then at one another. They moved away, going through a
little shrubbery, and passing out into a large kitchen garden,
where Betty, the old cook, was now standing, picking
raspberries and currants into a pie-dish.

" Betty," said Lilias, the eldest girl, " has Martha dusted
our trunks and taken them upstairs yet ? And has Susan
sent up the luces and the frilled things ? We want to set
to work packing, as soon as ever the children are in bed."

'* Bless your hearts, then," said old Betty, laying her pie-
dish on the ground, and dropping huge ripe raspberries into
it with a slow deliberate movement, " if you think that
children will go to bed on the finest day of the year any
time within reason, you're fine and mistook, that's all.
Why, Miss Joey, she was round in the garden but now,
and they're all a-going to have tea in the hay-field, and no
end of butter they'll eat, and a whole batch of my fresh
cakes. Oh, weary, weary me, but children's mouths are
never full — chattering, restless^ untoward things are child-
ren. Don't you never go to get married, Miss ATarjory."

* I'll follow your example, Betty," laughed back Mar-
jory Wyndham. " I kn^ n that would fetch the old thing,"
she continued, turning to her sister. " She does hate to
be reminded that she's an old maid, but she brings it on
herself by abusing matrimony in that ridiculous fashion."

" It's all because of Gerald," answered Lilias — " she is
perfectly wild 'j think of Gerald's going away from us, and
taking up his abode in London with those rich Pagets. I
ciU it odious, too — I almost feel to-night as if I hated Va-

A LIFE FOR A LOVE, 7

lentine. If Gerald had not fallen in love with her, things
would have been different. He'd have taken Holy Orders,
and he'd have been ordained for the curacy of Jewsbury-
on-the-Wold, and then he need never have gone away. Oh,
I hate — I detest to think of the rectory without Gerald."

"Oh, Lilias,'' replied Marjory, "you really are — you
really — you really are "

'* What, miss? Speak out, or I'll shake you, or pinch
you, or do something malicious. I warn you that I am
quite in the mood."

" Then I'll stand here," said Marjory, springing to the
other side of a great glowing bed of many-colored aweet-
williams. " Here your arm can't reach across these. I
will say of you, I^ilias Wyndham, that you are without ex-
ception the most contradictory and inconsistent person of
my acquaintance. Here were you, a year ago, crying and
sobbing on your knees because Gerald couldn't marry
Valentine, and now, when it's all arranged, and the wedding
is to be the day after to-morrow, and we have got our pro-
mised trip to London, and those lovely brides-maid dresses
— made by Valentiiie's own express desire at Elise's — you
turn round and are grumpy and discontented. Don't you
know, you foolish silly Lilias, that if Gerald hod never
fallen in love with Valentine Paget h'^'d have met someone
else, and i^he was father's curate, tho^.e horrid Mortimer
girls and those ugly Pelhams would have one and all tried
to get him. We can't keep Gerald to ourselves for ever,
so there's no use fretting about the inevitable, say I."

Lilias' full red lips were pouting ; she stooped, and reck-
lessly gathering a handful of sweet-williams, flung them at
her sister.

" I own to being inconsistent," she said. *' I own to
being cross — I own to hating Valentine for this night at
least, for it just tears my heart to give Gerald up."

There were real tears now in the bright, curly-fringed
eyes ^nd the would-be-defiant voice trembled.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

Marjory shook the sweet-william petals off her dress.

" Come into the house," she said in a softened tone.
** Father and Gerald must have finished that prosy discus-
sion by now. Oh, do hark to those children's voices ;
what rampageous, excitable creatuics they are. Lily, did
we ever shout in such shrill tones ? That must be Augusta ;
no one else has a voice which sounds like the scraping of
a coal-scoop in an empty coal-hod. Oh, of course that
high laugh belongs to Joey. Aren't they feeding, and
wrangl;ng, and fighting? I am quite sure, Lil, that Betty
is right, and ihey won't turn in for hours ; we had better
go and do our packing now."

" No, I see Gerald," exclaimed LiHas. And she flew up
the narrow box-lined path to meet her brother.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER II.

Gerald Wyndham was not in the least like his rosy,
fresh-looking sisters. He was tall and slenderly made, with
very tliick and rather light-brown hair, which stood up
high over his low, white forehead — his eyes were large, but
were deeply set, they were grey, not brown, in repose were
dreaming in expression, but when he spoke, or when any
special thought came to him, they grew intensely earnest,
luminous and beautiful. The changing expression of his
eyes was the chief charm of a highly sensitive and refined
face — a face remarkable in many ways, for the breadth of
his forehead alone gave it character, but with some weak
lines about llie finely cut h'ps. This weakness was now,
Jiowever, hidden by a long, silken moustache. Lilias and
Marjory thought Gerald's face the most beautiful in the
world, and most people acknowledged him to be handsome,
although his shoulders were scarcely broad enough for his
height; and his whole figure was somewhat loosely hung
together. -

" Here you are at last," exclaimed liilias, linking her
hand in her brother's arm. " Here, take his other arm,
Majjgie. Oh, when, and oh, when, and oh, when shall we
have him to oursjlves again, I wonder? "

" You little goose,'' said Gerald. He shook himself as
if he were half in a dream, and looked fondly down into
Lilias' pretty dimpled, excitable face. *' Well, girls, are the
trunks packed, and have you put in plenty of finery? I
Ipromise you Mr. Paget will give a dinner-party every night

-you'll want heaps of fine clothes while you stay at
Queen's Gate." • •

Marjory began to count on her fingers. |

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

iil

'* We arrive on Wednesday," she said. "On Wednes-
day evening, dinner number one, wc wear our white Indian
muslins, with the Liberty sashes, and flowers brought up
from the dear old garden. Thursday evening, dinner num-
ber two, and evening of wedding day, our bridesmaids'
toggery must suffice ; Friday, dinner number three, those
blue nun's veiling dresses will, appear and charm the eyes.
That's all. Three dresses for three dinners, for it's home,
sweet home again on Saturday — isn't it, Lilias ? "

" Of course," said Lilias, " that is, I suppose so," she
added, glancing at her brother.

** Valentine wanted to know if you would stay in town
for a week or ten days, and try to cheer up her father,"
said Gerald. " Mr. Paget nnd Valentine have scarcely
been parted for a single day since she was born. Valen-
tine is quite in a state at having to leave him for a month,
and she thinks two bright little girls like you may comfort
him somewhat."

'"'■ But we have our own fatlier to see to,'' pouted Marjory ;
*' and Sunday school, and choir practising, and the library
books "

"And I don't see how Valentine can mind leaving her
father — if he were the very dearest father in the world —
when she goes away with you," interrupte/", Lilias.

Gerald sighed, just the faintest shadow of an impatient
sigh, accompanied by the slightest shrug of his shoulders.

" Augusta can give out the library books," he said.
" Miss Queen can manage the choir. I will ask Jones to
take your class, Lilias, and Miss Peters can manage yours
with her own^ Marjory. As to the rector, what is the use
of having five young daughters, if thev cannot be made
available for once in a way? And here they come, and
there's the governor in the midst of them. He doesn't
look as if he were likely to taste the sweets of solitude, eh,
Marjory ? "

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

Not at that moment, certainly, for a girl hung on each
arm, and a smaller girl sat aloft on each square shoulder,
while a fifth shouted and raced, now in front, now behind,
pelting this moving pyramid of human beings with flowers,
and screaming even more shrilly than her sisters, with eager
exclamation and bubbling laughter.

" There's Gerry," exclaimed Augusta.

She was the tallest of the party, with a great stretch of
stockinged legs, and a decided scarcity of skirts. She flew
at her brother, flung her arms round his neck and kissed
him rapturously.

" You darling old Gerry — don't we all just hate and
detest that horrible Valentine Paget."

*' Hush, Gussie," responded Gerald, in his quiet voice.
" You don't know Valentine, and you pain me when you
talk of her in that senseless fashion. Here, have a race
with your big brother to the other end of the garden.
Girls," turning to his elder sisters — " seriously speaking I
should like you to spend about a fortnight with the Pagets.
And had you not better go and pack, for we must catch
the eleven o'ciciV train to-morrow morning. Now, Gussie
— one, two, three, and away."

Two pairs of long legs, each working hard to come off
victorious in the race, flew past the group — the rector and
the little girls cheered and shouted — Marjory and Lilias,
laughing at the sight, turned slowly and went into the
house ; Gerald won the race by a foot or two, and Gussie
flung herself panting and laughing on the grass at the other
end of the long walk.

** Well done, Augusta," said her brother. " You study
athletics to a purpose. Now, Gussie, can't you manage to
give away the library books on Sunday ? "

" I ? You don't mean it ? " said Augusta. Her black
eyes sparkled; she recovered her breath, and the full
dignity of her five feet five and a-half of growth on the

'■■•mi

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

instant. " Am I to give away the library books, Gerry ? "

" Yes, I want Lilias to stay in London for a few days
longer than she intended."

" And Marjory too ? "

" Of course. The girls would not like to be parted."

" Galuptions ! Won't I have a time of it all round 1
Won't I give old Peters a novel instead of his favorite
Sunday magazines? And won't I smuggle Pailey's Evi-
dences of Christianity into the hind of Alice Jones, the
dressmaker. She says the only books she cares for are
Wilkie Collins' ' Woman in White,' and the ' Dead Secret,'
so she'll have a lively time of it with the Evidences. Then'
there's * Butler's Analogy,' it isn't in the parish library,
but I'll borrow it for once from father's study. That will
exactly suit Rhoda Fleming. Oh, what fun, what fun. I
won't take a single story-book with me, except the * Woman
in White,' for Peters. He says novels are ' rank poison,' so
he shall have his dose."

'' Now look here, Gussie," said Gerald, taking his sister's
two hands in his, and holding them tight — " you've got to
please me about the library books, and not to play pranks,
and make things disagreeable for Lilias when she comes
back. You're thirteen now, and a big girl, and you ought
to act like one. You're to make things comfortable for the
dear old paler while we are all away, and you'll do it if
you care for me, Gussie."

** Care for you ! " echoed Augusta. " I love you, Gerry,
1 love you, and I hate "

"No, don't say that," said Gerald, putting his hand on
the gill's mouth."

Gussie looked droll and submissive.

*' It is so funny," she exclaimed at length.

'^ You can explain that as we walk back to the house,"
responded her brother.

" Why, Gerry, to see you so frightfully in love ! You

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

are, aren't you ? You have all the symptoms — oh, before
I "

•* I love Valentine," responded Gerald. •* That is a sub-
ject I cannot discuss with you, Augusta. Wlicn you know
her you will love her too. I am going to Sring her here in
the autumn, and then I shall want you all to be good to her,
and to let her feel that she has a great number of real sisters
at Jewsbury-on-thc-W )ld, who will be good to iier if she
needs them, by-and-bye."

"As if she ever rould need us," responded Gussie.
".She'll have you. Yes, I'll do my best about the books —
good-night, Gerald. Good-night, dear old darling king.
That's Miss Queen's voice. Coming, Miss Queen, coming !
Good-nigiU, <jld liciry. My 1(jvc lo lluil Val uf yours. Oh,
what a luiisancc il is to liave ever to go to bed."

Gussie's long legs soon bore her out of sight; and Gerald
•stepped into the silent and now empty study. To an
initiated eye this, room bore one or two marks of having
lately witnessed a mental storm. Clfjse to the rector's
leather arjnchiir l;iy a pile of carefully torn-up papers — the
family Bible, which usually occu[)ied a place o' honor on
his desk, had been pushed ruthlessly on one side, and a
valuable work on theology lay wide open and face down-
wards v,n the IIo;)r. Otherwise the room was in perfect
order — the only absolutely neat apartment in the large old
house. Not the most daring of all the young Wyndhams
would disturb a volume here, or play any wild pranks in
the sacred precincts of the rector's study. As Gerald now
entered the room and saw these signs of mental disquiet
roimd Mr. NVyndham's chair, the pleasant and somewhat
ciieerful look left his face, his eyes grew dark, earnest and
full of trouble, and flinging himself on the sofa, he shaded
them with his white long fingers. There was an oil paint-
ing of a lady over the mantel-piece, and this lady had
Gerald's face. From her he inherited those peculiar and

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

sensitive eyes, tliose somewhat hollow cheeks, and that
noble and broad white brow. From her, too, came the lii)s
which were curved and beautiful, and yet a little, a little
wanting in firmness. In Mrs. VVyndham the expressive
mouth only added the final touch of womanliness to a
beautiful face. In her son it would have revealed, could it
have been seen, a nature which might be led astray from
the strictest paths of honor.

Wyndham sat motionless for a few moments, then spring-
ing to his feet, he paced restlessly up and down the empty
study.

" Everything is fixed and settled now," he said, under
his breath. " I'm not the first fellow who has sold himself
for the sake of a year's happiness. If my mother were
alive, though, I couldn't have done it, no, not even for
Valentine. Poor mother ! She felt sure I'd have taken
Holy Orders, and worked on here with the governor in this
sleepy little corner of the world. It's a blessing she can't
be hurt by anything now, and as to the governor, he has
seven girls to comfort him. No, if I'm sorry for any-
one it's Lilias, but the thing's done now. The day
after to-morrow Val will be mine. A whole year ! My
God, how short it is. My God, save and pity me, for
afterwards comes hell."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER HI.

The human face has been often spoken of as an index of
the mind. There are people who boldly declare that they
know a man by the height of his l.rehead, by the set of
his eyes, by the shape of his head, and by the general ex-
pression of his countenance. Whether this rule is true or
not, it certainly has its exceptions. As far as outward
expression goes some minds remain locked, and Satan him-
self can now and then appear transformed as an angel of
light.

Mortimer Paget, Esq., the head and now sole represen-
tative of the once great ship-broking firm of Paget Bro-
thers, was one of the handsomest and most striking-look-
ing men in the city. On more than one occasion sculptors
of renown had asked to be permitted to lake a cast of his
head to represent Humanity, Benevolence, Integrity, or
some other cardinal virtue. He had a high forehead, calm
velvety brown eyes, perfectly even and classical features,
and firm lips with a sweet expression. His lips were per-
fectly hidden by his silvery moustache, and the shape of
his chin was not discernible, owing to his long flowing
beard. But had the beard and moustache both been re-
moved, no fault could have been found with the features
now hidden — they were firmly and well-moulded. On this
beautiful face no trace of a sinister cast lurked.

Mortimer Paget in his business transactions was the
soul of honor. No man in the city was more looked up to
than he. He was very shrewd with regard to all money
matters, but he was also generous and kind. The old
servants belonging to the firm never cared to leave him ;

If)

A LIFE FOR A I.OVE.

when they died off he pensioned their widows and pro-
vided for their orphans. He was a religious man, of the
evangelical type, and he conducted his household in every
way from a religious point of view. Family prayers were
held night and mornin«» in the great house in Queen's
Gate, and the servants were expected each and all to
attend church twice on Sundays. Mr. Paget had found a
church where the ritual was sufficiently low to please his
religious views. To this church he went himself twice on
Sundays, invariably accompanied by a tall girl, richly
dressed, who clung to his side and read out of the same
book with him, singing when he sang, and very often slip-
ping her little hand into his, and closing her bright eyes
wlien he napped unconsciously during the prosy sermon.

This girl was his only child, and while he professed to
be actuated by the purest love for both God and his fellow
creatures, the one being for whom his heart really beat
warmly, the one being for whom he could gladly have
sacrificed himself was this solitary girl.

Valentine's mother had died at her birth, and since that
day Valentine and her father had literally never been
parted. She was his shadow, like him in appearance, and
as far as those who knew her could guess like him in
character.

The house in Queen's Gate was full of all the accom-
])animents of wealth. It was richly and splendidly fur-
nished ; the drawing-rooms were spacious, the reception,
rooms were all large. Valentine had her own bou-
doir, her own special school-room, her own bedroom
and dressing-room. Her father had provided a suite
of rooms for her, each communicating with the other,
but except that she tossed off her handsome dresses in the
dressing-room, and submitted at intervals during the day
with an unwilling grace to the services of her maid, and
excopt that she laid her bright little curling head each

W LIFE FOR A rOl'F.,

evening on the softest of down-pillows, Valentine's suite of
roms saw very little of their young mistress.

There was an old library in the back part of the house
— an essentially dull room, with windows fitted with
painted glass, and shelves lined with books, most of them
in tarnished and wonn-caton bindings, where Mr. Paget
sat wiiencver he was at home, and where in consequence
Valentine was to be foinul. Her suni^y head, with its
golden wavy liair, made a bright spot in the old room.
She was fond of pcrcb.ing herself on the toj) of the step-
ladder, and so seated burrowing eagerly into the contents
of some musty old volume. She devoured the novels of
Smollett and Fielding, and many other books which were
supposed not to be at all good for her, in this fashion — •
they did her no harm, the bad i)art falling away, and not
touching her, for her nature was very pure and bright, and
although she saw many shades of life in one way or
another, and with all her expensive education, was allowed
to grow up in a somewhat wild fashion, and according to
her own sweet will, yet she was a perfectly innocent and
unsophisticated creature. •

When she was seventeen, Mr. Paget told her that he
was going to inaugurate a new state of things.

•' You must go into society, Val," he said. " In these
days the daughters of city men of old standing like myself
are received everywhere. I will get your mother's third
cousin, Lady Prince, to present you at the next Drawing-
room, and then you must go the usual round, I suppose.
We must get some lady to come here to chaperon you,
and you will go out to balls and assemblies, and during the
London season turn night into day."

Val was seated on the third rung of the step-ladder
when her father made this announcement. She sprang
lightly from her perch now, and ran to his side.

// TIFF. FOR A rOVF.

** I won't go .'inywhcre wiiliout yon, dad ; so that's
settled. Puor old man ! -dear old man ! "

SIk- put her arms round his neck, and his white mous-
tache and beard swept across her soli, peach-like cheek.

" But I hate going out in the evening, Val. I'm getting
nn old man — sixl)- next birthday, my dear — and I wi)ik
hard all day. There's no place so sweet to mc in tlii
evening as this worm-eaten, old armchair ; — I should find
myself lo.st in a crowd. Time was when I was the ga\ rst
of the gay. People used to speak of me as the life ami
soul of every ])arty I went to, but that lime is over for me,
Val; for you it is beginning.''

'* You are mistaken, father. I perch myself on the arm
of this wretched, worm-eaten, old chair, and stay here with
you, or I go into society with you. It's all the same to
me — you can please yourself.''

" Don't you know that you arc a very sancy lass, miss? "

" Am I ? I reaiiy don't care — I go with you, or I stay
with you — that's understood. Dad —father dear — that's
always to be the way, you understand. You and I are to
be always together — all our lives. You quite see what I
mean ? "

" Yes, my darling. But some day you will have a hus-
band, Val. I want you to marry, and have a good husband,
child ; and then we'll see if your old father still comes
first."

Valentine laughed gaily^

" We'll see," she repeated. '* Father, if you are not
awfully busy, I must read you this bit out of Roderick
Random — listen, is not it droll? "

She fetched the volume with its old-fashioned type and
obsolete s'es, and the two faces so alike and so beautiful,
and so full of love for one another, bent over the page.

Valentine Paget had her way, and when she made her
dibut in the world of fashion she was accompanied by no

/I LIFE FOR A I.OVE.

Ind ; so tlint's

other chaperon than her handsome fatiicr. A Mrs. John-
stone, a distant relative of Valentine's mother had l>cen
asked to come to drive with the young lady in the l*arks,
and to exercise a very mild surveillance over her conduct
generally, when she received her visitors at five o'clock
tea, but in the evenings Mr. Paget alone took her into
society. The pair were striking enough to jiiake an instant
success. Kach acted as a foil and heightener t«) the beauty
of the other. Mortimer Paget was recognized by some (jf
his old cronies- -fair ladies who had known him when he
was young, reproaciied him gently for having worn so well,
professed to take a great interest in his girl, and watched
her with narrow, critical, but not unkindly eyes. The girl
was fresh and naive, perfectly free and untrammelled, a
tiny bit i.'ckless, a lillle out of the common. Her handsome
face, her somewhat isolated j)osition, and her rci)Uted
fortune, for Mortimer Paget was supposed to Le one of the
ijchest men in the city, soon made her the fashi(j^). Valen-
tine Paget, in her first season, was spoken about, talked
over, acknowledged to be a beauty, and had, of course,
plenty of lovers.

No one could have taken a daughter's success with
more apparent calmness than did her fither. He never
interfered with her — he never curbed her light and graceful,
although somewhat eccentric, ways ; but when any particu-
lar young man had i)aid her marked attention for more
than two nights ruiming, Jiad anyone watched closely they
might have seen a queer, alert, anxious look come into the
fine old face. The slee[)y brown eyes would awake, and
be almost eagle-like in the keenness of their glance. No
one knew how it was done, but about that possible suitor
inquiries of the closest and most delicate nature were
instantly set on foot : and as these inquiries, from Mr.
Paget's point of view, in each case proved eminc.itly
unsc.iisfactory, when next the ardent lover met the beauti-

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

ful Miss Paget, a thin but impenetrable wall of ice seemed
to have started up between them. Scarcely any of Valen-
tine's lovers came to the point of proposing for her;
they were quietly shelved, they scarcely knew how, long
before matters arrived at this crisis. Young men who in
all respects seemed eligible of the eligible — men with good
names and rent-rolls, alike were given a sort of invisible
conge. The news was therefore received as a most startling
piece of information at the end of Valentine's fust season,
that she was engaged, with the full consent and approval
of her most fastidious father, lo about the poorest man of
her acquaintance.

Gerald Wyndham was the only son of a country clergy-
man — he was young, only twenty-two ; he was spoken about
as clever, but in the eyes of Valentine's friends seemed to
have no one special thing to entitle him to aspire to the
hand of one of the wealthiest and most beautiful girls of
their acquaintance.

It was reported among iMr. Paget's friends that this
excellent, honorable and worthy gentleman must surely
have taken leave of his senses, for Gerald Wyndham had
literally not a penny, and before his engagement to Valen-
tine, the modest career opening up before him was that of
Holy Orders in one of its humblest walks.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

CHAPTER IV.

Wyndham before his engagement was one of the most
boyish of men. All the sunshine, the petting, the warmth,
the love, which encircled liini as the prime favorite of many
sisters and an adoring fatiier at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold,
seemed to have grown into his face. His deep grey-blue
changeful eyes were always laughing — he was witty, and he
said wiity and laughable things by the score. The young
man had plenty of talent, and a public school and universi-
ty education had developed these abilities to a fine point of
culture. His high spirits, and a certain Irish way which he
inherited from his mother, made him a universal favorite,
but at all times he had his grave moments. A look, a word
would change that beaming, expressive face, bring sadness
to the eyes, and seriousness to the finely curved lips. The
I shadows passed as quickly as they came. Before Wynd-
ham met Valentine they were simply indications of the
sensitiveness of a soul which was as keenly strung to pain
as to joy.

It is a trite saying that v/hpt i< easliy attained is esteemed
of little value. Valentine found lovers by the score; in
consequence, the fact of a man paying her attention, look-
ing at her with admiration, and saying pretty nothings in
her ear, gave her before her first season was over only a
slightly added feeling of ennui. At this juncture in her
life she was neither in love \vith her lovers nor with society.
She was younger than most girls when they make their
entrance into the world, and she would infinitely have
preferred the sort of half schoolroom, half nursery existence
she used to lead. She yawned openly and wished for bed

A LIFE FOR A LOVF..

wlien she was dragged out night after night, and when fresli
suitors appeared slie began really to regard them as a
weariness to the flesh.

Gerald Wyndham did not meet Valentine in quite the
ordinary fashion.

On a certain hot day in July, she had been absolutely
naughty, the heat had enervated her, the languor of summer
was over her, and after a late dinner, instead of going duti-
fully upstairs to receive some final touches from her maid,
before starting for a great crush at the house of a city
magnate near by, she had flown away to the library, turned
on the electric light, and mounting the book-iadder
perch-^d herself on her favorite topmost rung, took down
her still more favori?;e *' Evelina," and buried herself in its
fascinating pa-^es. Past and present were both alike for-
gotten by the young reader, she hated society for herself,
but she loved to read of Evelina's little triumphs, and Lord
Orville was quite to her taste.

" If I could only meet a man like him," she murmured,
flinging down her book, and looking across the old library
with her starry eyes, " Oh, father, dear, how you startled
me ! Now, listen, please. I will not go out to-ni^ht — I am
sleepy — I am tired — I am yawning dreadfully. Oh, what
have I said ? — how rude of you, sir, to come and startle
me in that fashion ! "

For Valentine's light words had not been addressed to
Mr. Prget, but to a young man in evening dress, a perfect
stranger, who came into the room, and was now looking up
and actually laughing it her.

" li ow rude of you," said Valentine, and she began hast-
ily to descend from her elevated ])osition. In doing so she
slipped, and would have fallen if VV^yndham had not come
to the rescue, coolly lifting the enraged young lady into his
arms and setting her on the floor.

" Now I will beg your pardon as often as you like," he
said. " I was shown in here by a servant. I am waiting

// I IFF. FOR A LOVF.

for Mr. Paget — I was introduced to hitn this morning — my
father turns out to ])c an old friend, and he was good enough
to ask me to go with you both to the Terrells to-night."

"Dehghtful!" said Valentine. "I'll forgive you, of
course; you'll take the dear old man, and I'll stay snugly
at home. I'm so anxious to finish ' Evelina.' Have you
ever read the book ? — Don't you love LordOrville ? "

^' No, I love Evelina best," replied (ierald.

The two i)airs of eyes met, both were full of laughter, and
both, pairs of lips were indulging in merry peals of mirth
when Mr. Paget entered the room.

"There you are, Val," he said. " V'ou have introduced
yourself to Wyndham. Quite right. Now, was there ever
anything more provoking? I have just received a tele-
gram." Here Mr. Paget showed a yellow envelope. " I
must meet a business man at Charing Cross in an hour, on
a matter of some importance. I can't put it off, and so,
Val, 1 don't see how I am to send you to the Terrells all
alone. It is too bad — why, what is the matter, child } "

■' Too delightful, you mean," said Valentine. " I wasn't
going. I meant to commit high treason to-night. I was quite
determined to — now I needn't. Do you mean to go to the
Terrells by yourself, Mr. Wyndham ? "

" The pleasure held out was to go with you and your
father," responded Wyndham, with an old-fashioned bow,
and again that laughing look in his eyes.

Mr. Paget's benevolent face beamed all over.

" Go up to the drawing-room, then, young folks, and
amuse yourselves," he said. " Our good friend, Mrs. John-
stone, will bear you comi)any. Val, you can sing some-
tliing to Wyndham to make up for his disappointment.
She sings like a bird, and is vain of it. little puss. Yes, go
away, both of you, and make the best of things."

'* The best of things is to remain here," said Valentine.
" I hate the drawing-room, and that dear, good Mrs. John-

«4

/f IIFF. FOR A TOVE,

stone, if she must act chaperon, can bring her knitting down
here. I am so sorry for you, Mr. Wyndham, but I don't
mean to sing a single song to-night. Had you not better
go to the Terrells ? "

** No, I mean to stay and read * EveHna,'" repHed the
obdurate young man.

Mr. Paget laughed again. ^

" 1 will send our good friend, Mrs. Johnstone, to make
tea for you," he said, and ho hurried out of the room.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

CHAPTER V.

This was the very light and airy begiiming of a friendship
which was to ripen into serious and even appalling results.
Wyndham was a man wlio found it very easy to make girls
like him. He had so many sisters of his own that he under-
stood their idiosyncrasies, and knew how to humor their
little failings, how to be kind to their small foibles, and how
to flatter their weaknesses. More than one girl had fallen
in love with this handsome and attracti'^e young man.
Wyndham was aware of these passionate attachments, but
as he could not feel himself particularly guilty in having
inspired them, and as he did not in the slightest degree
return them, he did not make himself unhappy over what
could not be cured. It puzzled him not a little to know
why girls should be so silly, and how hearts could be so
easily parted with — he did not know when he questioned
his own spirit lightly on the matter that the day of retribu-
tion was at hand. He lost his own heart to Valentine with-
out apparently havipg made the smallest impression upon
this bright and seemingly volatile girl.

On that very first night in the old library Wyndham left
his heart at the gay girl's feet. He was seriously in love.
Before a week was out he had taken the malady despe-
rately, and in its most acute form. It was then that a
change came over his face, it was then for the first time
that he became aware of the depths of his own nature.
Great abysses of pain were opened up to him — he found
himself all sensitiveness, all nerves. He had been proud
of his rather athletic bringing-up, of his intellectual train-
ing. He had thought poorly of other men who had given

46 A LIFE FOK A tOVE.

up all for the sake of a girl's smile, and for the rather
doubtful possession of a girl's fickle heart. He did not
laugh at them any longer. He spent his nights pacing his
room, and his days haunting the house at Queen's Gate. If
he could not go in \vi could linger near the house. He could
lounge in the park and see Valentine as she drove past,
and nodded and smiled to him brightly. His own face
turned pale when sJie gave him those quick gay glances.
She was absolutely heart-whole — a certain intuition told him
this, whereas he — he found himself drivelling into a state
bordering on idiotcy.

Almost all men have gone through similar crises, but
Wyndham at this time was making awful discoveries. He
was finding out day by day the depths of weakness as well
as pain within him.

" I'm the greatest fool that ever breathed," he would say
to himself '* What would Lilias say if she saw me now ?
How often she and I have laughed over this great momen-
tous matter — how often we have declared that we at least
would never lose ourselves in so absurd a fashion. Poor
Lilias, I suppose her turn will come as mine has come — I
cannot understand myself — I really must be raving mad.
How dare I go to Mr. Paget and ask him to give me Valen-
tine ? I have not got a halfpenny in the world. This
money in my pocket is my father's — I have to come to him
for every sixpence ! I am no better off than my little sister
Joan. When I am ordained, and have secured the curacy
of Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, I shall have exactly £i6o a
year. A large sum truly. And yet I want to marry Valen-
tine Paget — the youngest heiress of the season — the most
beautiful — the most wealthy ! Oh, of course I must be mad
— quite mad. I ought to shun her like the plague. She
does not in the least care for me — not in the least. I often
wonder if she has got a heart anywhere. She acts as a sort
pf siren to me — luring me on — weakening and enfeebling

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

my whole nature. Slie i.. a little flirt in her way, but an
unconscious one. She means nothing by that bright look
in her eyes, and that sparkling smile, and that gay clear
laugh. I wonder if any other man iuist'elt as badly about
her as I do. Oh, I ou^lil lo shun her — I am simply mad
to go there as I do. When I get an invitation — when I iiave
the ghost of a chance of seeing her — it seems as if thousands
of invisible ropes i)ulled me to her side. What is to come
of it all? Nothing — nothing but my own undoing. I can
never marry her — and yet I must — I will. I would go
through fire and water to hold her to my heart for a moment.
There, I must have been quite mad when I said that — 1
didn't mean it. I'm sane now, absolutely sane. I know
what I'll do. I won't dine there to-night. I'll send an
excuse, and I'll run down to the old rectory until Monday,
and get Lilias to cure me."

The infatuated young man seized a sheet of notepaper,
dashed off an incoherent and decidedly lame excuse to
Mr. Paget, and trembling with fear that his resolution
would fail him even at the eleventh hour, rushed out and
dropped the letter into the nearest pillar-box. This action
was bracing, he felt better, and in almost gay spirits, for
his nature was wonderfully elastic. He took the next train
to Jewsbury, and arrived unexpectedly at the pleasant old
rectory late on Saturday evening.

The man who is made nothing of in one place, and finds
himself absolutely the hero of the hour in another, cannot
help experiencing a very Foothed sensation. Valentine
Paget had favored Gerald with the coolest of nods, the
lightest of words, the most indifferent of actions. She met
him constantly, she was always stumbling up against him,
and when she wanted him to do anything for her she issued
a brief and lordly command. Her abject slave flew to do
her bidding.

Now at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold the slave was in the posi-
tion of master, and he could not help enjoying the change.

.\\
il

f
si

A LIFE FOR // LOVE.

*' Augvista, wheel that chair round for Gerald. Sit there,
Gerald, darling — oh, you are in a draught. Shut the door,
please, Marjory. Joan, run to the kitciien, and tell Betty
to make some of Gerald's favorite cakes for supper. Is
your tea quite right, Gerry ; liave you sugar enough — and
— and cream ? "

Gerald briefly expressed himself satisfied. Lilias was
superintending the tea-tray with a delicate flush of pleasure
on her cheeks, and her bright eyes glancing moment by
moment in admiration at her handsome brother. Marjory
had i)laced herself on a footstool at the hero's feet; and
Augusta, tall and gawky, all stockinged-legs, and abnor-
mally thin long arms, was standing at the back of his
chair, now and then venturing to caress one of his crisp
light waves of hair with the tips of her fingers.

"It is too provoking!" burst from Marjory, — "you
know, Lilias, we can't put Gerald into his old room, it is
being papered, and you haven't half-finished decorating the
door. Gerry, darling, you might have let us know you
were coming and we'd have worked at it day and night.
Do you mind awfully sleeping in the spare room ? We'll
promise to make it as fresh as possible for you ? "

" I'll — I'll — fill the vases with flowers — " burst spasmo-
dically from Augusta. " Do you like roses or hollyhocks
best in the tall vases on the mantel-piece, Gerry ? "

*' By the way, Gerald," remarked the rector, who was
standing leaning against the mantel-piece, gazing compla-
cently at his son and daughters, " I should like to ask
your opinion with regard to that notice on Herring's book
in the Saturday. Have you read it ? It struck me as over
critical, but I should like to have your opinion."

So the conversation went on, all adoring, all making much
of the darling of the house. Years afterwards, Gerald
Wyndham remembered that summer's evening, the scent
of the roses coming in at the open window, the touch of
Marjory's little white hand as it rested on his knee, the

Hi,

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

kind of half-irritated, half-pleased thrill which went through
him when Augusta touched his hair, the courteous and
proud look on the rector's face when he addressed him,
above all the glow of love in Lilias' beautiful eyes. He
remembered that evening — he was not likely ever to forget
it, for it was one of the last of his happy boyhood, before
he took upon him his manhood's burden of sin and sorrow
and shame.

After tea Lilias and Gerald walked about the garden arm-
in-arm.

" I am going to confess something to you," said tlie
brother. " I want your advice, Lilly. I want you to cure
me, by showing me that I am the greatest fool that ever
lived."

" But you are not, Gerald ; I can't say it when I
look up to you, and think there is no one like you. You
are first in all the world to me — you know that, don't
vou?"

" Poor Lil, that is just the point — that is where the arrow
will pierce you. I am going to aim a blow at you, dear.
Take me down from your pedestal at once — I love some-
one else much, much better than 1 love you."

Lili s' hand as it rested on Gerald's arm trembled very
slightly. He looked at her, and saw that her lips were
moving, and that her eyes were looking downwards.
She did not make any audible sound, however, and he went
on hastily : — •

" And you and I, we always promised each other that
such a day should not come — no wonder you are angry
v.'ith me, Lil."

'• But I'm not, dear Gerald — I just got a nasty bit of
jealous pain for a minute, but it is over. I always knew
that such a day would come, that it would have to come —
if not for me, at least for you. Tell me about her, Gerry.
Is she nice — is she half — or a quarter nice enough for
you ? "

A LItE FOR A LOVE.

Then Oerald laiinclicd into liis subject, forgetting wliat
he supposed could only be a very brief sorrow on Lilias*
part in the enthralling interest of his theme. Valentine
Paget would not have recognized the portrait which was
drawn of her, for this young and ardent lover crowned her
with all that was noble, and decked her with attributes
little short of divine.

"I am absolutely unworthy k){ her." he said in conclu-
sion, and when IJlias shook her head, and refused to
believe this latter statement, he lell almost angry with
her.

The two walked about and talked together until dark-
ness fell, but, although they discussed the subject in all its
bearings, Gerald felt by no means < ured when he retired to
rest, while Lilias absolutely cried heiself to sleep.

Marjory and she slept in liule while beds, side by side.

*' Oh, Lil, wliat's the matter?" exclaimed the younger
sister, disturbed out of her own sweet slumbers by those
unusual tokens of distress.

" Nothing much," replied Lilias, " only — only — I am a
little lonely — don't ask me any (piestions, Maggie, I'll be
all right in the morning."

Marjory was too wise to say anything further, but she
lay awake herself and wondered. What could ail Lilias?
— Lilias, the brightest, the gayest of them all. Was she
fretting about their mother. But it was seven years now
since the mother had been taken away from the rectory
children, and Lilias had got ov-r the grief which had nearly
broken her child-heart at the time.

Marjory felt puzzled and a liiile fearful, — the evening be-
fore had been so sweet, — Gerald had been so delightful.
Surely in all the world there was not a happier home than
Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. Why should Lilias cry, and say
that she was lonely ?

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

S»

CHAPTER VI.

On Monday morning Wyndliam returned to town. His
father had strained a point to give his only son the season in
London, and Gerald was paying i)art of the expenses by
coaching one or two young fellows for the next Cambridge
term. He had just concluded his own University course,
and was only waiting until his twenly-thiid birthday had
passed, to be ordained for the curacy which his father was
keeping for him. (Ircrald's birthday would be in Septem-
ber, and the rectory girls were looking forward to this date
as tiiough it were the beginning of the millennium.

" Even the cats won't fight, nor tlie dogs bark when
Cierald is in the room," whispered little Joan. *' I 'spect
tliey know he don't like it."

Wyndham returned to London feeling l>oth low and ex-
cited. His conversation with Lilias and the rather })allid
look of her face, the black shadows under her eyes, and
the pathetic expression which the shedding of so many
tears had given to them, could not cure him nor extinguish
the flame which was burning into his heart, and making all
the other good things of life seem but as dust and ashes to
his taste.

He arrived in town, went straight to his lodgings, prepa-
ratory to keeping his engagement with one of his young
pupils, and there saw waiting for him a letter in the firm
upright handwriting o{ Mortimer Paget. He tore the
envelope open in feverish haste. The lines within were
very few : —

"Dear Wvndham,

" Val and I were disappointed at your not putting in an appearance at
her dinner-party last night, but no doubt you had good reasons for going

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A LItE FOR A rOVL,

into tlie country. This note will meet you on your return. Can you
come and lunch with me in the City on Monday at two o'clock ? Come
to my place in Billiter«square. I shall expect you niid won't keep ycu
waiting. I have a matter of some i:nportance I should like to discuss
with you. — Yours, my dear Wyndham, sincerely,

•• MoRTlMKR FaOET."

VVyndliiim put the letter into Iiis pocket, flew to keep
liis api)ointment with liis pupil, and at two o'clock preci.sely
was inquiring for Mr. I'agct at the otTices of the shipping
firm in liilliler-squarc.

Mortimer Paget was now head of tljc large cslabhshment.
He was the sole surviving ])artner out of many, and on him
alone devolved the carrying out of one of the largest
business concerns in the city.

Wyndham never felt smaller than when he entered those
great doors, and found himself passed on from one clerk
to another, until at last he was admitted to the ante-room
of the chief himself.

Here there was a hush and stillness, and the young man
sank down into one of tlie easy chairs, and looked around
him expectantly. He was in the ante chamber of one of
the great kings of commerce, the depressing intliience of
wealth when we have no share in it came c /er him. He
longed to turn and fly, and but that his fingers, even now,
fiddled with Mr. Paget's very i)rcssing note he would have
done so. What could the great man possibly want with
him ? With his secret in his breast, with the knowledge
that he, a poor young expectant curate, had dared to lift
up his eyes to the only daughter of this great house, he
could not but feel ill at ease.

When AVyndham was not at home with any one h.'; in-
stantly lost his charm. He was painfully conscious of this
himself, and felt sure that he would be on stilts while he ate
his lunch with Mr. Paget. Nay more, he was almost sure
that that astute personage wouid read his secret in his eyes.

// Llir. FOK A I OVli.

A clerk came into ihe room, an elderly man, with red-
dish whiskers, small, deep-set eyes, and thin hair rapidly
turning white. He stared inquisitively at young Wyndham,
walked past iiiiu, drew up the blinds, arranged some papers
on the table, and then as he passed him again said in a quick,
half-fiightencd aside :

** If I was you, yoimg man, I'd go."

The tone in which this was said was both anxious and
Huniliar. Wyndham started aside from the familiarity.
His face flushed and he ga/ed haughtily at \W. speaker.

" Did you address me? " he said.

"I did, young man, don't say nothing, for the good
Lord's sake, don'l say nothing. iMy name is Jonathan
Helps. I JKivc been here man and boy for close on fort)'
years. I know the old house. Sound ! no house in the
whole city sounder, sound as a nut, or as an ai)ple when
it's rotten at the core, Vou keep that to yourself, young
man — why I'd venture every penny 1 have in this yer es-
tablishment. I'm confidential clerk here I I'am a rough
sort — and not what you'd expect from a big liouse, nor
from a master like Mr. Paget. Now, young man, you go
away, and believe that there ain't a sounder house in all the
city than that of Paget, IJrake and Carter. I, Jonathari
Helps, say it, and surely 1 ought to know."

An electric bell sounded in the other room. Wiping his
brow with his handkerchief as though the queer words he
had uttered had cost him an effort. Helps flew to answer
the summons.

" Ask Mr. Wyndham to walk in and liave lunch served
in my room," said an authoritative voice. " And see here,
Helps, you are not to disturb us on any excuse before
three o'clock."

Shutting the door behind him, Helps came back again
to Gerald's side.

" If you don't want to run away at once you're to go in

3 -

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.// / //'A FOA' .1/0 FE.

there," he said. '• Remember, there isn't a sounder house
in all London than th;il of Paget, Brake and Carter.
Paget's head of the whole concern now. Don't he boss
it over us though! Oh, you're going in? — you've made
up your mind not to run away. Surely in vain is the net
spread in the sight of any bird. Good Lord, if that ain't
the least true word that David ever writ. Well, here you
are. Don't forget that this house is sound — sound as an
.ipple when it is — xMr. Wyndham, sir."

'* You seem to have got a very extraordinary clerk,"
said Gerald, when he had shaken hands with his host, who
had expressed himself delighted to see him.

" Helps ? " responded Mr. Paget. " Yes, poor fellow —
has he been eutertaining you — telling you about the sound-
ness of the house, eh ? Poor Helps — the best fellow in the
world, but just a little — a very little — touched in the head."

" So I should think," said Gerald, laughing ; ." he com-
pared me to a bird in the fowler's net, and all kinds of
ridiculous similes. What a snug room you have here."

" 1 am glad you think it so. I have a still snugger
room at the other side of this curtain, which I hope to
introduce to you. Come along and see it. This was fur-
nished at Val's suggestion. She comes here to have lunch
with me once a week. Friday is her day. Will you come
and join us here next Friday at two o'clock? "

" I — I shall be delighted," stammered Wyndham.

" She has good taste, hasn't she, little puss ? All these
arrangements are hers. I never saw any one with a better
eye for color, and she has that true sympathy with her
surroundings which teaches her to adapt rooms to their
circumstances. Now, for instance, at Queen's Gate we
are all cool greys and blues — plenty of sunshine conies
into the house at Queen's Gate. Into this room the sun
never shows his face. Val accordingly substitutes for his
brightness golden tones and warm colors. Artistic, is it

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

not? She is very proud of the remark which invariably
falls from the lips of each person who visits this sanctum
sanctorum, that it does not look the least like an oftice."

" Nor does it," responded Gerald. " It is a lovely
room. What a beautiful portrait that is of your daughter
— liow well those warm greys suit her complexion."

" Yes, that is Richmond's, he painted her two years ago.
Sit down at this side of the table, Wyndham, where you
can have a good view of tiie saucy puss. Does she not
look alive, as if she meant to say something very imperti-
nent to us both. Thanks, Helps, you can leave us now.
Pray see that we are not disturbed."

Helps withdrew with noiseless slippered feet. A cur-
tain was drawn in front of the door, which the clerk closed
softly after him.

"Excellent fellow. Helps," said Mr. Paget, "but mor-
tal, decidedly mortal. If you will excuse me, Wyndham,
I will take the precaution of turning the key in that door.
This little room, Val's room, I call it, has often been privi-
leged to listen to state secrets. That being the case one
must take due precautions against eaves-droppers. Now,
my dear fellow, I hope you are hungry. Help yourself to
some of those cutlets — I can recommend this champagne.''

The lunch proceeded, the elder man eating with real
appetite, the younger with effort. He was excited, his
mind was full of trouble — he avoided looking at Valentine's
picture, and wished himself at the other side of those
locked doors.

" You don't seem quite the thing," said Mr. Paget,
presently. " I hope you have had no trouble at home,
Wyndham. Is your father well ? Let me see, he must be
about my age — we were at Trinity College, Cambridge,
some time in the forties."

" My father is very well, sir," said Gerald. '' He is a
hale man, he does not look his years."

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llllt'j:;;:

i'liilll

ill'

/^ Z/Z'i^ FO/i A LOVE.

' Have some more champagne ? I think you told me
you had several sisters."

" Yes, there are seven girls at lioinc."

" Good heavens — Wyndhani is a lucky man. Fancy
seven Valentines filling a house with mirth ! iVnd you are
the only son — and your mother is dead."

" My motlier is not living," responded Wyndhani with a
Hush. "And — yes, I am the only son. I won't have any
more champagne, thank you, sir."

'' Try one of these cigars — I can recommend I hem.
Wyndham, I am going to say something very frank. I
have taken a fancy to you. There, I don't often take
fancies. Why, what is the matter, my dear fellow? "

Gerald had suddenly risen to his feet, iiis face was
white. There was a strained, eager, pained look in his
eyes.

"You wouldn't, if you knew," he stammered. "I — I
have made a fool of myself, sir. I oughtn't to be sitting
here, your hospitality chokes me. I — I have made the
greatest fool of myself in all Ciiristendoin, sir."

" I think I know what you mem," said Mr. Paget, also
rising to his feet. His voice was perfectly calm, quiet,
friendly.

" I am not sorry you have let it out in this fashion, my
poor lad. You have — shall I tell you that I know your
secret, Wyndham ? "

" No, sir; don't let us talk of it. You cannot rate me
for my folly more severely than I rate myself. 1*11 go away
now if you have no objection. Thank you for being kind
to me. Try and forget that I made an ass of myself."

" Sit down again, Wyndham. I am not angry — I don't
look upon you as a fool. I should have done just the
same were 1 in your shoes. You are in love with Valen-
tine — you would like to make her your wife."

" Good heavens, sir, don't let us say anything more
about it."

.4 LIFE FOR A LOVE,

*' Why not? Under certain conditions I tliink you
would make her a suitable husband. I guessed your secret
some weeks ago. Since then I have been watching you
carefully. I have also made private inquiries about you.
All that I hear pleases me. I asked you to lunch with mc,
to-day, on purpose that we should talk the matter over."

Mr. Paget spoke in a calm, almost drawling, voice. Tiie
young man opposite to iiim, his face deadly white, liis
hands nervously clutching at a paper-knife, iiis burniiig
eyes fixed upon the older man's face, dranV in every wnnl.
It was an intoxicating draught, going straight lo Gerald
Wyndham's brain.

" God bless you ! " he said, when the other had ceased
to speak. He turned his head away, for absolute tears of
joy had soften:d the burning feverish light in his eyes.

"No, don't say that, Wyndham," responded Mr. Paget,
his own voice for the first time a little shaken. " We'll
leave God altogether out of this business, if you have no
objection. It is simply a question of how mucli a man
will give up for lov*. Will he sell himself, body and soul,
for it ? That is the question of questions. I know all
about you, Wyndham ; 1 know that you have not a penny to
bless yourself with ; I know that you are about to eml)race
a beggarly professi^yn. Oh, yes, we'll leave out the reli-
gious aspect of the question. A curacy in the Church of
England is a beggarly profession in these days. I know
too that you are your father's only son, and that you have
seven sisters, who will one day look to you to protect them.
1 know all that ; nevertheless I believe you to be the kind
of man who will dare all for love. If you win Valentine,
you have got to pay a price for her. It is a heavy one —
I won't tell you about it yet. When you agree to pay
this price, for the sake of a brief joy for yourself, for
necessarily it must be brief; and for her life-long good
and well-being, then you rise to be her equal in every

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illilihii

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3»

A LIFE FOR A TOVF.

sense of the word, and you earn my undying gratitude,
Wyndham."

*' I don't understand you, sir. You speak very darkly,
and you hint at things which — wliich shock me."

" I must sliock you more before you hold Valentine in
your arms. You have heard enough for to-day. Hark,
someone is knocking at the door."

Mr. Paget rose to open it, a gay voice sounded in the
passage, and the next moment a brilliant, lovely apparition
entered the room,

" Val herself! " exclaimed her father. " No, my darling,
I cannot go for a drive with you just now, but you and
Mrs. Johnston shall take Wyndham. You will like a drive
in the park, Wyndham. You have got to scold this young
man, Val, for acting truant on Saturday night. Now go
off, both of you, I am frightfully busy. Yes, Helps, com-
ing, coming. Valentine, be sure you ask Mr. Wyndham
home to tea. If you can induce him to dine, so much the
better, and afterwards we can go to the play together."

■i

l\ .._]' -v^

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER VII.

On a certain evening about ten days after the events re-
lated in the last chapter, Valentine Paget and her father
were sealed together in the old library, (jcod-naturcd
Mis. Johnstone had popped in i.cr head at the dfxjr, but
seeing the girl's face bent over a book, and Mr. Paget ap-
parently absorbed in the advertisement sheet of the Times ^
she had discreetly withdrawn.

" They look very snug," soliloquized the widowed and
childless woman with a sigh. " I wonder what Mortimer
Paget will do when that po<.»r handsome Mr. Wyndham
proposes for Val ? I never saw anyone so far gone. Even
my poor Geoffrey long ago, who said his passion consumed
him to tatters — yes, these were poor dear Geoffrey's very
words — was nothing to Mr. Wyndham. Val is a desper-
ately saucy girl — does not she see that slie is breaking that
poor fellow's heart ? Such a nice young fellow, too. He
looks exactly the sort of young man who would commit
suicide. Dear me, what is the world coming to ? That
girl seems not in the very least troubled about the matter.
How indifferent and easy-going sh"^ is ! I know / could
not calmlv sit and read a novel when I knew thi't I was
consuming the vitals out of poor dear Geoffrey. But it's
all G^f^ to Val. I am very much afraid thai girl is develop-
ing into a regular Hirt. How she did go on and amuse
herself with Mr. Carr at the cricket match to-dav Adrian
Carr has a stronger face than poor young Wyndham — not
half as devoted to Val — I doubt if he even admires her,
and yet how white Gerald Wyndham turned when he
walked her off across the field. Poor Val — it is a great

■

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

liiii

pity Mr. Paget spoils her so dreadfully. It is plain to be
seen she has never had the advantage of a mother's bring-
ing up."

Mrs. Johnstone entered the beautifully-furnished draw-
ing-room, seated herself by the open window, and taking
up the third volume uf a novel, sooi) forgv'^t Valentine's
love affairs.

Meanwhile that young lady with her cheeks pressed on
lier hands, and her eyes devouring the final pages of " Jane
Eyre," gave no thought to any uncomfortable combina-
tions. Her present life was so full and happy that she did
not, like most girls, look far ahead — she never indulged in
day-dreams, and had an angel come to her with the pro-
mise of any golden boon she liked to ask for, she would
liave begged of him to leave her always as happy as she
was now.

She came to the last page of her book, and, drumming
with her little fingers on the cover, she raised her eyes in
;i lialf-dreaming fashion.

Mr. Paget had dropped his sheet of the Times — his hand
had fallen back in the old leathern arm-chair — his eyes were
closed — he was fast asleep.

In his sleep this astute and careful and keen man of
business dropped his mask — the smiling smooth face
^showed wrinkles, the gay expression was succeeded by a
careworn look — lines of sadness were about the mouth, and
deep crow's-feet wrinkled and aged the expression round the
eyes.

The mantle of care had never yet touched Valentine.
For the first time in all her life a pang of keen mental pain
went through her as she gazed at her sleeping father. For
ihc first time in her young existence the awful possibility
stared her in llie face that some time she might have to live
in a cold and dreary world without him.

" Why, my father looks qm'te old." she half stammered.
'' Old, and — yes, unhappy. Wiiat does it mean? "

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i!i';;'

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

She rose very gently, moved her chair until it touched
his, and then nestling up close to him laid her soft little
hand on his shoulder.

Paget slept on, and the immediate contact of Valentine's
warm, loving presence, made itself felt in his dreams — his
v/rinkles disappeared, and his handsome lips again half
smiled. Val laid her hand on his — she noticed the altered
expression, and her slightly roused fears slumbered. There
was no one to hci 'ike her fatlur. She had made a mistake
just then in imagining that he looked old and unhappy.
No people in all the world were happier than he and she.
He was not old — he was the personification in her eyes of
all that was manly and strong and beautiful.

The tired man slept on, and the girl, all her fears at rest,
began idly to review the events of the past day. There
had been gay doings during that long summer's afternoon,
and Valentine, in the prettiest of summer costumes, had
thoroughly enjoyed her life. She had spent some hours at
Lords, and had entered with zest into the interest of the
Oxford and Cambridge Cricket Match. She lay back in
her chair now with her eyes half closed, reviewing in a lazy
fashion the events of the bygone hours. A stalwart and
very attractive young man in cricketing flannels mingled
in these dreams. He spoke to her with strength and
decision. His dark eyes looked keenly into lier face, he
never expressed the smallest admiration for her either by
look or gesture, but at the sare time he had a way of
taking ])ossession of her which roused her interest, and
which secured her appiobation. She laughed softly to
herself now at some of the idle nothings said to her by
Adrian Carr, and she never once gave a thought to Wynd-
ham, who had also been at Lords.

4 j

4«

A LII'E FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER VIII.

" Val, child, what are you luiinming under your breath ? "
said her father, suddenly rousing himself from his slumbers
and looking into his daughter's pretty face. "Your voice
is like that of a bird, my darling. I think it has gained in
sweetness a good deal lately. Have you and Wyndham
been practising much together, Wyndham has one of the
purest tenor voices I ever heard in an amateur."

" Oh, what a worry Mr. Wyndham is," said Valentine,
rising from her seat and shaking out her musHn dress.
" Everybody talks to me of his perfections. I'm perfectly
tired of them. I wish he wouldn't come here so often.
No, I was not thinking of any of his songs. I was hum-
ming some words Mr. Carr sings — * Bid me to Live ' — you
know the words — I like Mr. Carr so much — don't you,
dad, dear ? "

'* Adrian Carr — yes," replied Mr. Paget in a slow delibe-
rate voice. " Yes, a good sort of fellow, I've no doubt. I
heard some gossip about him at my club yesterday — what
was it ? Oh, that he was engaged, or about to be engaged,
to Lady Mabel Pennant. You know the Pennants, don't
you, Val ? Have you seen Lady Mabel ? She is one of
the youngest, I think."

" Yes, she's a fright," responded Valentine, with a decided
show of temper in her voice.

Her face had flushed too, she could not tell why.

" I did not know Lady Mabel was such a plain girl,"
responded Mr. Paget drily. " At any rate it is a good con-
nection for Carr. He seems a fairly clever fellow. Valen-
tine, my child, I have something of importance to talk to
you about. Don't let us worry about Carr just now — I have

/I T IFF. FOR A r.OVE,

something to say to you, something tliat I'm tioul)Ied to
have to say. Voii love your old father very much, don't
you, darling? "

"Love you, daddy ! Oh, you know — need you ask?
I was frightened al)0ut you a few minutes ago, father.
When you were aslcci) just now, your face looked old, and
there were lines about it. It frightens me to think of you
ever growing old."

" Sit close to me, my dear daughter. I have a great deal
to say. Wc will leave the subject of my looks just at
present. It is true that t am not young, but I may have
many years before me yet. It greatly depends on you."

"On me, father? " •

" Yes. I will explain to you by-and-bye. Now I want
to talk about yours'Jf. You have never had a care all your
life, have you, my little Val ? "

" I don't think so, daddy — at least only pin-pricks. You
know I used to hate my spelling lessons long ago, and
Mdlle. Lacount used to worry me over the French irregular
verbs. But such things were only pin-pricks. Yes, I am
seventeen, and I have never had a real care all my life."

*' You are seventeen and four months, Valentine. You
were born on the 14th of February, and your mother and
I called you after St. Valentine. Your mother died when
you were a week old. I promised her then that her baby
should never know a sorrow if I could help it."

" You have helped it, daddy ; I am as happy as the day
is long. I don't wish for a thing in the wide world. I Just
want us both to live together as we are doing now. Of
course we will — why not ? Shall we go up to the drawing-
room now, father ? "

" My dear child, in a little time. I have not said yet
what I want to say. Valentine, you were quite right when
you watched my face as I slumbered. Child, I have got a
care upon me. I can't speak of it to anybody — only it

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

HI' ill Mil

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could crush nie — and — and — pint us, Valentine. If it fell
upon you, it — it — would crush you, my child."

Mr. Paget rose. Valentine, deadly white and frightened,
clung to him. She was half crying. Tlie effect of such
terrible and sudden words nearly paralyzed her ; but wlicn
she fe»t the arm which her father put round her tremble,
she made a valiant and brave effort — the tears which filled
her brown eyes were arrested, and she looked up with cour-
age in her face,

"You speak of my doing something," she whispered.
"What is it? Tell me. Nothing shall part us. I don't
mind anything else, but nothing shall ever part us."

" Val, I have not spoken of this care to any one but
you."

" No, father."

" And I don't show it in my face as a rule, do I ? "

" Oil, no ! Oh, no I You always seem bright and cheer-
ful."

Her tears were raining fast now. She took his hand and
presscv" it to her lips.

" But I have had this trouble for some time, my little
girl."

" You will tell me all about it, please, dad ? "

" No, my darling, you would not understand, and my
keenest pain would be that you should ever know. You
can remove this trouble, little Val, and then we need net
be parted. Now, sit down by my side."

Mr. Paget sank again into the leathern armchair. He
was still trembling visibly. This moment through which
he was passing was one of the most bitter of his life."

" You will not breathe a word of what I have told "you
to any mortal, Valentine ? "

" Death itself should not drag it from me," replied the
girl.

She set her lips, her eyes shone fiercely. Then she looked

^ LIFE FOR A I OVF.

4!5

at her trembling father, and they glowed with love and
pity.

" I can save you," she whispered, going on lier knees
by l)is side. '* It is lovely to think of saving you. What
can I do ? "

'• My little Val — my little precious darling ! "

" What can I do to save you, father ? "

"Valentine, dear — you can many Gerald Wyndham."

Valentine liad put licr arms round her father's neck, now
they dropped slowly away — her eyes grew big and
frightened.

" I don't love him," she whispered.

" Never mind, he loves you — he is a good fellow — he
will treat you well. If you marry him you need not be
parted from me. You and he can live together here —
here, in this house. There need be no difference at all,
except that you will have saved your father."

Paget spoke with outward calmness, but the anxiety
under his words made them thrill. Each slowly uttered
sentence fell like a hammer of pain on the girl's head.

" I don't understand," she said again in a husky tone.
'' I would, I will do anything to save you. But Mr. Wynd-
ham is poor and young — in some things he is younger than
I am. How can my marrying him take the load off your
lieart, father? Father, dear, speak."

"I can give you no reason, Valentine, you must take it
on trust. It is all a question of your faith in me. I do not
see any loophole of salvation but through you, my little
girl. If you marry Wyndham I see peace and rest aiiead,
othenvise we are amongst the breakers. If you do this
thing for your old father, Valentine, you will have to do it
in the dark, for never, never, I pray, until Eternity comes,
must you know what you have done."

Valentine Paget had always a delicate and bright color
in her cheeks. It was soft as the innermost blush of a rose,

•!H

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

!iy y

and lliis delicate and lovely color was one of licr cliicf
charms. Now it faded, leaving her young face pinched
and small and clrawn. She sank down on the hearthrug,
clasping her hands in her lap, her eyes looking straight
before her.

" I never wanted to marry," she said at last. " Certainly
not yet, for I am only a child. I am only seventeen, but
other girls of seventeen arc old compared to me. When you
are only a child, it is dreadful to marry some one you don't
care about, and it is dreadful to do a deed in the dark. If you
trusted me, father — if you told me all the dreadful truth
whatever it is, it might turn me into a woman — an old
woman even — but it would be less bad than this. This
seems to crush me — and oh, it does frighten me so dread-
fully."

Mr. Paget rose from his seat and walked up and down
the room.

'' You shan't be crushed or frightened," he said. *' 1
n'ill give it up."

" And then the blow will fall on you ? "

" I may be able to avert it. I will see. Forget what I
said to-night, little girl."

Mortimer Paget's face just now was a good deal whiter
than his daughter's, but there was a new light in his eyes
— a momentary gleam of nobility.

'' I won't crush you, Val," he said, and he meant his
words.

"And /won't crush _j/^«," said the girl.

She went up to his side, and, taking his hand, slipped his
arm round her neck.

'* We will live together, and I will have perfect faith in
you, and I'll marry Mr. Wyndham. He is good — oh, yes,
he is good and kind ; and if he did not love me so much, if
he did not frighten me with just bolng too loving when I
don't care at all, I might get on very well with him. Now

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

dismiss your card's, fiithcr. If tliis can save you, your little
Val has done it. Let us come up to the drawing-room.
Mrs. Johnstone must think herself forsaken. Shall I sing
to you to-night, daddy, some of the old-fasluoned songs?
Come, you havo got to smile and look cheerful for Val's
sake. If I give myself up for you, you must do as much
for me. Come, a smile if you please, sir. ' Begone, dull
care.' You and I will never agree."

• 'I

' 1

■11

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

ims.

CHAPTER IX.

It was soon after this that Valentine Paget's world became
electrified with the news of her engagement. Wyndham
was congratulated on all sides, and those people who had
hitherto not taken the slightest notice of a rather boyish
and unp'-etentious young man, now found much to say in
his favor.

Yes, he was undoubtevlly good-looking — a remarkable
face, full of interest — he must be clever too — he looked it.
And then as to his youth — why was it that people a couple
of months ago had considered him a lad, a boy — why, he
was absolutely old for his two-and-twenty years. A grave
thoughtful man with a wonderfully sweet expression.

It was plain to be seen that Wyndliam, the expectant
curate of Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and Wyndham, the pro-
mised husband of Valentine Prget, were totally different
individuals. Wyndham's prospects were changed, so was
his appearance — so, in very truth, wa:i the man himself.

Where he had been too young he was no" almost too
old, that was the principal thing outsiders noticed. But
at twenty-two one can afford such achange, and his gravity,
his seriousness, and a certain proud thoughtful look, which
could not be classified by any one as a sad look, was vastly
becoming to Wyndham.

His future father-in-law could not make enough of him,
and even Valentine caught herself looking at him with a
shy pride which was not very far removed from affection.

Wyndham had given up the promiseci curacy — this was
one of Mr. Paget's most stringent conditions. On the day
he married Valentine he was to enter the great shipping

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

1 ■ . i

firm of Paget, Brake and Carter as a junior partner, and in
the interim he went there daily to become acquainted — the
v/orld said — with the ins and outs of his new profession.

It was all a great step in the direction of fortune and
fame, and |the Rectory people ought, of course, to have
rejoiced.

They were curious and unworldly, however, at Jewsbury-
on- the- Wold, and somehow the news of the great match
Gerald was about to contract brought them only sorrow and
distress. Lilias alone stood out against the storm of woe
which greeted the receipt of Wyndham's last letter.

*' It is a real trouble," she said, her voice shaking a good
deal ; " but we have got to make the best of it. It is for
Gerald's happiness. It is selfish for us just to fret because
we cannot always have him by our side."

" There'll be no millennium," said Augusta in a savage
voice. '* I might have guessed it. That horrid selfish, selfish
girl has got the whole of our Gerald. I suppose he'll make
her happy, nasty, spiteful thing ; but she has wrecked the
happiness of seven other girls — horrid creature ! I might
have known there was never going to be a millennium.
Where are the dogs ? Let me set them fighting. Get out of
that, madame puss — you and Rover and Drake will quar-
rel now to the end of the chapter, for Gerald is never
coming home to live."

Augusta's sentiments were warmly shared by the younger
girls, and to a great extent she even secured the sympatliy
of Marjory and the rector.

" I don't understand you, Lilias," said her pet sister. " I
thought you would have been the worst of us all."

" Oh, don't," said Lilias, tears springing to her eyes.
" Don't you see, Marjory, that I really feel the worst, so I
must keep it all in ? Don't let us talk it over, it is useless.
If Valentine makes Gerald happy I have not a word to say,
and if I am not glad I must pretend to be glad for his sake."

i W

1 J^ .

''Jx^^H

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"'' 1 i

1 i \

1 lii :

50 A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

'* Poor old Lil ! " said Marjory.

And after this little speech she teased her sister no
more.

A fortnight after his engagement Gerald came to the rec-
tory for a brief visit. He was apparently in high spirits,
and never made himself more agreeable to his sisters. He
had no confidential talks, however, with Lilly, and they all
noticed how grave and quiet and handsome he had grown.

" He's exactly like my idea of tiie god Apollo," remarked
Augusta. '' No wonder that girl is in love with him. Oh,
couldn't T just pull her hair for her. I can't think how
Lilly sits by and hears Gerald praise her ! I'd like to give
her a piece of my mind, and tell her what 1 think of her
carrying off our ewe-lamb. Yes, she's just like David in
the Bible, and I only wish I were the prophet Nathan, to
go and have it out with her ! " _

Augusta was evidently mixed in her metaphors, for it
was undoubtedly difficult to compare the same person to
Apollo and a ewe-lamb. Nevertheless, she carried her
audience with her, and when now and then Gerald spoke of
Valentine he received but scant sympathy.

On the day he went away, the rector called Lilias into
his study.

" My dear," he said, '' I want to have a little talk with
you. What do you think of all this > Has Gerald made
you many confidences ? You and he were always great
chums. He was reserved with me, remarkably so, for he
was always such an open sort of a lad. But of course you
and he had it all out, my dear."

" No, father," replied Lilias. '' That is just it. We hadn't
anything out.'

<' What—eh— nothing ? And the boy is in love. Oh,
yes, anyone can see that— in love, and no confidences.
Then, my dear, I was afraid of it— now I am sure— there
must be something wrong. Gerald is greatly changed,
Liiias,"

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

" Yes," said Lilias. " I can't quite define the change,
but it is there."

" My dear gin, he was a boy — now he is a man, I don't
say that he is unhappy, but he has a good weight of respon-
sibiUty on his shoulders. He was a rather heedless boy,
and in the matter of conceahnent or keeping anything back,
a perfect sieve. Now he's a closed book. Closed ? —
locked I should say. Lilias, neither you nor I can under-
stand him. I wish to God your mother was alive ! "

*' He told me," said Lilias, " that he had talked over
matters with you — that — that there was nothing much to
say — that he was perfectly satisfied, and that Valentine was
like no other girl in the wide world. To all intents and
purposes Gerald was a sealed book to me, father ; but I
don't understand your considering him so, for he said that
he had spoken to you very openly."

'•'Oh, about the arrangements between him and Paget.
Yes, I consider it a most unprecedented and extraord'nary
sort of thing. Gerald gives up the Church, goes into Paget's
business — early next summer marries his daughter, and on
the day of his wedding signs the deeds of partnership. He
receives no salary — not so much as sixpence — but he and
his wife take up their abode at the Pagets' house in Queen's
Gate, Paget making himself responsible for all expenses.
Gerald, in lieu of providing his wife with a fortune, makes
a marriage settlement on her, and for this purpose is re-
quired to insure his life very heavily — for thousands, I am
told — but the exact sum is not yet clearly defined. Paget
undertakes to provide for the insurance premium. I call
the whole thing unpleasant and derogatory, and I cannot
imagine how the lad has consented. Liberty ? What will
he know of liberty when he is that rich fellow's slave ?
Better love in a cottage, with a hundred a year, say I."

" But, father, Mr. Paget would not have given Val to
Gerald to live in a cottage with her — and Gerald, he has

■ •
!

;
I

' ;'!■■!'!'

* i

A LIFE ' dk J rnr.r.

consented to this — this that you call degradation, because
he love's Val so very, very much."

" I suppose so, child. I was in love once myself your

mother was the noblest and most beautiful of women ; that
lad is the image of her. Well, so he never confided in you,
I.il ? Very strange, T call it very strange. I tell you what,
Ij'lias, I'll run up to town next week, and have a talk with
Paget, and see what sort of girl this is who has bewitched
the boy. That's the best way. I'll have a talk with Paget,
and get to the bottom of things. I used to know him long
ago at Trinity. Now run away, child. I must prepare my
sermon for to-morrow."

ill!

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

1, because

>elf — your
nen; that
id in yoii,
^ou what,

talk with
ewitched
th Paget,

him long
epare my

CHAPTER X.

At this period of her life Valentine was certainly not in
the least in love with the man to whom she was engaged —
she disliked caresses and what she was pleased to call
honeyed words of flattery. VVyndham, who foinid himself
able to read her moods like a book, soon learned to ac-
commodate himself to her wishes. He came to see her
daily, but he kissed her seldom — lie never took her hand,
nor put his arm round her slim waist; they sat together
and talked, and soon discovered that they had many sub-
jects of interest in common — they both loved music, they
both adored novels and poetry. Wyndham could read
aloud beautifully, and at these times Valentine liked to lie
back in her easy chair and steal shy glances at him, and
wonder, as she never ceased to wonder, from morning to
night, why he loved her so much, and why her father
wanted her to marry him.

If Valentine was cold to this young man, she was, how-
ever, quite the opposite to the rector of Jewsbury-on-the-
Wold. Mr. Wyndham came to town, and of course par-
took of tiie hospitality of the house in Queen's Gate. In
Valentine's eyes the rector was old, older than her father —
she delighted for her father's sake in all old men, and being
really a very loveablc and fascinating girl soon won the
rector's heart.

" I'm not a bit surprised, Gerald," the good man said to
his son on the day of his return to his parish duties.
" She's a wilful lass, and has a spirit of her own, but she's
a good girl, too, and a sweet, and a young fellow might do
worse than lose his heart to her. Valentine is open as the

! 'a

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♦ ■■M

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

•v;

•23

day, and when she comes to me as a daughter, I'll give
her a daughter's place in my heart. Yes, Valentine is all
right enough, and I'll tell Lilias so, and put her heart at rest,
poor girl, but I'm not so sure about Paget. 1 think you
are putting yourself in a very invidious position, if you
will allow me to say so, my boy, coming into Paget's
house as a sort of dependent, even though you are his girl's
husband. I don't like the sound of it, and you won't care
for the position, Gerald, when you've experienced it for a
short time. However — oh, there's my train — yes, porter,
yes, two bugs and a rag — I mean two bags and a rug —
Here, this way, this way. Dear, dear, how confused one
gets ! Yes, Gerald, what was I saying ? Oh, of course
you're of age, my boy, you are at liberty to choose for
yourself. Yes, I like the girl thoroughly. God bless you,
Gerry ; come down to the old place whenever you have a
spare Saturday."

The younger Wyndham smiled in a very grave fashion,
saw to his fatiier's creature comforts, as regarded wraps,
newspapers, etc., tipped the porter, who had not yet done
laughing at the reverend gentleman's mistake, and left the
station.

He hailed a cab and drove at once to his future father-
in-law's business address. He was quite at home now in
the big shii)ping office, the s:everal clerks regarding him
with mixed feelings of respect and envy. Gerald had a
gracious way with everyone, he was never distant with his
fellow-creatures, but there was also a sHght indescribable
touch about him which kept those who were beneath him
in the social scale from showing the smallest trace of
familiarity. He was sympathetic, but he had a knack of
making those who came in contact with him treat him as a
gentleman. The clerks liked Wyndham, and with one ex-
ception were extremely civil to. him. Helps alone held
himself aloof from the new-comer, watching him far more

// LIFE FOR A I.OVF.

5i$

anxiously than the other clerks did, but, nevertheless, keep-
ing his own counsel, and daring whenever he had the
opportunity to use covert words of warning.

On his arrival, to-day, Wyndham sent a message to the
chief, asking to see him as soon as (onvenient. While he
waited in the antc-iooni, for in reality he had little or
nothing to do in the place, the door was opened to admit
another visitor, and then Adrian Carr, the young man whom
Valentine had once spoken of with admiration, stepped
across the threshold. The two young men were slightly
acquainted, and while they waited they chatted together.

Carr was a great contrast to Wyndham — he was rather
short, but thin and wiry, without an atom of superfluous
tlesh anywhere — his shoulders were broad, he was firmly
knit and had a very erect carriage. Wyndham, tall, loosely
built, with the suspicion of a stoop, looked frail beside the
other man. Wyndham's dark grey eyes were too sensitive
for perfect mental health. His face was pallid, but at times
it would Hush vividly — his lips had a look of repression
about them — the whole attitude of the man to a very keen
observer was tense and watchful.

Carr had dark eyes, closely cropped hair, a smooth face
but for his moustache, and a keen, resolute, bold glance.
He was not nearly as handsome as Wyndham, beside Wynd-
ham he might even have been considered commonplace,
but his every gesture, his every glance betokened the per-
fection of mental health and physical vigor.

After a few desultory nothiiigs had been exchanged be-
tween the two, Carr alluded to Wyndham's engagement,
and offered him his congratulations. He did this with a
certain guardedness of tone which caused Gerald to look
at him keenly.

" Thank you — yes, I am very lucky," he replied. *' But
can we not exchange good wishes, Carr ? I heard a
rumor somewhere, that you also were about to be mar-
ried."

.1 LIFE FOR A LOVE,

Carr lauglied.

" These rumors are always getting about," he said, " half
of them end in smoke. In my case you yourself destroyed
the ghost of the cliance of such a possibility coming
about."

'* I ? What do you mean ? " said Wyndham.

'• Nothing of the least consequence. As matters have
turned out I am perfectly heart-whole, but the fact is, the
(july girl I ever took the slightest fancy to is going to be
your wife. Oh, 1 am not in love with her I You stopped
me in time. I really only tell you this to show you how
nmch 1 appreciate the excellence of your taste."

Wyndham did not utter a word, and just then Helps
came to say that Mr. Paget would see Mr. Carr for a few
moments. Carr instantly left the room, and Wyndham
went over to the dusty window, leant his elbow against one
of the panes, and peered out.

Apparently there was nothing for him to see — the win-
dow looked into a tiny square yard, in the centre of which
was a table, which contained a dish of empty peapods, and
two cabbages in a large basin of cold water. Not a soul
was in the yard, and Wyndham staring out ought in the
usual order of things soon to have grown weary of the
objects of his scrutiny. Far from that, his fixed gaze
seemed to see something of peculiar and intense interest.
When he turned away at last, his face was ghastly white,
and taking out his handkerchief he wiped some drops of
moisture from his forehead.

^ " My master will see you now, sir," said Helps, in a
quiet voice. He had been watching Wyndham all the
time, and now he looked up at him with a queer significant
glance of sympathy.

•' Oh, ain't you a fool, young man ? " he said. '* Why,
nothing ain't worth what you're a-gwine through. *
•' Is Carr gone ? " asked Wyndham.

.'/ LIFE FOR A LOVE,

• Oh yes, sir, he's a gent as knows what he's after. No
putting his foot into holes with him. He knows what
ground he'll walk on. Come along, sir, here you are."

Helps always showed Wyndham into the chief s presence
wiiii great parade. Mr. Paget was in a genial humor. When
he greeted the young man he actually laughed.

"Sit down, Gerald ; sit down, my dear boy. Now, you'll
never guess what our friend Adrian Carr came to see me
about. Ton my word, it's quite a joke — ycd'll never guess
it, Gerald."

" I'm sure of that, sir. 1 itever guessed a riddle in my
life."

Something in the hopeless tone in which these few words
were uttered made Mr. Paget cease smiling. He favored
Gerald with a lightning glance, then said quietly :

^' I suppose I ought not to have laughed, but somehow
I never thought Carr would have taken to the job. He
wants mc to introduce him to your father, Gerald. He is
anxious to be ordained for the curacy which you have
missed. Fancy a man like Carr in the Church ! He says
he never thought of such a profession until you put it into
his head — now he is quite keen after it. Well, perhaps he
will make an excellent clergyman — I rather fancy I should
like to hear him preach."

*' If I were you," said Gerald, " I would refuse to give
him that introduction."

" Refuse to give it him ! My dear boy, what do you
mean? I am not quite such a churl. Why, I have given it
him. I wrote a long letter to your excellent father, saying
all sorts of nice things about Carr, and he has taken it
away in his pocket. Her Majesty' > post has the charge of
it by this time, I expect. What is the matter, Wyndham ?
You look quite strange."

" I feel it, sir — I don't like this at all. Carr and I have
got mixed somehow. He takes my curacy, and he confessed

■5

1 , ! S

5«

// LH'i: l-OR A J.OVE,

th.il but for nic hcM have gone in for Val. Now you see
wluil I mean. Ho oughtn't to have the curacy."

Mr. Paget looked really puzzled.

" You arc talking in a strange way, Gerald," he said. " If
l)oor Carr was unfortunate; enough to fall in love with a
girl whom you have won, surely you don't grudge him that
poor little curacy too. My dear lad, you are getting posi-
tively morbid. 'J'herc, I don't think 1 want you for any-
thing s])ecial to day. Go home to Val— get her to cheer
your low spirits." .

'' She cannot." replied Gerald. '' You don't see, sir,
because you v.'on'l. Carr is not in love with Valentine,
and Valentine is not in love with him, but they both might
be. I have heard V.il talk (if him — once. 1 heard him
speak of her — to day. ]}y-and-bye, sir — in the future, they
may meet. You know what I mean. Carr ought not to go to
Jewsbury-on-the-Wold — it is wrong. I will not allow it. I
will myself write to the rector. I will take the responsi-
bility, whoever gets my old berth it must not be Adrian
Carr."

Wyndham rose as he spoke — he looked determined, all
trace of weakness or irresolution leit his Aice. Paget had
never before seen this young man in his present mood.
Somehow the sight gave him intense pleasure. A latent
fear which he had scarcely dared to whis[)er even to his
own heart that Wyndham had not sufficient pluck for what
lay before him vanished now. He too rose to his feet, and
laid his hand almost caressingly on the lad's shoulder.

" My boy, you have no cause to fear in this matter. In
the future I myself will take care of Valentine, but I love
you for your though tfulness, Gerald."

" You need not, sir. 1 have something on my mind which
I must say now. 1 have entered into your scheme. I
have "

" Yes, yes — let me shut and lock the door, my boy."

A LIFE I' OR A LOVE,

Wyndham, arrested iu his speech, drew one or two heavy
breaths.

He spoke again in a sort of panting way. His eyes grew
l)right and ahnost wild.

"I have promised you," he continued. " I'll go through
with it. It's a milHon times worse fate for me than if I had
killed someone, and then was hung up by the neck until I
died. That, in comparison to this, would be — well, like
the sting of a gnat. I'll go through with it, however, and
you need not be afraid that I'll change my mind. I do it
solely and entirely because I love your daughter, because
I believe that the touch of dishonor would blight her,
because unfortunately for herself she loves you better than
any other soul in the world. If she did not, if jbe gave
nie even half of the great heart which she bestows upon
you, then I would risk all, and feel sure that dishonor and
poverty with me would be better than honor and riches
with you. You're a happy man during these last six weeks,
Mr. Paget. You have found your victim, and you see a
way of salvation for yourself, and a j^rosperous future for
Valentine. She won't grieve long — oh, no, not long for
the husband she never loved — but look here, you have to
guard her against the possibility in the future of falling in
love with another — of being won by another man, who will
ask her to be his wife and the mother of his children.
Though she does not love me, she must remain my widow
all her days, for if she does not, if I hear that she, thinking
herself free, is about to contract marriage with another, I
will return — yes, I will return from the dead — from the
grave, and say that it shall not be, and I will show all the
world that you are — what you have proved yourself to be
to me — a devil. That is all. I wanted to say tliis to you.
Carr has given me the opportunity. I won't see Val to-
day, for I am upset — to-morrow I shall have regained my
composure."

1 1

■t

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER XI.

Wyndham was engaged to Valentine Paget very nearly a
year before their wedding. One of the young lady's stipu-
lations was that under no circumstances would she enter
into the holy estate of matrimony before she was eighteen.
Paget made no objection to this proviso on Val's part.
In these days he humored her slightest wish, and no hap-
pier pair to all a])pearance could have been seen driving
in the Park, or riding in the Row, than this handsome
father and daughter.

"What a beautiful expression he has," remarked many
people. And when they said this to the daughter she
smiled, and a sweet proud light came into her eyes.

" My father is a darling," she would say. " No one
knows him as I do. I believe he is about the greatest and
the best of men."

When Val made enthusiastic remarks of this kind,
Wyndham looked at her sorrowfully. She was very fond
of him by this time — he had learned to fit himself to her
ways, to accommodate himself to her cai)rices, and
although she frankly admitted that she could not for an
instant compare him to her father, she always owned that
she loved him next best, and that she thought it would be
a very happy thing to be his wife.

No girl :ould look sweeter than Val when she made little
speeches of this kind, but they had always a queer effect
upon her lover, causing him to experience an excitement
which was scarcely joy, for nothing could have more fatally
upset Mr. Paget's plans than Valentine really to fall in lave
with Wyndham.

ti!

i; • *

A LIFE FOR A I.OVE.

The wedding day was fixed for the first week in July,
and Valentine was accompanied to the altar by no less than
eight bridesmaids. It was a grand wedding — quite one of
the events of the season, and those who saw it spoke of
the bride as beautiful, and of the bridegroom as a grave,
striking-looking man.

If a man constantly practises self-repression there comes
a time when, in this special art, he almost reaches per-
fection. VVyndham had come to this stage, as even Lilias,
who read her brother like a book, could see nothing amiss
with him on his wedding day. All, therefore, went merrily
on liiis auspicious occasion, and the bride and bridegroom
started for the continent amid a shower of blessings and
good wishes.

" (jorald, dear, I c[uite forgive you," said Lilias, as at the
very last minute she put her arms round her brother's
neck.

"What for, Lilly? " he asked, looking down at her.

Then a shadow of great bitterness crossed the sunshine
of Lis fiice. He stooped and kissed her forehead.

" You don't know my sin, so you cannot forgive it, Lilly,"
lit' continued.

" Oh, my darling, I know you," she said. " I don't
think you could sin. I meant that I have learned already
to love Valentine a little, and I am not surprised at your
choice. I forgive you fully, Gerald, for lo zing another girl
belter than your sister Li'ias. Good-bye, dear old Gerry.
God bless you ! "

" He won't do that, Lilly — he can't. Oh, forgive me,
dear, I didn't mean those words. Of course I'm the hap-
piest fellow in the world."

Gerald turned away, and Lilias kissed Valentine, and
then watched with a queer feeling of pain at her heart as
tlie bridal pair amid cheers and blessings drove away.

Gerald's last few words had renewed Lilias' anxiety. She

\\\

1*1

i ,

ii ! :

til

1
1

m i

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

felt restless in the great, grand house, and longed to be
back in the rectory.

"What's the matter, Lil?" said Marjory; ''your face
is a yard long, and you are quite white and have dark lines
under your eyes. For my part 1 did not think Gerald's
wedding would be half so jolly, and what a nice unaffected
girl Valentine is."

"Oh, yes, I'm not bothering my head about her," said
Lilias. "She's all right, just what father said she was. I
wish we were at home again, Maggie."

"Yes, of course, so do I," said Marjory. " But then we
can't be, for we promised Gcraid to try and make things
bright for Mr. Paget. Isn't he a handsome man, Lilly ? I
don't think I ever saw anyone with such a beaming sort of
benevolent expression."

" He is certamly very fond of Valentine, and she of
him," answered Lilias. " No, I did not particularly notice
his expression. The fact is I did nut look at anyone much
except our Gerald. Marjory, I think it is an awful thing
for girls like us to have an only brother — he becomes
almost too ])recious. Marjory, I cannot sympathize v/ith
Mr. Paget. I wish we were at home. I know our dear
old dad will want us, and there is no saying what mess
Augusta will put things into."

" Father heard from Mr. Carr on tlic morning we left,"
responded Marjory. " I think he is coming to the rectory
on Saturday. If so, father won't miss us ; he'll be quife
taken up showing him over the plncc."

" I shall hate him," responded Lilias, in a very tart
voice. "Fancy his taking our (Gerald's place. Oh,
Ma-gie, this room stifles me— can't we change our
dresocs, and go out for a stroll somewhere ? Oh, what
folly you talk of it's not being tlie correct thing ! AVhat
a hateful place tliis London is ! Oh, for a breath of the
air in the garden at home. Yes, what is it, Mrs. John-
stone .^ "

A LIFE FOk A LOVE,

Lilias' pretty face looked almost grumpy, and a de-
cidedly discontented expression lurked in the dark, sweet
eyes she turned upon the good lady of the establishment.

" Lilly has an attack of the fidgets," said Marjory. *' She
wants to go out for a walk."

" YoLi shall both come in the carriage with me, my dears.
I was coming in to propose it to you. We won't dine until
quite late this evening."

'^ Delightful," exclaimed Marjory, and the two girls ran
out of the room to get ready. Mrs. Johnstone followed
them, and a few moments later a couple of young men
who were staying in the house sauntered lazily into the
drawing-room.

''What do you think of Wyndham's sisters, Exham?"
said one to the other.

Exham, a delicate youth of about nineteen, gave a long
expressive whistle.

"The girls are handsome enough,'' ne said. '' But not
in my style. The one they call Lilias is too brusque. A.s
to ^Vyndhanl, well — "

" AVhat a significant ' well,' old fellow — explain yourself."

" Nothing," returned Exham, who seemed to draw out
of any further confidences he was beginning to make.
'' Nothing — only, I wouldn't be in Wyndham's shoes."

The other man, whose name was Power, gave a short
laugh.

" You need Jiot pretend to be so wise and close, Exham,"
he retorted. "Anyone can see with half an eye that
Wyndham's wife is not in love with him. All the same,
Wyndham has not done a bad thing for himself — stepping
into a business like this. Why, he'll have everything by-
and-bye. I don't see liow he can heli) it."

" Did you hear that funny story, " retorted Exham,
" about Wyndham's life being insured ? "

"No, what? — Most men insure their lives when they
marry."

I '1

■■•;3vJ

■ I

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

*' Yes, but this is quite out of tiie common. At four
offices, and heavily. It filtered to me through one of the
clerks at the ofiice. He said it was all Paget's doing."

** What a villain that clerk must be to let out family
secrets," responded Power. *' I don't believe there's any-
thing in it, Exham. Ah, here comes the young ladies.
Yes, Mrs. Johnstone, I should like to go for a drive very
much."

A tIfE FOR A LOVE.

I ■

CHAPTER XII.

Some people concern themselves vey much with the mys-
teries of life, others take what good things fall into their
way without question or wonder. These latter folk are
not of a speculating or strongly reasoning turn; if sorrow
arrives they accept it as wise painful, inevitable — if joy
visits them they rejoice, but WMth simplicity. They are
the people who are naturally endowed wiUi faith — faitii
first of all in a guiding providence, which as a rule is
accompanied by a faitli in their fellow meji. The world is
kind to such individuals, for the world is very fond of
giving what is expected of it — to one hate and distrust, to
another open-handed benevolence and cordiality. People
so endowed are usually fortunate, and of them it may be
said, that it was good for them to be born.

All people are not so constituted — there is such a thing
as a noble discontent, and the souls that in the end often
attain to the highest, have nearly suffered shipwreck, have
spent with St. Paul a day and a night in the deep — being
saved in the end with a great deliverance — they have often
on the road been all but lost. Such people often sin very
deeply — temptation assails them in the most subtle forms,
many of them go down really into the deep, and are never
in this life heard of again — they are spoken of as '' lost,"
utterly lost, and their names are held up to others as
terrible warnings, as examples to be shunned, as reprobates
to be spoken of with bated breath.

It may be that some of these so-called lost sotils will
appear as victors in another state ; having gone into the
lowest dep;:hs of all they may also attain to the highest

ill

I 11

.:^

■' 11

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

heights ; this, liowever, is a mystery which no one can

fathom.

Gerald Wyndiiam was one one of the men of whom no
one could quite say it was good for him to have been
born. His nature was not very easily read, and even his
favorite sister Lilias did not quite know him. From his
earliest days he was so far unfortunate as never to be a])le
to take things easily ; even in his childhood (his characicr-
isiic marked him. Sorrows with Gerald were never trivial ;
when he was- six years old he became seriously ill because
a pet canary died. He would not talk of his trouble, nor
wail for his pet like an ordinary child, but sat apart, and
refused to eat, and only his mother at last could draw him
away from his grief, and show him it was unmanly to be
rebellious.

His joys were as intense as his woes — he was an intense
child in every sense of the word ; eager, enthusiastic, with
many noble impulses. All might have gone well with him
but for a rather st -ange accompaniment to his special
character ; he was as re.served as most such boys would be
open. It was only by the changing exjiression of his eyes
that on many occasions people knew whether a certain
jiroposition would plunge him in the depths of woe or
raise him to the heights of joy. He was innately very un-
selfish, and this characteristic must have been most strongly
marked in him, for his father and his mother and his
seven sisters did their utmost to make him the reverse.
Lilias said afterwards that they failed ignobly. Gerald
would never see it, she would say. Talk of easy-chairs
— he would stand all the evening rather than take one
inuil every other soul in the room was comfortably provid-
ed. Talk of the best in anything, — you might give it to
Gerald, but in five minutes he would have given it away to
the person who wanted it least. It was aggravating beyond
words, Lilias Wyndham often exclaimed, but before you

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

could even attempt to make old Gerry decently comfort-
able you had to attend to the wants of even the cats and
dogs.

Wyndham carrymg all his peculiarities with him went to
school and then to Cambridge. He was liked in both
places, and was clever enough to win distinction, but for
the same characteristic which often caused him at the last
moment *io fail, because he thought another man should
win the honor, or another schoolboy the prize.

His mother wished him to take holy orders, and although
he had no very strong leaning in that direction he expressed
himself satisfied with her choice, and decided for the first
few years of his life as deacon and priest to help his father
at the dear old parish of Jewsbury-on-the-Wold.

Then came his meeting with Valentine Paget, the com-
plete upheaval of every idea, the revolution which shook
his nature to its depths. His hour had come, and he took
the malady of young love — first, earnest, passionate love —
as anyone who knew him thoroughly, and scarcely anyone
did know the real Wyndham, might have expected.

One pair of eyes, however, looked at this speaking face,
and one keen mental vision pierced down into the depths
of an earnest and chivalrous soul. Mortimer Paget had
been long looking for a man like Wyndham. It was not a
very difficult matter to make such a lad his victim, hence
his story became one of the most sorrowful that could be
written, as far as this life is concerned. Had his mother,
who was now in her grave for over seven years, known
what fate lay before this bright beautiful boy of hers, she
would have cursed the day of his birth. Fortunately for
mothers, and sisters too, the future lies in darkness, for
knowledge in such cases would make daily life unendur-
able.

Valentine and her husband extended their wedding tour
considerably over the original month. They often wrote

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

home, and nothing could exceed the cheerfuhiess of the
letters which Mr. Paget read with anxiety and absorbing
interest — the rectory folks with all the interest minus the
anxiety. Valentine frankly declared that she had never
been so happy in hc^r life, and it was at last, at her father's
express request, almost command, that the young couple
consented to take up their abode in Queen's Gale early in
the November which followed their wedding. They spent
a fortnight first at the old rectory, where Valentine ap-
peared in an altogether new character, and commenced
her career by swearing an eternal friendship with Augusta.
She was in almost wild spirits, and they played pranks
together, and went everywhere arm-in-arm, accompanied
by the entire bevy of little sisters.

Lilias and Marjory began by being rather scandalized,
but ended by thoroughly a])preciating the arrangement, as it
left them free to monopolize Oerald, who on this occasion
seemed to have quite recovered his normal spirits. He
was neither depressed nor particularly exultant, he did not
talk a great deal either about himself or his wife, but was
full of the most delimited interest in his father's and sis-
ters' concerns. The new curate, Mr. Carr, was now in full
force, and Gerald and he found a great deal to say to one
another. The days were those delicious ones of late au-
tumn, when nature quiet and exhausted, as she is after her
ti;n : of flower and fruit, is in her most soothing mood. The
family at the rectory were never indoors until the shades
of night drove them into the long, low, picturesque, untidy
drawing-room.

Tlien Gerald sang with his sisters — they had all sweet
voices, and his was a pure and very sympathetic tenor. Val-
entine's songs were not the same as those culled from old
volumes of ballads, and selected from the musical mothers'
and grandmothers' store, which ihc rectory folk delighted
in. Hers were drawing-'-oom melodies of the present day,
fashionable, but short-lived.

*• i*i »] »- ir . m m ni}0 \ p i| ( .„< ■

■•/ LIFK }'0R A l.Oll'.

The first night the young biide was silent, for even Au-
gusta had left her to join the singers round the piano.
Gerald was playing an accompaniment for his sisters, and
the rector, standing in the background, joined ilie swell of
harmony with his rich bass notes. \''alentine and Cmv,
who was also in the room, were the silent and only lisl'jii-
ers. Valentine wore a soft white dress, her bright wavy
locks of golden hair were a little roughened, and her starry
eyes were fixed on her husband. Carr, who looked almost
monastic in his clerical dress, was gazing at her — her lij)s
were partly open, she kcjit gentle time to the music wiih
her little hand. A very spirited glee was in full tide, when
there came a horrid discordant crash on the piano — every-
one stopped singing, and Gerald, very white, went up to
Val, and took her arm.

•' Come over here and join us," he said almost roughly.

'' But I don't know any of that music, Gerald, and it is
so delicious to listen."

" Folly," responded her husband. ^' It looks absurd to
see two people gaping at one. I beg your pardon, Carr —
I am positively sensitive, abnormally so, on the subject of
being stared at. Girls, shall we have a round game .f^ [
will teach Val some of Bishop's melodies to-morrow nu)! n-

mg.

"1 am going home," said Carr, ([uietly. '^ I did not
know that anyone was looking at you e>:cept your wife,
Wyndham. Good-night? "

It was an uncomfortable little scene, and even the inno-
cent, unsophisticated rectory girls felt embarrassed without
knowing why. Marjory almost blamed Gerald afterwards,
and would have done so roundly, but Lilias would not
listen to her.

At the next night's concert, Valentine sang almost as
sweetly as the others, but Carr did not come back to the
rectory for a couple of days.

• ---ti

■''M

*fO

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

" I evidently acted like a brute, and must have ap-
peared one," said Gerald to himself. " But God alone
knows what all this means to me."

It was a small jar, the only one in that happy fortnight,
when the girls seemed to have quite got their brother back,
and to have found a new sister in pretty, bright Valentine.

It was the second of November when the bride and
bridegroom appeared it a hi dinner party made in their
iiOnor at the house in \^nicc! s Gate.

All her friends congr 'ulucJ Valentine on her improved
looks, and told Wyndham frankly .i at matrimony had made
a new man of him. He was certainly bright and pleasant,
and took his part quite naturallv as the son of the house.
No one could detect the shadow of a care on his face, and
as lo Val, she sat alnioFl in her father's pocket, scarcely
turning her bright eyes away from his face.

" I always thought that dear Mr. Paget the best and
noblest and most Christian of men," remarked a certain
Lady Valery to her daughter as they drove home that even-
ing. '' I am now more convinced of the truth of my views
than ever. '

" Why so, mother ? " asked her daughter.

" My dear, can you not see for yourself ? He gave that
girl of his — that beautiful girl, with all her fortune — to a
young man with neither position nor money, simply and
entirely because she fell in love with him. Was there ever
anything more disinterested ? Yes, my dear, talk to me
of evory Christian virtue embodied, and I shall invariably
mention my old friend, Mortimer Paget."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER XIII.

•* Valentine," said lier husband, as they stood together
by the fire in their bedroom that night, " I have a great
favor to ask of you."

" Yes, Gerald — a favor ! I hkc to grant favors Is it
that I must wear that soft white dress you like so much
to-morrow evening? Or that I must sing no songs but th
rectory soigs for father's visitors in the drawing-room.
How solemn you look, Gerald. What is the favor? "

Gerald's face did look careworn. The easy light-heart( -^
expression which had characterized it downstairs har' left
him. When Valentine laid her hand lovingly oik i is
shoulder, he slipped his arm round her waist, however, and
drew her fondly to his side.

" Val, the favor is this," he said. *' You can do any-
thing you like with your father. I want you to persuade
him to let us live in a little house of our own for a time,
until, say next summer."

Valentine sprang away from Gerald's encircling arm.

" I won't ask that favor," she said, her eyes flashing. " It
is mean of you, Gerald. I married you on condition that
I should live with my father."

" Very well, dear, if you feel it like that, we won't say
anything more about it. It is not of real consequence."

Gerald took a letter out of his pocket, and opening the
envelope began leisurely to read its contents. Valentine
still, however, felt ruffled and annoyed.

" It is so queer of yoi; to make sucli a request," slie said.
** I wonder what father v^ould say. He would think I had
taken leave of my senses, and just now too when I have

-■i

.•v-'.L

7»

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

■ 'ill

been away from him for months. And when it is such a
joy, such a deep, deep joy, to be with him again."

" It is of no consequence, darling. I am sorry I men-
tioned it. See, Valentine, this letter is from a great friend
of mine, a Mrs. Price— she wants to call on you; she is
coming to-morrow. You will be al home in the afternoon,
will you not ? "

Valentine nodded.

" I will be in," she said. Then she added, her eyes fill-
ing with tears—" You don't really want to take me away
from my father, Gerald ? "

" I did wish to do so, dear, but we need not think of it
again. The one and only object of my life is to make you
hai)py, Val. Now go to bed, and to sleep, dearest. I am
going downstairs to have a smoke."

The next morning, very much to her surprise, Mr. Paget
called his daughter into his study, and made the same pro-
position to her whicli Gerald had made the night before.

" I must not be a selfish old man, Val," he said. ** And
I think it is best for young married folks to live alone. I
know how you love me, my child, and I will promise to pay
you a daily visit. Or at least when you don't come to me, I
will look you up. Lut all things considered, it is best for
your husband and you to have your own house. Why,
what is it, Valentine, you look quite queer, child."

*' This is Gerald's doing," said Valentine — her face had
a white set look — never before had her father seen this
expression on il. ''No, father, I will not leave you; 1
refuse to do so : it is breaking our compact; it is unfair."

She went up to liim, and put her arms round his neck,
and again her golden locks touched his silvered head, and
her soft cheek pressed his.

•■' Ivither darling, you won't break your own Val's heart
—you couldn't ; it would be telling a lie. I won't live away
from you— I won't, so there."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

Just at this moment Wyndham entered the room.

'' What is it. sir ? " he said, ahnost fiercely. " What are
you doing with Val? Why, she 'v\ crying. What have you
been saying to her? "

"My father said nothing," answered Valentine for him.
" How dare you speak to my fatlicr in that tone? It is you,
Gerald ; you have been mean and shabby. You went to
my father to try to get him on your side — to try and get
him — to try and get him to aid you in going away — to live
in another house. Oli, it was a mean, cowardly thing to do,
but you shan't have your way, for I'm not going ; only
I'm ashamed of you, Gerald, I'm asliamed of you."

Here Valentine burst into a tempest of angry, girlish
tears.

" Don't be silly, Val," said herluisband, in a quiet voice.
*' I said nothing about this to Mr. Paget. I wished for it,
but as I told you last night, when you disapproved, I gave
it up. I don't tell lies. Will you explain to Valentine,
please, sir, that I'm guiltless of anything mean, or, as she
expresses it, shabby, in this matter."

" Of course, Wyndham — of course, you are," said Paget.
" My dear little Val, what a goose you have made of your-
self Now run away, Wyndham, there's a good fellow, and
I'll soothe her down. You might as well go to the office
for me. Ask Helps for my private letters, and bring them
back with you. Now, Valentine, you and I are going to
have a drive together. Good-bye, Wyndham."

Wyndham slowly left the room — Valentine's head was
still on her father's shoulder — as her husband went away
he looked back at her, but she did not return his glance.

" The old man is right," he soliloquized bitterly. '" \
have not a chance of winning her heart. No doubt under
ilie circumstances this is the only thing to be desired, and
yet it very nearly maddens me."

Wyndham did not return to Queen'p. G.ite until quite
3atc ; he had only lime to run up to his room and change

// LI IE FOR ^l LOVE,

his dress hastily for dinner. Valentine had already gone
downstairs, and he sighed heavily as he noticed lliis, or
he felt that unwittingly he had managed to hurt her in her
tenderest feeling;i that morning.

** If there is mucli of llii^i soit of thing," he said to him-
self, " I sliall not be so sorry when ihe year is up. When
onee the plunge is over 1 may cume up another man, and
anytiiing is better than perpetually standing on the brink."
Yet half an hour later Wyndhaui had completely changed
his mind, for when he entered the di.iwing-room, a girlish
figure jumped \\\) at onee (Mil of an easy-chair, and ran to
meet him, and Valentine's arms were flung al)out his neck
and several of her sweetest kisses printed on his lips.

" Forgive me for being cross this morning, dear old dar-
ling. Father has made me see everytl ing in quite a new
lights and has shown me that I acted quite like a little
fiend, and that you are very nearly the best of men. And
do you know, Gerry, he wishes us so much to live alone,
and thinks it the only right and proper thing to do, that I
have given in, and I quite agree with him, quite. And we
have almost taken the sweetest, darlingest little bijou resi-
dence in Park-lane that you can imagine. It is like a doll's
house compared to this, but so exquisite, and furnished
with such taste. It will feel like playing in a baby-house
all day long, and T am almost in love with it already. You
must come with me and see it the first thing in the morn-
ing, Gerry, for if we both like it, father will arrange at once
with the agent, and then, do you know the very first thing
I mean to do for you, Gerry ? Oh, you need not guess, I'll
tell you. Lihas shall come up to spend the winter with us.
Oh, you need not say a word. I'm not jealous, but I can
see how you idolize Lilias, Gerry."

A LI IE FOR A Loyh,

CHAPTER XIV.

At the end of a week the Wyndhams were settled in their
new home, and Valentine began her duties as wife and
housekeeper in earnest. She, too, was more or less impul-
sive, and !>oginning by hating tlie idea she ended by adopt-
ing it witli enthusiasm. After all it was her father's plan,
not Gerald's, and that in her heart of hearts made all the
difference.

Kor the first lime in her life, Valentine had more to get
througli than she could well accomplish. Her days, there-
fore, just now were one long deligjit to her, and even Gerald
felt himself more or less infected by her higli spirits. It
was pretty to see her girlish efforts at house-keeping, 4ind
even her failures became subjects of good-humored merri-
ment. Mr. Paget came over every day to see her, but he
generally chnse the hours when her husband was absent,
and Wyndham and his young wife were in consequence
able to spend many happy evenings alone.

By-and-bye this girlish and thoughtless wife was to look
back on these evenings, and wonder with vain sighs of
unavailing regret 'f life could ever again bring her back
such sweetness. Now she enjoyed them unthinkingly, fcr
her time for wakening had not come.

When the young couple were quite settled in their own
establishment, Lilias Wyndham came up from the country
to spend a week with them. Nothing would induce her
to stay longer away from home. Although Valentine
pleaded and coaxed, and even Gerald added a word or two
of entreaty, she was quite firm.

7fi

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

'* No," i-he said, '' noticing would make me become the
obnoxious sister-in-lr v, about whom so much has been
written in all the story books I have ever read."

'' Oh, Lilias, you darling, as if you could ! " exclaimed
Val, flying at her and kissing her.

" Oh, yes, my dear, I conld," calmly responded Lilly
— " and I may just as well warn you at once that my ways
are not your ways in a great many particulars, and that
you'd find that out if I lived too long with you. No, I'm
going home to-morrow — to my owii life, and you and
Gerald must live yours without me. I am ready to come,
if ever cither of you want me, but just now no one does
that as much as Marjory and my father."

Lilias returned to Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and Valentine
fc. some days continued to talk of her with enthusiasm,
and to quote her name on all possible occasions.

'' Lilias says that I'll never make a good housekeeper,
unless I bring my wants into a fixed allowance, Gerald.
She says I ought to know what I have got to spend each
week, and not to exceed it, whether it is a large or small
ram. She says that's what she and Marjory always do.
Abou*^ 3;v vv much do you think I ought to spend a week on
house-i .^eping, Gerry ? "

" I don't know, darling. I have not the most remote
idea."

" But how much have we to spend altogether? AVe are
very rich, are we not ? "

" No, Valentine, we are very poor. In fact we have got
nothing at all."

'' Wh) , what a crease has come between your brows ;
let me smooth it out — there, now you look much nicer.
You ha>e got a look of Lilias, only your eyes are not so
dark. Gerald, I think Lilias so pretty. I think she is the
very sweetest girl I ever met. But what do you mean by
saying we are poor ? Of course we are not poor. We

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

would not live in a house like this, and have such jolly,
cosy, little dinners if we were poor. Why, I know that
champagne that we have a liny bottle of every evening is
really most costly. 1 thought poor people lived in attics,
and ate bread and American cheese. What do you mean
by being poor, Gerald ? "

" Only that we have nothing of our own, dearest ; we
depend on your father for everything."

" You speak in quite a bitter tone. It is sweet to de-
])end on my father. But doesn't he give us an allow-

ance

? "

'* No, Valentine, I just take him all the bills, and he pays
tiieni."

" Oh, I don't like that plan. I think it is much more
important and interesting to i)ay one's own bills, and 1 can
never learn to be a housekeeper if I don't understand the
vahie of money. I'll speak to father about this when he
comes to-morrow. I'll ask him to give me an allowance."

" I wouldn't," replied Gerald. He spoke lazily, and
yawned as he uttered the words.

" There's no use in taking up things that one must leave
off again," he added, somewhat enigmatically. Then he
opened a copy of Browning which lay near, and forgot
Valentine and her troubles, at least she thought he forgot
her.

She looked at him for a moment, with a lialf pleased,
half-puzzled expression coming into her face.

'• He is very handsome and interesting," she murmured
under her breath. " I like him, I certainly do like him,
not as well as my father of course — I'm not sorry I married
him now. I like him quite as well as I could ever have
cared for the other man — the man who wore white flannels
and had a determined voice, and now has been turned into
a dreadful prosy curate. Yes, I do like Gerald. He per-
plexes me a good deal, but that is interesting. He is

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

•I; : :vr
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mysterious, and that is captivating— yes, yes— yes. Now,
what did he mean by that queer remark about my house-
keeping — ' that it wasn't worth while ? ' I hope he's not
superstitious— if anything could be worth while it would
be well for a young girl like me to learn something useful
and definite. I'll ask him what he means."

She drew a footstool to her husband's side, and taking
one of his hands laid her cheek against it. Wyndham
dropped his book and smiled down at her.

" Gerry, do you believe in omens ? " she asked.
■ Gerald gave a slight start. Circumstances inclined him
to superstition — then he laughed. He must not encourage
his wife in any such folly.

" I don't quite understand you, my love," he replied.

" Only you said it was not worth my while to learn to
housckeep. Why do you say that ? I am very young,
you are young. If we are to go on always together, I ought
to become wise and sensible. I ouglit to have knowledge.
AVhat do you mean, Gerald ? Have you had an omen ?
Do you think you will die? Or perhaps that I shall die?
I should not at all like it. I hope — I trust — no token of
death has been sent to you about me.''

" None, my very dearest, rione. I see before you a life
of — of peace. Peace and plenty — and — and — honor — a
good life, Valentine, a guarded life."

" How white you are, Gerald. And why do you say
'you' all ihe time? The life, the peaceful life, and it
sounds rather dull, is for us both, isn't it? "

" I don't know—I can't say. You wouldn't care, would
you, Val — I mean — I mean "

'' What ? "

Valentine had risen, Jier arms were thrown round
Gerald's neck.

" Are you trying to tell me that T could be happy now
without you ? " she whispered. " Then 1 couldn't, darling.
I (Jon't mind telling you I couldn't. I— I "

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

'< What, Val, what ? "

*' I like you, Gerald. Yes, I know it — I do like you —
much."

It ought to have been the most dreadful sound to him,
and yet it wasn't. Wyndhani strained his wife to his heart.
Then he raised his eyes, and with a start Valentine and he
stepped asunder.

Mr. Paget had come into the room. He had come in
softly, and he must have heard Valentine's words, and seen
that close embrace.

With a glad cry the girl flew to his side, but when he
kissed her his lips trembled, he sank down on the nearest
chair like a man who had received a great shock.

i
i '

I !

• lil

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER XV.

" I'm afraid I can't help it, sir," said Wyndham.

Mr. Paget and his son-in-law were standing together in
the very comfortable private room before alluded to in the
office of the former.

Wyndham was standing with his back to tlie mantel-
piece ; Valentine's lovely picture was over his head. Her
eyes, which were almost dancing with life, seemed to have
something mocking in them to Mr. Paget, as he encoun-
tered their gaze now. As eyes will in a picture, they fol-
lowed him wherever he moved. He was restless and ill al
ease, and he wished eiliier that the picture might be re-
moved, or that he could take up Wyndham's position with
his back to it.

'* I tell you," he said, in a voice that betrayed his per-
turbation, " that you must help it. It's a clear breaking
of contract to do otherwise."

"You see," said Wyndham, v'th a :/:ov- ■mile, "you
under-rated my attractions. I was not the man for your
purpose after all."

"Sit down for God's sake, Wyndham. Don't stand
there looking so provokingly indifferent. Ojie would think
the whole matter was nothing to you."

" I am not sure that it is much ; that is, I am not at all
sure that I shall not take my full meed of ])]easure out of
the sho^ time allotted to me."

" Sit dowii, take ^.hat chair, no, not that one—that— ah,
that's better. Valentine's eyes c-re positively uncomfort-
able the *vav tae' purs'ie me thi,-. evening. Wyndliam, you
must feel :o- m.- - you must sec tliat it will be a perfectly
awful thii)g ifmy—riv child loses her heart to you,"

wMM

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

!' n

''Well, Mr. Paget, you can judge for yourself how mat-
ters stand, I — T cannot quite agree with you about what
you fear being a catastrophe."

" You must be mad, Wyndliam — you must either be
mad, or you mean to cheat me after all."

" No, I don't. I have a certain amount of honor left —
not much, or I .shouldn't have lent myself to this, but the
rag remaining is at your service. Seriously now, I don't
think you have grave cause for alarm. Valentine is affec-
tionate, but I am not to her as you arc."

" You are growing dearer to her every day. I am not
blind, I have watched her face. She follows you Vv'ith her
eyes — when you don't eat she is anxious, when you look
dismal — you have an infernally dismal face at times, Wynd-
hara — she is puzzled. It wasn't only what I saw last night.
Valentine is waking up. It was in the contract that she
was not to wake up. I gave you a child for your wife.
She was to remain a child when "

" When she became my widow," Wyndham answered
calmly.

'* Yes. My God, it is awful to think of it. AVe must go
ii!, we daren't turn back, and she may suffer, she may suffer
horribly, she has a great heart — a deep heart. It is play-
ing with edged tools to make it live."

" Can't you shorten the time of probation ? " asked Wynd-
ham.

" I wish to heaven I could, but I am powerless. Wynd-
ham, my good friend, my son — something must be done."

*• Don't call me your son," said the younger man, rising
and shaking himself. *' 1 have a father who besides you
is — there, I won't name what I think of you. I have a
mother — through your machinations I shall never see her
face any more. Don't call me your son. You are very
wise, you have the wisdom of a devil, but even you can
overreach yourself. You thought you had found everv-

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

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thing you needed, when you found me — the weak young
fool, the despairing idiotic lover. Poor ? Yes, cursedly
poor, and with a certain sense of generosity, but nothing
at all in myself to win the heart of a beautiful young girl.
You should have gone down to Jewsbury-on-the-Wold for
a little, before you summed up your estimate of my char-
acter, for the one thing T have always found lying at my
feet is — love. Even the cats and dogs loved me — those to
whom I gave nothing regarded me with affection. Alack —
and alas — my wife only follows the universal example."

" But it must be sloi>ped, Wyndham. You cannot fail
to see that it must be stopped. Can you not help me —
can you not devise some plan ? "

Wyndham dropped his head on his hands.

" Hasten the crisis," he said. " I want the plunge over ;
hasten it."

There came a tap at the room door. Mr. Paget drew
back the curtain which stood before it, slipped the bolts,
and opened it.

*' Ah, I guessed you were here ! " said Valentine's gay
voice ; "yes, and Gerald too. This is delightful," added
she, as she stepped into the room.

" What is it, Val ? " abked her father. '' T was busy — I
was talking to your husband. I am very much occupied
this afternoon. 1 forgot it was the day you generally called
for me. No, Fm afraid I can't go with you, my pet."

Valentine was looking radiant in winter furs.

*' I'll go with G-rulu, then," she said. '' He's not too
busy."

She smiled at h\u:

*' No, my dear, I'll j^- with you," said the younger man.
*' I don't think, sir," he idded. tuniing '•ound, with a des-
perate ly white but smiL g face, 'Uhat we can advance
business mu( h by prolonging this interview, and if you
have no objection, I should like to take a drive with my
wife as she has called."

inge over

^ LIFE FOR A LOVE,

Valentine instinctively felt that these smoothly spoken
words were meant to hide something. She glanced from
the face of one man to another; then she went up to her
father and linked her hand in his arm."

"Come, too, daddy," she said. '-You used always to
he able to make horrid business wait upon your own Valen-
tine's pleasure."

Mr. Paget hesitated for a moment. Then he stooped
and lightly kissed his daughter's blooming cheek.

" Go with your husband, dear," he said, gently. '' I am
really busy, and we shall meet at dinner time,"

" Yes, we are to dine with you to-night — I've a most
important request to make after dinner. You know what
il is, Gerry. Won't father be electrified ? Promise before-
hand that you'll grant it, dad.''

" Yes, my child, yes. Now run away both of you. I
am really much occupied."

Valentine and her husband disappeared. Mr. Paget
shut and locked the door behind them — he drew the velvet
curtains to insure perfect privacy. Then he sank down in
his easy-chnir to indulge in anxious meditation.

lie thought some of those hard thoughts, some of those
abstruse, worrying, almost despairing thoughts, which add
years to a man's life.

As he thought the mask dropped from his handsome
face ; he looked old and wicked.

After about a quarter-of-an-hour of these meditations, he
moved slightly and touched an electric bell in the wall.
His signal was answered in aboilt a minute by a tap at the
room door. He slipped the bolts again, and admitted his
confidential clerk^, Helps.

" Sit down. Helps. Yes, bolt the door, quite right. Now,
sit down. Helps, I am worried."

** I'm sorry to observe it, sir," said Helps. " Worries
is nat'ral, but not agreeable. They come to the good and

||)I«|M»<«<«W«IM '"

// r.IFE FOk A / ov/\

they conic lo the bad alike ; worries is like the sun — they
sliines upon all."

" A particularly agreeable kind of glare they make,"
responded Mr. Paget, testily. "Your similes are remark-
m})1c lor tluir aptitude, Helps. Now, have the goodness
to conliue yourself to briefly replying to my questions.
Has there been any news from India since last week?

•* N"othing tVesh, sir."

" No sign of stir ; no awakening of interest — of — of —
sus})icior ^ "

" Not yet, sir. It isn't to be cxpe«*ted, is it ? "

" I suppose not. Sometimes I get impatient, Helps."

" You needn't now, sir. Your train is, so to speak, laid.
Any nioiucntyoii can apply tiie niatcli. Any moment, Mr.
Paget. Sometimes, if you'll excuse me for sjieaking of
that same, I have a heart in my bosom tJKit pities the vic-
lim. You shouldn't liave doue it from among the clergy,
Mr. Paget, and him ;vn only son, too."

'' Hush, it's done. There is no lielp now. Helps, you
are the only soul in the world who knows everything.
Helps, there may l>e two victims."

Helps had a sallo'^' face, it grew sickly now.

*• I don't like it/' he multered. '• 1 }iever did approve
of meddling with the clergy -lie uns meant for the Church,
and them is the I.ord's anointed."

" Don't talk so much," thundered Mr. Paget. '• I tell
you there are two victims --and (ine of them is )ny child.
She is tailing in love with Iicr lui.haiul. It i.s true — it is
awful. It must be prevented. Helps, you and I have got
to prevent it."

Helps sat perfectly still. His eyes were lowered ; they
were following the patterns of the carpet. He moved Ins
lips softly.

" It must be ])revented," said Mr. Paget. " Why do
you sit like that ? Will you help me, or will you not ? "

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

Helps raised his greeny-blue eyes with great delibera-
tion.

" I don't know that I will help you, Mr. Paget," he
replied ; and then he lowered them again.

"You won't help iiu; ? You don't know what you are
saying, Heli)s. Did you understand my words ? 1 told
you that my daughter was falling in love with that scam|)
Wyndham."

" He ain't a scamp," replied the clerk. '* He's in the
conspiracy, poor lad, he's the victim of the conspiracy,
but he's no scamp. Now I never liked it. 1 may as well
own to you, Mr. Paget, that T never liked your meddling
with the clergy. I said, from the first, as no good would
come of it. It's my opinion, sir — " here Helps rose, and
raising one thin hand shook it feebly at his employer, " it's
my opinion as the Lord is agen you — agen us both for that
matter. AVe can'l do nothing if He is, you know. I had
a dream last night — I didn't like the dream, it was a homin-
ous dream. I didn't like your scheme, Mr. Paget, and 1
don't think I'll help you more'n I have done."

" Oh, you don't? You are a wicked old scoundrel. You
think you can have things all your own way. You are a
thief. You know the kind of accommodation thieves get
when their follies get found out. Of course, it's inexpen-
sive, but it's scarcely agreeable."

Helps smiled slightly.

" No one could lock me up but you, and you wouldn't
dare," he replied.

These words seemed somehow or other to have a very
calming effect on Mr. Paget. Pie did not speak for a full
moment, then he said quietly —

" We won't go into painful scenes of the past. Helps.
Yes, we have both committed folly, and must stand or fall
together. We have both got only daughters — it is our life's
work to shield them from dishonor, to guard them from

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

■i w

»' "■

pain. Suppose, Helps, suppose your Esther was in the
position of my child? Suppose she was learning to love
her husband, and you knew what that husband had before
him, how would you fuel, Helps ? Put yourself in my place,
and tell me how you'd feel."

" It 'ud all turn on one point," said Helps., '' Whether
I loved the girl or myself most. Ef I saw that the girl was
going deep in love with her husband — deep, mind you —
mortal deep — so 1 was nothing at all to her beside him,
why then, maybe, I'd save the young man for her sake, and
go under myself. 1 might do that, it 'ud depend on how
much I loved."

" Nonsense ; you would bring dishonor and ruin on her.
How could she ever hold up her head again } "

" Maybe he'd comfort her through it. There's no say-
ing. Love, deep love, mind you, docs wonders."

Mr. Paget began to pace up and down the room.

" You are the greatest old fool I ever came across," he
said. " Now, mind you, your sentiments with regard to
your low-born daughter, arc nothing at all to me. No-
blesse oblige doesn't come into the case with you as it does
with my child. Dishonor shall never touch her ; it would
kill her. She must be guarded against it. L sten, Helps.
We have talked folly and sentiment enough. -<ow to busi-
ness. That young man must not rise in my daughter's
esteem. There is such a thing — listen, Helps, come close
— such a thing as blackening a man's character. You think
it over — you're a crafty old dog. Go home and look at
Esther, and think it over. God bless me, I'd not an idea
hovv' late it was. Here's a five pound note for your pretty
girl, Helps. Now go home and think it over."

A LU'i: FOR A LOVE,

CHAPI'liR XVI.

Helps Inittoncd on his great coat, said a few words to one
of the clerks, and stepped out into the foggy night. He
hailed a passing omnibus, and in the course of half-aji-hour
Iniind himself fumbling with his lat("h-key in the door of a
lU'.il little house, which, however, was at the same moment
tJiifiwn wide open from within, and a tall girl with a pale
face, clear grey eyes, -aw^X a (juantity v>{ ilark hair coiled
about her head stood before him.

'• It's father, Cherry," she said lo a little cousin who
popped round the corner. '* Put the sausages on, and dish
up I he i)Otatoes. Now don't be awkward. I'm glad you're
in good time, father — here, give us a kiss. Do I look nice
ill this dress ? 1 made it all myself. Here, come up to
ihe gas, and have a good look at it. How does it fit?
Neat, eh ? "

The dress was a dark green velveteen, made without
attempt at ornament, but fitting the slim and lissom figure
like a glove.

" It's neat, but plain, sure-ly," replied Helps, looking
puzzled, proud, and at the same time dissatisfied. " A
bit more color now, — more flouncing — Why, what's the
matter, Essie ? How you do frown, my girl."

" Come in out of the cold, father. Oh, no, not the
kitchen, I've ordered supper to be laid in the dining-room.
Well, perhaps the room it does smoke, but that will soon
clear off. Now, father, I want to ask you an important
question. Do I look like a lady in this dress ? "

She held herself very erect, the pure outline of her grand
figure was shown to the best advantage, her massive head

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A LIFE rOR A LOVE.

liad a queenly pose, and the delicate purity of her com-
plexion heightened the effect. Her accent was wrong, her
words betrayed her — could she have become dumb, she
might have passed for a princess.

'" Do I look like a lady? " she repealed.

Mule Milps stepped back a jKice or two — he was
l)uzzlcd and annoyed.

" You look all right, Essie," said. " A lady ? Oh, well
-but you ain't a lady, my girl. Look here, Esther, this
room is mortal cold — I'd a sight rather have my supi-tr
cosy ill the kitchen."

*' \V)H can't then, father. You must take up with the
gentc cl ways. After supper we're going into the drawing-
room, and I'll play to you on the planner, pa ; I have been
practising all day. Perhaps, too, we'll liave company —
there's no saying."

" Company ? " repeated Helps. *' Who — what ? "

"Oh, I'm not going to say, maybe he won't come. I met
him in the park — I was skating with the Johnsons, and I
fell, and he picked me u]). I might have been hurt but for
him. Then he heard George Johnson calling me by my
name, and it turned out that he knew you. Oh, wasn't
he a swell, and didn't he look it ! iind hadn't he a name
worth boasting of ! ' Mr. Gerald AVyndham.' Why, what's
the matter, father ? He said that he had often promised
to look you up some evening, to bring you some stupid
book (u- other. He said maybe he would come to-night.
That's why I had the drawing-room and dining-room all
done up. He said perhaps he'd call, and took off his hat
most refined. T took an awful fancy to him — his ways was
so aspiring. He said he might come to-night, but he wasn't
sure. I didn't know you had young men like that at your
(>ffic(\ father. And what is the matter? — why, you're quite
white : ''

" I never talk of what goes on at the place of business,"

A LIFE FOR A LOVE. %

replied Helps, in quite a brusque voice for him. '' And as
to that young gent, Esther, he's our Miss Valentine's hus-
band."

" Married ? Oh, lor, he didn't look it ! And who is
* our Miss Valaitine ? ' if I may be bold enough to ask."

"Mr. Paget's daughter. 1 said I didn't mention matters
connected with the place of business."

" You always were precious close, father. But you're a
dear, good, old dad, all the same, and Cherry and I would
sooner die than have you scolded about anything. Cherry,
my fine beau's a married man — pity, aint it? 1 thought
maybe he'd suit me."

" Then you needn't have lit the fire in the drawing-room,"
answered Cherry, a very practical and stoutly-built little
maid of fifteen.

" Maybe I needn't, but there's no harm done. I sup-
pose T can talk to him, even if he is married. Won't I draw
him out about Miss Valentine, and tell him how father
always kept her a secret from us."

" Supper's ready, uncle," said Cherry. '' Oh, bother that
fire ! It's quite out. Don't the sausages smell good, uncle ?
I cooked them myself."

The three sat down to the table, poor Helps shivering
not a little, and casting more than one regretful glance at
the warm and cosy kitchen. He was feeling depressed for
more than one reason this evening, and a sense of dismay
stole over him at Esther's having accidentally made Wynd-
ham's acquaintance.

" It's a bad omen," he said, under his breath, " and
Esther's that contrary, and so taken up with making a
lady of herself, and she's beautiful as a picter, except when
she talks folly.

" I liked that young man from the first," he murmured.
'* I took, so to speak, a fancy to him, and warned him,

and I quoted scripter to him.

All to no good.

The glint

iiii

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// LIFE FOR A LOVE,

of a gel's eye was too much for him, he sold himself for her
—body and soul he sold himself for her. Still, I went
on keeping up a fancy for him, and I axed him to look
me up some evening, and have a pipe — he's wonderful on
words too— he can derivatc almost as many as I can. I'm
sorry now I asked him — Esther's that wilful, and as beau-
tiful as a picter. She talks too much lo young men that's
above her. She's set on being a lady. Mr. Wyndham's
married, of course, but Esilier wouldn't think nothing of
trying to flirt with him for all that."

" Esther," he said, suddenly, raising his deep-set eyes,
and fixing them on his daughter, *' ef the young man calls,
it's to see me, mind you — he's a married man, and he has
got the most beautiful wife in the world, and he loves her.
My word, I never heard tell of nobody loving their wife so
much ! "

Esther's big grey eyes opened wide.

" How you look at me, dad," she said, " One would
think I wanted to steal Mr. Wyndham from his wife ! I'm
glad he loves her, it's romantic, it pleases me."

'* And there's his ring at the door," suddenly exclaimed
Cherry. " Esther was right to ])reparc the drawing-room.
I'm glad he have come. I like to look at handsome gents,
particular when they are in love."

Gerald's arrival was accidental after all. He and his wife
were dining in Queen's Gate, and after dinner he remem-
bered his adventure on the ice, and told the story in an
amusing way.

'' A most beautiful girl, but with such an accent and
manner," he said. "And who do you think she turned
out to be, sir?" he added, turning to his fiUher-in-law.
" Why, your cracked clerk's daughter. She told me her
name was Esther Helps, and I found they were father and
daughter."

" Has old Helps got a daughter ? " exclaimed Valentine.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

" How funny that 1 should never liave known it. I have
always been rather fond of old Helps."

" He has an only daughter, as I have an only daughter,"
replied Mr. Paget. Valentine was sitting close to him ; he
put his arm around her waist as he spoke.

'* How queer that I should never have known," conti-
nued Valentine. *' And her name is Esther ? It is a pretty
name. And you say that she is handsome, Gerry ? What
is she like ? "

" Tall and pale, with an expressive face," replied Wynd-
hani, lightly. " She is lady-like, and even striking-looking
until she opens her lips — then " he made an expressive

grmiace.

" Poor girl, as if she could help that," replied Val. " She
has never been educated, you know. Her father is poor,
and he can't give her advantages. Does old Helps love
his daughter very much, dad ? "

•' I suppose so, Val. Yes, I think I may say I am sure
he does."

" I am so interested in only girls with fathers," continued
Mrs. Wyndham. " I wish I had seen Esther Helps. I
hope you were kind to her, Gerald."

" I picked her up, dear, and gave her to her friends.
By-lhe-way, I said I'd call to see old Helps this evening.
He has a passion for the derivation of words, and I have
Trench's book on the subject. Shall I take Esther a mes-
sage from you, Val ? "

" Yes, say something nice. I am not good at making
up messages. Tell her I am interested in her, and the
more she loves her father, the greater my interest must be.
Sec, this is much better than any mere message — take her
this bunch of lilies — say I sent them. Now, Gerald, is it
likely I should be lonely ? Father and I are going to have
two hours all to ourselves."

But as Valentine said these light words, her hand lin-
gered on her husband's shoulder, and her full brown eyes

1 I

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

I ;

rested on his face. Something in their gaze made his heart
throb. He put his arm round her neck and kissed her
forehead.

" I shan't be two hours away," he said.

He took up the flowers, put " Trench on Words " into
his pocket, and went out.

Wyndham had a pleasant way witli all people. His words,
his manner, his gentle courteous smile won for him hearts
in all directions. He was meant to be greatly beloved ;
he was born to win the most dangerous popularity of all —
that which brought to him blind and almost unreasoning
affection.

He was received at No. 5 Acadia Terrace with enthu-
siasm. Esther and Cherry were open-eyed in their admi-
ration, and Helps, a little sorrowful — somehow Helps if he
wasn't cynical was always sorrowful — felt proud of the visit.

Gerald insisted on adjourning to the kitchen. He and
Helps had a long discussion on words — Cherry moved
softly about, putting everything in order — Esther sat silent
and lovely, glancing up now and then at Gerald from un-
der her black eyelashes. Valentine's flowers lay in her
lap. They were dazzlingly white, and made an effective
contrast to her dark green dress. It was a peaceful little
scene — nothing at all remarkable about it. Gerald fell
more contented than he had done for many a day. Who
would have thought that out of such innocent materials
mischief of the deadliest sort might be wrought to him and
his.

.r*

, ,IV,

iiv

.-I LItE FOR A 1 OVE,

CHAPTER XVII.

n n

When Wyndham came back to Queen's Gate his wife
met him with sparkling eyes.

" How mucli time can you give me to-morrow ? " she
said. " I want to go out with you. I have been speaking
to father, and he accedes to all our wishes — he will give us
an income. He says he thinks a thousand a year will be
enough. Oh, he is kind, and I feel so excited. Don't let
us drive, let us walk home, Gerry. I know the night is fine,
I feel that everything is bright just now, and you will come
with me lo-morrow, won't you, Gerry? Father, could you
Sparc Gerald from business to-morrow ? You know it is
so important."

Mr. Paget was standing a little in the shadow, his face
was beaming, his eyes smiling. When Valentine turned to
him, he laid his hand lightly on her shoulder.

" You are an inconsistent little girl," he said. " You
want to become a business woman yourself. You want to
be practical, and clever, and managing, and yet you en-
courage that husband of yours to neglect his work."

Gerald flushed.

" I don't neglect my work," he said. *' My heavy work
has never a chance of being neglected, it is too crushing."

Valentine looked up in alarm, but instantly Mr. Paget's
smiling face was turned to the young man, and his other
hand touched his arm.

'* Your work to-morrow is to go with your wife," he said
gently. " She wants to shop — to spend — to learn saving
by expenditure. You have to go with her to give her the
benefit of your experience. Look out for cheap sales, my
dear child — go to Whiteley's, and purchase what you don't

■4
\

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

want, provided it is a remnant, and sold under cost price.
Save by learning, Val, and, Gerald, you help her to the best
of your ability. Now good-night, my children, good-night,
both of you, bless you."

" It almost seemed to mc," said Valentine, as they walked
home together — it was a starry night and she clung affec-
tionately to her husband's arm — " it almost seemed to me
that father was put out with you, and you with him. He
was so sweet while you were out, but^ although he smiled
all the time after you returned I d(jn't think he was really
sweet, and you didn't speak nicely to him, Gerald, about
the work I mean. Is the work at the office very heavy,
Gerald? You never spend more than about two hours a
day there."

" The work is heavy, Val, and it will grow more so. I
don't complain, however — I have not the shadow of a right
to complain. I am sorry I spoke to your father so as to vex
you, dearest — I won't do so again."

" I want you to love him, Gerry ; I want you to feel for
him a little bit, as I do, as if he were the first of men, you
understand. Don't you think you could try. I wish you
would."

"You see I have my own father, darling."

" Oh yes, but really now — the rector is a nice old man,
but, Gerry, if you were to speak from your inmost heart,
without any prejudice, you know ; if you could detach
from your mind the fact that you are the son of the rector,
you would not compare them, Gerry, you could not."

" As you say, Valentine, I could not. They stand on
different pedestals. Now let us change the subject. So
you are the happy possessor of a thousand a year."

" We both possess that income, Gerry. Is not it sweet
of father — he felt for me at once. He said he was proud
of me, that I was going to make a capital wife — he said you
were a lucky fellow, Gerry."

" Yes, darling, so I nm, so 1 am."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

"Then he spoke of ;i tliousaiul ;i year to begin with. He
mentioned a lot more, but lie said a tlioiisand was an in-
come on which I might begin to learn to save. And he gave
me a cheque for the first quarter to-night. He said we had
better open a banking account. As soon as we get in, I'm
going to give you the cheque, I'm afraid to keep it, Fath.er
said we might open a sei)arate account in his bank."

" My father has always banked at the Westminster,"
said Gerald. " It would suit me best to take tl»e money
there."

They had reached the house by this time. Gerald opened
the door with a latch-key, and the two went into the pretty,
cosy drawing-room. Valentine threw off her white fur wrap,
and sank down into an easy-chair. Her dinner dress was
white, and made in a very simple girlish fashion — her hair,
which was always short and curled in little rings about her
head and face, added to the extreme youth of her appear-
ance. She raised her eyes to her husband, who stood by
llie mantel-piece. The expression she wore was that of a
happy, excited, half-spoiled child, a creature who had been
somebody's darling from her birth. This was the predomi-
nating expression of her face, and yet — and yet — Gerald
seemed to read something more in the gaze of the sweet
eyes to-niglit ; a question was half coming into them, the
dawn of a possible awakening might even be discerned in
them.

" My darling," he said, suddenly coming up to her, put-
ting his arm about her, and kissing her with passion, " I
love you better than my life — better — better than my hope
of heaven. Can you love me a little, Valentine — just a
little?"

" I do love you, Gerald." But she spoke quietly, and
without any answering fire.

His arms dropped, the enthusiasm went out of his face ;
he went back again to his old position with his back to the
fire.

:.'}

' S

•< \ !

H '

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

((

What kind of girl is Esther Helps, Gerald? "

"A beautiful girl."

" As beautiful as I am ? "

*• In her way quite as beautiful."

" Why do you say * in her way ? ' Beauty must always
be beauty."

*' It has degrees, Esther Helps is not a lady."

Valentine was silent for half a minute.

** I should like to know her," she said then. " I wonder
how much she cares for old Helps."

" Look here, Valentine, Esther Helps is not the least like
you. I don't know that she has any romantic attachment
for that old man. She is a very ordinary girl — a most
commonplace person with just a beautiful face."

*' How qucerly you speak, Gerald. As if it were some-
thing strange for an only daughter to be attached to her
father."

"The amount of attachment you feel, darling, is uncom-
mon."

"Is it ? Well, I have got a very uncommon father."

" My dear Valentine, God knows you have."

Gerald sank down into a chair by the fire. He turned
his face, dreary, white and worn, to the blaze. Valentine
detected no hidden sarcasm in his tones. After a time she
took the cheque out of her purse and handed it to him.

*' Here, Gerry, you will put thiS into your bank to-mor-
row, won't you ? We will open an account in our joint
names, won't we ? And then we can calculate how much
we are to spend weekly and monthly. Oh, won't it be
interesting and exciting. So much for my clothes, so
much for yours, so much for servants, so much for food
— we need not spend much on food, need we ? So much
for pleasures — I want to go to the theatre at least twice
a week — oh, wc can manage it all and have something to
spare. And no debts, remember. Gerry — ready money will

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

be our system. We'll go in omnibuses, too, to save cabs

I shall love to feel that I am doing for a penny what

might cost a shilling. Gerald darling, do you know that
just in one way you have vexed my father a little ? "

•* Vexed him — how, Valentine? "

"He says it is very wrong of you to croak, and have
gloomy prognostications. You know you said it was not
wortli while for nie to learn to housekeep. Just as if
you were going to die, or I were going to die. Father was
quite vexed when I told him. Now you look vexed, Gerry.
Really between such a husband and such a father, a poor
girl may sometimes feel pu/zliMl. Well, have you nothing
to say ? "

"I'm afraid 1 have nothing to say, Valentine.''

" Then you won't croak any more."

" Not for you — 1 have never croaked for you."

" Nor for yourself."

'* 1 cannot promise. Sometimes fits of depression come
over me. There, good-night, sweet. Go to bed. I am
not sleepy. I shall read for a time. Your future is all
right, Valentine."

' 'rf \ ■

A Lilt: I' OK A LOVlu

\i\.

C'HAPTKR XVIH.

IV ,

'' \ don't like it," said Lilias.

She was silting in tin; sunny front parlor, the room wliic-lj
was known as the cliildrcn's room at the rectory. An ojaii
K'lttr hiy on lier d;irk winter dress ; her sunny hair ua .
l)iled up high on hi-r sliapely head, .'ind her eyes, wistlul
and (juestionin^, were raised to Marjory's brisker, brigiucr
t'iice. witli a world of trouble in tluMU.

The snow lay thick outside, covering the flower beds
and the grassy lawn, and laying in piles against the low
rectory windows. Marjory was standing by a piled up
fire, one of those perfect fires composed of great ki^obs ol
sparkling coal and well dried logs of wood. She, too, had
on a dark dress, but it was nearly covered l)y a large hol-
land apron with a bib. Ker sleeves were protected by
cuffs of the same, on her hands she wore chamois leather
gloves with the tips cut off. .She looked all bright, and
active, and sparkling, and round her on the table and on
the floor lay piles and bales of unbleached calico, of coarse
red flannel, of bright dark blue and crimson merino. In
one of Marjory's capable hands was a large ])air of cutting-
out scissors, and she paused, holding this implement
slightly open, to Listen to Lilias' lugubrious words.

" If you must croak to-day," she said, '* get it over
quickly, and come and help me. Twenty-four blue frocks
and twenty-four red to be ready by the time the girls come
at four o'clock, besides the old women's flannel and this
unlimited supply of unbleached calico. If there is a thing
which ruffles my equanimity it is unbleached calico, it fluffs
so, and makes one so messy. Now, what do you want to
say, Lilias?"

A LIFE FOR A I.OVE,

'• I'm troubled," said Lilias, " it's about Cicnild. I've the
(jucerest feeling about him — three times lately I've dreamt
—intangible dreams, of course, but all dark and forebod-

nig."

" Is that a letter from (ierry in your lap, Lilias? "
" No, it is from Val — a nice little letter, too, poor child.
I .un sure she is doing her best to be a good wife to Gerald.
Uo you know that she has taken up housekeeping in real
earnest."

•' Does she say that (Jerald is ill ? "
" No, she scarcely mentions his name at all."
"Then what in the name of goodness are you going into
the dismals for on this morning of all mornings. Twenty-
four blue frocks and twenty-four red between noon and
four o'clock, and the old women coming for them to the
moment. Really, Lilias, you are too provoking. You arc
not half the girl you were before Gerald's marriage. I
don't know what has come to you. Oh, there's Mr. Carr
passing the window, I'll get him to come in and help us.
Forgive me, Lil, I'll just open this window a tiny bit and
speak to him. How do you do, Mr. Carr ? You can step
in this way — you need not go round through all the slush
to the front door. There, you can wipe your f<'et on that
mat. Lilias, say * how do you do ' to Mr. Carr, that is if
you are not too dazed."

'* How do you do. Miss Wyndham ? How do you do.
Miss Lilias ? " said Carr in a brisk tone. " It is very good
of you both to let me mto this pleasant room after the cold
and snow outside. And how busy you are ! Surely, Miss
^Vyndham, your family don't require such a vast amount
of re-clothing."

" Yes," said Marjory, " these bales of goods are for my
shivering widows," and she pointed to the red flannel and
unbleached calico. ** And those are for my pretty or-
phans — our pretty orphans, Lilly darling, twenty-four

'Si
i n

■ M

■ i

)

(

i t
i •

lOO

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

in the West Refuge, twenty-four in the East ; the Easterns
are apparelled in red, the Westerns in blue. Now, Mr.
(%irr, I'll put it to you as our spiritual pastor, is it right
for Lilias to sit and croak instead of helping me with all
tills prodigious work ? "

*' But croaking for nothing is not Miss Lilias' way," said
Carr, favoring her with a quick glance, a little anxious, a
little surprised.

Lilias sprang up with nlniost a look of vexation. Valen-
tine's letter fell unheeded on the floor.

" You arc loo bad, Maggie/' she said, with almost a
forced laugh. "I suppose there are few people in this
troublesome world who are not now and then attacked
with a trl of the blues. I^ut here goes, 1*11 shake them
off. I'll help you all I can."

" You must help too," said Marjory in a gay voice,
turning to Carr. '• Please take off your great coat — put it
anywhere. Now then, are your hands strong ? are your
arms steady? You have gut to hold this bale of red
merino while Lily cuts dress lengths from il. Don't forget,
Lil, nine lengths of three-and-a-half yards each, nine
length offour yards each, and six lengths of five yards each.
Oh, thank you, Mr. Carr, that will be a great assistance."

Carr was a very energetic, wide-awake, useful man. He
could put his hands to anything. No work, provided it
was useful, was derogatory in Us eyes — he was always
cheerful, always bright and obliging. Even Gerald Wynd-
ham could scarcely have made a more popular curate at
Jewsbury-on-the-Wold than did this young man.

" If anything could provoke me about him, it is that he
is loo sunny," Marjory said one day to her sister.

Lilias was silent. It occurred lo her, only sh.e was not
lire, that in those dark, quick, keen eyes there could come
something which might sustain and strengthen on a day of
clouds as well as sunshine,

A LJl'E I'OR A LOVE.

lot

tion. Valen

It came now, when Marjory suddenly left the room, and
Carr abruptly let the great bale of merino drop at his
feet.

" Are you worried nbout anything ? " he asked, in that
direct fiishion of liis which made people trust him very
quickly.

Lilias colored all over her face.

" I suppose I ought not to be silly," she said, '' but my
hrother — you see he is my only brother — his marriage luis
made a great gulf between us."

Carr looked at her sharply.

' You are not jealous ? " he said.

" 1 don't know — we used to be great chums. 1 think if
i were Hire he was happy I should not be jealous ? "

Carr walked to ti)e fireplace.

" It would not be folly if you were," he said. " All
sisters must face the fact of their brothers taking to them-
selves wives, and, of course, loving the wives best. It is
the rule of nature, and it would be foolish of you to tret
against the inevitable."

He spoke abruptly, and with a certain coldness, whirji
might have offended some girls. Lilias' slow earnest answer
startled him.

" I don't fret against the inevitable," she said. " But [
do fret against the intangible. There is a mystt^ry about
Gerald which 1 can't attempt to fathom. 1 know it is there,
l)iit I can't grapple with it in any direction."

'' Vou must have some thought about it, though, or it
would not have entered into your head."

'• 1 have many thoughts, but no chies. ( )h, i[ would
take me a long, long time to tell you what I fear, to bring
uiy shadvtvy dread into life and being. I have just had a
letter from Valentine, a sweet nice letter, and yet it seems
to me full of mystery^ although I am sure she does not know
it herself. Yes, it is all Intangible— it Is kind of you to
listen to me. Marjory would say I was talking folly."

103

A l:1'E for a love.

iJi' ;
S '
!

'■\ , r.'i

" You are talking as if your nerves were a little out of
sorts. Could you not have a change ? Even granted that
there is trouble, and I don't suppose for an instant that
anything of the kind is in store for your brother, it is a great
waste of life to meet it half way."

Lilias smiled faintly.

"I am silly," she said. And just then Marjory came
into the room, followed by Augusta, and the cutting out
proceeded briskly.

Carr was an invaluable help. Some people would have
said that he was a great deal too gay and cheerful — a great
deal too athletic and well-knit and keen-eyed for a curate.

This was net the case ; he made an excellent clergyman,
but he hi7d a great sense of the fitness of things, and ho
believed fully in a time for everything.

Helping three merry girls to cut out red and blue merino
frocks, on a cold day in January, seemed to him a very
cheerful occupation. Gay laughter and light and innocent
chatter filled the room, and f.ilias soon became one of the
merriest of the party.

In the midst of their chatter the rector entered.

" I want you, Carr," he said, abruptly ; ne was usually
a very polite man, almost too ceremonious. Now his
words came with a jerk, and the moment he had uttered
them lie vanished.

As Carr left the room in obedience to this quick sun -
mons, Lilias' face became once more clouded.

The rector was pacing up and down his study. Wlien
(.'arr entered he asked hiin to bolt the door.

" Is anything the matter, sir?" asked the young man.

Mr. Wyndhr.m's manner Vvas so perturbed, so unlike
himself, that it was scarcely wonderful that Carr should
ask this question. It received, however, a short and sharp
reply.

" I hope to goodness, Carr, you are not one of those
imaginative people who are always foreboding a lion in the

A LIFE FOR :4 LOVE. 103

path. What I sent for you was — well " the rector

paused. He raised his eyes slowly until they rested upon
tiic picture of Gerald's mother ; the face very like Gc aid's
seemed to appeal to him ; his lips trembled.

"I can't keep it up, Carr," he said, with an abandon
which touched the younger man to the heart. " I'm not '
satisfied about my son. Nothing wrong, oh, no — and yet
— ^aud yet — you understand, Carr, I have only one son — a
lot of girls, God bless them all ! — and only one son."

('.irr came over and stood by the mantel-piece. If he
felt any surprise, he showed none. His words came out
gently, and in a matter-of-fact style.

" If you have any cause to be worried, Mr. Wyndham —
and — and — you think I can help you, I shall be proud to
be trusted." Then his thoughts flew to Lilias, and his
firm, rather thin lips, took a faint smile.

" I have no doubt I am very foolish," replied the rector.
" I had a letter this morning from Gerald. He tells me in
it that he is going to Australia in March, on some special
business for his father-in-law's firm — you know iie is a
partner in the firm. His .vife is not to accompany him."

The rector paused.

Carr made no answer for a moment. Then he said, feel-
ing his way —

"This will be a trial for Mrs. Wyndham."

" One would suppose so. Gerald doesn't say anything
on the subject."

*' Well," said the rector, " how does it strike you ? Per-
haps I'm nervous — Lilly, poor girl, is the same, and Marjory
laughs at us both. How does this intelligence strike you
as an outsider, Carr? Pray give me your opinion."

" Yes," said Carr, simply. " I do not think my opinion
need startle anyone. Doubtless, sir, you know facts which
throw a different complexion on the thing. It all seems to
me a commonplace affair. In big business houses ])art-

104

A lifb: for a love.

'}%

U[»-

ners have often to go away at short notice. It will certainly
be a trial for Mrs. Wyndham to do without her husband.
I don't like to prescribe change of air for you, Mr. Wynd-
ham, as I did for Miss Lilias just now, but I should like
to ask you if your nerves are quite in order? "

The rector laughed.

" You are a daring fellow to talk of nerves to me/Carr,"
he said. " Have not I prided myself all my life on having
no nerves ? Well, well, the fact is, a great change has
come over the lad's face. He used to be such a boy, too
liglit-hearted, if anything, too young, if anything, for his
years — the most unselfish fellow from his birth. Give away ?
Bless you, there was nothing Gerald wouldn't give away.
Wliy, look here, Carr, we all tried to spoil the boy amongst
us — he was the only one — and his mother taken away
wlien he so young — and he the image of her. Yes, all the
girls resemble me, but Gerald is the image of his mother.
Wc all tried to teach him selfishness, but we couldn't. Now,
Carr, you will be surprised at what I am going to say, but
if a man can be unselfish to ^ fault, to a fault mind you —
to the verge of a crime — it's my son Gerald. I know this,
I have always seen it in him. Now my boy's father-in-law,
Mortimer Paget, is as selfish as my lad is the reverse. Why
did he want a poor lad like aiine to marry his rich and
only daughter ? Why did he make him a partner in his
house of business, and why did he insure my boy's life ?
Insure it heavily ? Answer me that. My boy would have
taken your place here, Carr ; humbly but worthily would
he liave nerved the Divine Master, no man happier than he.
Is he happy now ? Is he young for his years now ? Tell
me, Carr, what you really iiiink ? "

" I don't know, sir. I have not looked at things from
your light. You are evidently much troubled, and I am
deeply troubled for you. I don't know Wyndham very
well, but I know him a little. I think that marriage and

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

'OS

'Carr,"
having
ge has
oy, too
for his
away?
away.

nongst
away

all the

[lother.
Now,

Ly, but

you—

w this,

in-law,
Why

h and

n his

1 life ?
have

t'oulcl

,n he.
Tell

the cares of a house of business and all his fresh respon-
sibilities may be enough to age your son's face. As to the
insurance question, all business is so fluctuating tliat Mr.
Paget was doubtless right in securing his daughter and her
children from possible want in the future. See here, Mr.
Wyndham, I am going up to town this evening for two or
three days. Shall I call at Pdrk-lane and bring you my
own impressions with regard to your son ? "

"Thank you, Carr, that is an excellent thought, and
what is more you shall escort Lilias or Marjory up to town.
They have a standing invitation to my boy's house, and a
little change just now would do — shall I say Tiilias ? —
good."

*• Miss Lilias wants a change, sir. She is affected like
yourself with, may I call it, an attack of the nerves."

from

I am

very

and

io6

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER XIX.

■ \:..

Vai.kntink really made an excellent housekeeper. Nobody
cxj)ectcd it of her ; her friends, the ladies, old and young, the
girls, married or otherwise, who knew Valentine as they
supposed very intimately, considered the idea of settling
this remarkably ignorant young person down with a fixed
income and telling her to buy with it, and contrive with it,
and make two ends meet with it, quite one of the best jokes
of the day.

Valentine did not regard it as a Joke at all. She honestly
tried, honestly studied, and Iionestly made a success as
housekeeper and household manager.

Slie was a most undeveloped creature, undeveloped both
in mind and heart ; but she not only possessed intense
latent affections, but latent capacities of all sorts. She
scarcely knew the name of poverty, she had no experience
with regard to the value of money, but nature had given
her an instinct which taught her to spend it wisely and
well. She found a thousand a year a larger income than
she and Gerald with their modest wants needed. She
scarcely used half of what she received, and yet her home
was cheerful, her servants happy, her table all that was com-
fortable.

When she brought her housekeeping books to her hus-
band to balance at the end of the first month, he looked at
her with admiration, and then said in a voice of great sad-
ness : —

"■ God help me, Valentine, have I made a mistake alto-
gether about you } Am I dreaming, Valentine, are you
meant for a poor man's wife after all ? "

J LIFE FOR A 1.0 VF.

Itf

" For your wife, wlicthcr ricli or j)Oor," she said ; and
she knelt down by liis side, and put her hand into In's.

Siie had ahvays possessed a sweet and l)eautiful fixce,
but for the last few weeks it had altered ; the sweetness had
not gone, but resolution had grown round the curved
])retty lips, and the eyes had a soft happiness in them.

" Pretty, charming creature I " people used to say of her.
'• But j.ist a iriHe commonplace and doll-like."

TJiis doll-like expression was so longer discernible in
Valentine.

Gerald touched her hair tenderly.

" My little darling ! " he said. His voice shook. Then
he rose abruptly, with a gesture which was almost rough.
" Come upstairs, Val ; the housekeeping progresses admir.
ably. No, my dear, you made a mistake, you were never
meant for a poor man's wife."

Valentine kissed his brow : she looked at him in a
puzzled way.

" Do you know," she said, laying her hands on his, with
a gesture half timid, half appealing ; " don't go up to the
drawing-room for a moment, C. erald, I want to say a thing,
something I have observed. I am loved by two men, by
my father and by you. I am loved by them very much —
l)y both of them very much. Oh, yes, Gerald, I know
what you feel for me, and yet I can't make either of them
happy. My father is not happy. Oh, yes, I can see — love
isn't blind. I never remembered my father quite, quite
happy, and he is certainly less so than ever now. He tries
to look all right when people are by ; even succeeds, for
he is so unselfish, and brave, and noble. But when he is
alone — ah, then. Once he fell asleep when I was in the
room, he looked terrible in that sleej) ; his face was haggard
— lie sighed — there was moisture on his brow. When he
woke he asked me to marry you. I didn't care for you
then, Gerald, but I said yes because of my father. He said

I I

io8

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

if I married you he would be perfectly happy. I did so —
he is not hapi)y."

Gerald did not say a word.

'* And you aren't happy, dear," she continued, coming a
little nearer to him. *' You used to be; before we were
engaged you had such a gay face. 1 could never call you
gay since, Gerald. You are so thin, and sometimes at night
I lie awake, and I hear you sigh. Why, what is the matter,
Gerald? You look ghastly ]io\v. Am I hurting you? I
would'i't hurt you, darling."

Wyndham turned round quickly. He had been white
almost to fainting, now a great light seemed to leap out of
his eyes.

** What did you say ? What did you call me ? Say it
again."

'' Darling."

" Then I thank my God — everything has not been in
vain.'

He sank down on the nearest chair and burst into tears.
Tragedies go on where least expected. The servants in the
servants' hall thought their young master and mistress
quite the happiest people in the world. Were they not gay,
young, rich ? Did they not adore one another ? Gerald's
devotion to Valentine was almost a joke with them, and
Valentine's increasing regard for him was very observable
to those watchful outsiders.

Certainly the pair stayed in a good deal in the evenings,
and why to-night in particular did they linger so long in
the dining-room, rather to the inconvenience of the kitchen
regime. But presently their steps were heard going up-
stairs, and then Valentine accompanied Gerald's violin on
the piano.

Wyndham played very well for an amateur, so well that
with a little extra practice he might almost have taken his
place as a professional of no mean ability. He had exqui-

A LIFE FOR /' LOVE,

1 09

site taste and a sensitive ear. Music always excited him,
and perhaps was not the safest recreation for such a higlily
strung nature.

Valentine could accompany well ; she, too, loved music,
but had not her husband's facility nor grace of execution.
In his happiest moments Gerald could compose, and
sometimes even improvise with success.

During their honeymoon it seemed to him one day as he
looked at the somewhat impassive face of the girl for whom
he had sold himself body and soul — as he looked and felt that
not yet at least did her heart echo even faintly to any beat
of his, it occurred to him that he might tell his story in its
pain and its longing best through the medium of music.
He composed a littk piece which, for want of another title,
he called " Waves." It was very sweet in melody, and had
some minor notes of such pathos that when Valentine first
lieard him play it on the violin she burst into tears. He
told her quite simply then that it was his story about her,
that all the sweetness was her share, all the graceful mel-
ody, the sparkling joyous notes which coming from Gerald's
violin seemed to speak like a gay and happy voice, repre-
sented his ideal of her. The deeper notes and the pain
belonged to him ; pain must ever come with love when it
is strongest, she wouid understand this presently.

Then he put his little piece away — he only played it once
for her when they were in Switzerland ; he forgot it, but
she did not.

To-night, after her confession, when they went up to the
drawing-room, his heart immeasurably soothed and healed,
and hers soft with a wonderful joy which the beginning of
true love can give, he remembered " Waves," and thought
he would play it for her again. It did not sound so melan-
choly this time, but strange to say the gay notes were not
quite so gay, the warble of a light heart had deepened.
As Wyndham played and Valentine sat silent, for she

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

offered no accompaniment to this little fugitive piece, h«'
found that he must slightly reconstruct the melody. The
minor keys were still minor, but there was a ring of victory
through them now ; they were solemn, but not despairing.

" He that loseth his life shall find it," Wyndham said
suddenly, looking full into her eyes.

The violin slipped from his hand, coming down with a
discordant crash, the door was flung open by the servant,
as Lilias Wyndham and Adrian Carr came into the room.

In a minute all was gay bustle and confusion. Gerald
forgot his cares, and Valentine was only too anxious to
show herself as the hospitable and attentive hostess.

A kind of improvised meal between dinner and tea was
actually brought up into the drawing-room. Lilias ate
chicken and ham holding her plate on her lap. Carr, more
of a stranger, was not allowed to feel this fact. In short,
no four could have looked merrier or more free from
trouble.

" It is delightful to have you here — delightful, Lilias,"
said Valentine, taking her sister-in-law's hand and squeez-
ing it affectionately.

*' Do you know, Lil," said Gerald, ** that this little girl-
wife of mine, with no experience whatever, makes a most
capable housekeeper. With all your years of knowledge
I should not like you to enter the lists with her."

*' With all my years of failure, you mean," answered
Lilias. " I always was and always will be the most
incompetent woman with regard to beef and mutton and
pounds, shillings and pence who walks this earth."

She laughed as she spoke ; her face was cloudless, her
dark eyes serene. For one moment before he went away
Carr found time to say a word to her.

'* Did I not tell you it was simply a case of nerves ? "
he remarked.

V' "1 : :

A LI IE FOR A LOVE,

III

CHAPTER XX.

Esther Helps was certainly neither a prudent nor a care-
ful young woman. She meant no harm, she would have
shuddered at the thought of actual sin, but she was reck-
less, a little defiant of all authority, even h^ir father's most
yciuie and loving control, and very discontented with her
position in life.

Morning, noon, and night, Esther's dream of dreams,
longing of longings, was to be a lady. She had some little
foundation for this desire. The mother who had died at
her birth had been a poor half-educated little governess,
whose mother before her had been a clergyman's daughter.
Ksther quickly discovered that she was beautiful, and her
dream of dreams was to marry a gentleman, and so go
back to that station in life where her mother had moved.

Esther had no real instincts of ladyhood. She spoke
loudly, her education had been of a very flashy and super-
li Mai order. From the time she left the fourth-rate board-
iiig-scliool where her father alone had the means to place
iior, she had stayed at home and idled. Idling was very
bad for a character like hers ; she was naturally active and
energetic — she had plenty of ability, and would have made
a capital shopwoman or dressmaker. But Esther thought
it quite beneath her to work, and her father, who could
support her at home, was only too delighted to have her
tliere. He was inordinately proud of her — she was the one
sunbeam in his dull, clouded timorous life. He adored
her beauty, he found no fault with her Cockney twang, and
he gave her in double measure the lov^ which had lain
buried for many years with his young wife.

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

Esther, therefore, when she left school, sat at home, and
made her own dresses, and chatted with her cousin Cherry,
who was an orphan, and belonged to Helps' side Df the
house. Cherry was a very capable, matter-of-fact hearty
little girl, and Esther thought it an excellent arrangement
that she should live with them, and take the drudgery and
the cooking, and in short all the household work off her
hands. Esther was very fond of Cherry, and Cherry, in
her turn, thought there wjs never anyone quite so grand
and magnificent as her tall, stately cousin.

" Well, Cherry," said Esther, as the two were going to
bed on the night after VVyndham's visit, " what do you
think of him ? Oh, I needn't ask, there's but one thing
to be thought of him."

" Elegant, I say," interrupted Cherry. She was looking
particularly round and dumpy herself, and her broad fact
with her light grey eyes was all one smile. *' An elegant
young . lan, Essie — a sort of chevalier, now, wouldn't you
say so ? "

" It's just like you, Cherry, you take up all your odd
moments with those poetry books. Mr. Wyndham ain't ;i
chevalier — he's just a gentleman, neither more nor less —
a real gentleman, oh dear. I call it a cruel disappoint
ment, Cherry," and she heaved a profound sigh.

" What's a disappointment ? " asked unsuspicious Cherry,
as she tumbled into bed.

" Why, that he's married, my dear. He'd have suited
me fine. Well, there's an end of that."

Cherry thought there was sufficiently an end to allow
her to drop off to sleep, and Esther, after lying awake for
a little, presently followed her example.

The next day she was more restless than ever, once or
twice even openly complaining to Cherry of the dullness
of her lot, and loudly proclaiming her determination t
become a lady in spite of everybody.

/I LIFE FOR A LOVE,

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((

You can't, Essie,"' s;iid her father, in his meek, though
somewhat high-piichcd voice, when he overheard some of
her words that c^ening. ** It ain't your lot, child — you
warn't born in the genteel line ; there's all lines and all
grooves, and yours is the narrowing one of the poverty-
struck clerk's child."

*• I think it's mean of you to talk like that, father," said
Esther, her eyes flashing. " It's mean of you, and unkind
to my poor mother, who was a lady born"

'' I don't know much about that," replied Helps, look-
ing more desppndent than ever. " She was the best of
little wives, and if she was born a lady, which I ain't going
to deny, for I don't know she warn't a lady bred, I mind
nie she thought it a fine bit of a rise to leave off teaching
the baker's children, and come home to me. Poor little
Essie — poor, dear little Essie. You don't take much after
her, Esther, my girl."

" If she was spiritless, and had no mind for her duties,
which were in my opinion to uphold her station in life, I
don't want to take after her," answered Esther, and she
flounced out of the room.

Helps looked round in an appealing way at Cherry.

'' I don't want to part with her," he said, "but it will be
a good thing for us all when Essie is wed. I must try and
find some decent young fellow who will be likely to take a
fancy to her. Her words fret me on account of their am-
bition, Cherry, child."

" I wouldn't be put out if I was you, uncle," responded
Cherry in her even, matter-of-fact voice. " Esther is took
up with a whim, and it will pass. It's all on account of
the chevalier."

" The what, child ? "

" The chevalier. Oh, my sakes alive, there's the milk
boiling all over the place, and my hearth done up so beau-
tiful. Here, catch hold of this saucepan, uncle, while I fetch

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114

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

a cloth to wipe up. My word, ain't this provoking. I
thouglit to get time to learn a verse or two out of the
poetry book to-night; but no such luck — I'll be brushing
and blacking till bed-time."

In the confusion which ensued, Helps forgot to ask
Cherry whom she meant by the chevalier.

A few days after this, as Helps was coming home late,
he was rather dismayed to find his daughter returning also,
accompanied by a young man who was no better dressed
than half the young men with whom she walked, but who
had a certain air and a certain manner which smc^te upon
the father's heart with a dull sense of apprehension.

'* Essie, my girl," he said, when she had bidden her
swain good-bye, and had come into the house, with her eyes
sparkling and her whole face looking so bright and beau-
tiful, that even Cherry dropped her poetry book to gaze
in adnjiration. " Essie," said Helps, all the tenderness of
the love he bore her trembling in his voice, *' come here.
Kiss your old father. You love him, don't you ? "

** Why, dad, what a question. I should rather think I
did."

" You wouldn't hurt him now, Essie ? You wouldn't
break his heart, for instance ? "

" I break your heart, dad ? Is it likely ? Now, what
can the old man be driving at ? " she said, looking across
at Cherry.

" It's this," responded Helps, " I want to know the name
of the fellow — yes, the — the fellow, who saw you home just
now?"

" Now, father, mightn't he be Mr. Gray, or Mr. Jones,
or Mr. Abbott ; some of those nice young men you bring
up now and then from the city ? Why mightn't he be one
of them, father } "

" But he wasn't, my dear. The young men you speak of
are honest lads, every one of them. J wouldn't have no

LIFE FOR A LOVE.

»i5

sort of objection to your walking with them, Esther. It
wasn't none of my friends from the city I saw you witl; to-
night, Essie."

" And why shouldn't this be an honest fellow, too ? "
answered Esther, her eyes sparkling dangerously ?

'- 1 don't know, my dear. I didn't like the looks of him.
\V^hat's his name, Essie, my love ? "

"' Captain Herriot, of the Hussars,"

'' There ! Esther, you're not to walk with Captain
Herriot any more. You're not to know him. I won't

have It — so now.

'* Highty-tighty ! ' said Esther. "There are two to say
a word to that bargain, father. And pray, \,hy may I walk
with Mr. Jones and not with Captain Herriot? Captain
Herriot's a real gentleman, and Mr. Jones ain't."

" And that's the reason, my child. If Jones walked with
you, he'd maybe — yes, I'm sure of it — he'd want all his
l)eart and soul to make you his honest wife some day. Do
you suppose Cai)tain Herriot wants to make you his wife,
i'ssie?"

" I don't say. I won't be questioned like that." Her
wliole pale face was in a flame. " Maybe we never thought
of sucli a thing, but just to be friends, and to have a plea-
sant time. Tt''^ Ciuel of you to talk like that, father."

" Well, then, I won't, my darling, I won't. Just promise
you'll have nothing more to say to the fellow. I'd believe
your word against the world, Essie."

"Against the world? Would you really, dad? I
wouldn't, though, if I were you. No, I ain't going to make
a promise I might break." She went out of the room, she
was crying.

A short time after this, indeed the very day after Lilias
Wyndham's visit to London, Gerald noticed that Helps
followed his every movement as he came rather languidly
in and out of the office, with dull imploring eyes. The

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A LIFE FOR A T.OVE.

old clerk was particularly busy tliat morning, he was kept
going here, there, and everywhere. Work of all kinds,
work of the most unexpected and imlooked for nature
seemed to descend to-day with the force of a sledge hammer
on his devoted head.

Gerald saw that he was dying to speak to him, and at
ihe first opportunity he took him aside, and asked him if
there was anything he could do for him.
, *' Oh, yes, Mr. Wyndham, you can, you can. Oh, thank
the good Lord for bringing you over to speak to me when
no one was looking. You can St^ve Esther for me — that's
what you can do, Mr. Wyndham. No one can save her
but you. So you will, sir ; oh, you will. She's my only
child, Mr. Wyndham."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

117

CHAPTER XXI.

" I WILL certainly do what I can," responded Wyndham,
in his grave, courteous voice.

He was leaning against the window-ledge in a careless
attitude ; Helps, looking up at him a?ixiously, noticed how
pale and wan his face was.

"Ah," he responded, rising from his seat, and going up
to the younger man. " 'Tis them as bears burdens knows
how to pity. Tliank the Lord there's compensation in all
things. Now look here, Mr. Wyndham, this is how things
are. You have seen my Essie, she's troublesome and
spirited — oh, no one more so. "

Helps paused.

'* Yes, answered Gerald, in a quiet, waiting voice. He
was not particularly interested in the discussion of Esther
Helps' character.

" And she's beautiful, Mr. Wyndham. Aye, there's her
curse. Beautiful and hambitious and not a lady, and dying
to be one. You understand, Mr. Wyndham — you must
understand."

Wyndham said nothing.

" Well, a month or so ago I found out there was a gen-
tleman — at least a man who called himself a gentleman —
walking with her, and filling her head with nonsense. His
name was Herriot, a captain in the Hussars. I told
her she was to have nought to say to him, but I soon found
that she disobeyed me. Then I had to spy on her — you
may think how I felt, but it had to be done. I found that
she walked with him, and met him at all hours. I made
inquiries about his character, and I found he was a
scoundrel, a bad fellow out and out. He'd be sure to break

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A LIFE FOR A LOVL

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my Essie's heart if he did no worse. Then I was in a
taking, for the giri kept everything in, and would scarcely
brook me so much as to look at her. I was that upset
that I took Cherry into my confidence She's a very good
girl, is Cherry — the Lord hasn't cursed her with no beauty.
Last week she brouglit mc word tliat Esther was going to
tlie Gaiety with Captain Herriot, that he had taken two
stalls and they were to have a fine time. She said Esthcf
was almost ou* of her mind with delight, as it was always
her dream to be seen at the theatre, beautifully dressed,
with a real gentleman. She had shown the tickets lo
Cherry, and Cherry was smart enough to take the numbers
and keep them in the back of her head. She told me, and
I can tell you, Mr. Wyndham, I was fit to kill someone. I
went straight off to the Gaiety office, and by good luck oi
the grace of God, I found there was a vacant stall ncxi
to Esther's — just one, and no more. I paid for that stall,
here's the ticket in my pocket."

" Yes," said Wyndiiam. " and you mean to go witli
Esthci' to-night? A very good idea — excellent. But how
will she take it ? "

" How will she take it, Mr. Wjaidham? I feel At to pull
my grey hairs out. How would she have taken it, you
mean? For it's all a thing of the past, sir. Oh, I ^ad it all
])lanned fine. I was to wait until she and tl\ .. fellow had
taken their places, and then I'd come in quit.^ natural, and
sit down beside her, and answer none of her questions,
only never leave he**, no, not for a quarter of a minute.
And if he spoke up, the ruffian, I had my reply lor him. I'd
stay quiet enough till we got outside, and then just one
blow in the middle of his face — yes, just one, to relieve a
father's feelings. Then home with my girl, and I think it's
more than likely we wouldn't have been troubled with no
more of Captain Herriot's attentions."
Helps paused again.

A LIFE FOR A T OVIi.

119

'^ You speak in the past tense," said Gerald. " Why
cannot you carry out tliis excellent programme? "

" That's it, sir, that's what about maddens me. I came
to the office this morning, and what has happened hasn't
happened this three months pnst. Tliere's business come
ill of a nature that no one can tackle but myself. Business
iif.i ]);ivate character, and yet wh.it may mean the loss or
i;:iin of thousands. Oh, I can't explain it, Mr. Wyndham,
even though you are a partner ; there are things that con-
fidential clerks know that are hid from junior partners, I
enn't leave here till eleven o'clock to-night, Mr. Wyndham,
and if you don't help nic lOsther may be a lost girl. Yes,
liierc's no mincing matters — lost, beyond hope. Will you
licl]) me, Mr. Wyndham? I'll go mad if my only girl, my
beautiful girl, comes to that."

" i ? Can I help you ? " asked Wyndham. There was
hesitation and distress in his voice. He saw that he was
g(jing to be asked to do something unpleasant.

'• \'ou can to this, sir. You can make it all right. Bless
you, sir, who's there to see? And you go with the best
intentions. You go in a noble cause. You can afford to
risk that much, Mr. Wyndliam. 1 want you to take my
l)lace at the Claiety to-night ; take my ticket and go there.
Tiilk pleasant to Esther : not much, but just a little,
nothing to rouse her suspicions. Let her think it was just
a coincidence your being there. Then, just at the end,
give her this letter from me. I've said a thing in it that
will startle her. She'll get a fright and turn to you. Put
her into a cab then, and bring her here. You can sit on
the box if you like. That's all. Put her into my arms
and your task is done. Here's the ticket and the letter.
Do it, Mr. Wyndham, and God will bless you. Yes, yes,
my poor young sir — He'll bless you."

** Don't talk of God when you speak of me," said Wynd-
ham. " Something has happened which closes the door of

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,4 LIFE FOR A LOVE.

religion for mc. The door between God and me is closed.
I am still open, however, to the call of humanity. You
want me to go to the Gaiety to-night to save your daughter.
It is very probable that if I went I should save her. 1 am
engaged, however, for to-night. -My sister is in town. We
are going to make a party to the Hayniarkct."

"Oh, sir, what of that? Send a telegram to say you
have an engagement. Think of Esther. Think what it
means if you fail me now."

" I do think of it; Helps. 1 will do what you want.
Give me the letter and the theatre ticket."

J LIFE FOR A LOVE,

\%\

CHAPTER XXII.

Valentine was delighted to have Lilias as her companion.
She was in excellent spirits just now, and Lilias i.nd she
enjoyed going about together. They had adventures
which pleased them both, such simple adventures as
come to poorer girls every day — a ride in an omnibus to
Kew, an excursion up theriNcrto Baltersea in a penny
steamer, and many other mild intoxicants of this nature.
Sometimes Gerald came with them, but oftener they went
alone. They laughed and chatted at these times, and
people looked at them, and thought them two particularly
merry good-looking school-girls.

Valentine was very fond of going to the theatre, and of
course one of the principal treats in store ^'^r Lilias was a
visit to the play. Valentine decided that tl cy v/ouldgoto
some entertainment of a theatrical character nearly every
evening. On the day of Helps' strange request to Wynd-
ham they were to see Captain Sivift at the Haymarket.
Mr. Paget had tviken a box for the occasion, and Val-
entine's last injunction to her husband was to beg of him
to be home in good time so that they might have dinner
in peace, and reach the Haymarket before the curtain
rose. ^ •

Lilias and she trotted about most of the morning, and
sat cosily now in the pretty drawing-room in Park Lane,
sipping their tea, examining their purchases, or chatting
about dress, and sundry other trivial matters after the
fashion of light-hearted girls.

Presently Valentine pulled a tiny watch out of her
belt.

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132

A LIFE FOR A L0\ E,

" Gerald is late," she said. " He promised faithfully to
be in to tea, and it is now six o'clock. We dine at half-
past. Had we not better go :ind dress, Lilias ? "

Lilias was standing on the hearthrug, she glanced at
the clock, then into the ruddy flames, then half-impatiently
towards the door.

" Oh, wait a moment or two," she said. *' If Gerald
promised to come he is safe to be here directly. I never
met such a painfully conscientious fellow ; he would not
break his word even in a trifle like this for all the world.
Give him three minutes longer. You surely will not take
half-an-hour to dress."

" How solemnly you speak, Lilias," responded Val-
entine. " If Gerald is late, that could scarcely be con-
sidered a breaking of his word. I mean in a promise of
that kind one never knows how one may be kept. That
is always understood, of course."

There came a pealing ring and a double knock at tlie
door, and a' moment after the page entered witli a telegram
which he handed to his mistress. Valentine tore the yellow
envelope open, and read the contents of the pink sheet.

" No answer. Masters," she said to the boy. Then she
she turned to Lilias. ** Gerald can't go with us to-night.
He is engaged. You see, of course, he would not break
his word, Lilias. He is unavoidably prevented coming.
It is too bad."

Some of the brightness went out of her face, and her
spirits went down a very little.

" Well, it can't be helped," she said, " only I am disap-
pointed."

" So am I, awfully disappointed," responded Lilias.

Then the two went slowly upstairs to change their
dresses.

When they came down again, Mr. Paget, who was to
dine with them, was waiting in the drawing-room. There

,-/ LI IE FOR A LOVE,

»2i

was a suppressed excitement, a suppressed triumph in liis
eyes, which, however, only made him look more particu-
larly bright and charming.

When Valentine came in in the pure white which gave her
such a girlish and even pathetically innocent air, he went
up and kissed her almost fiercely. He put his arm round
her waist and drew her close to him, a; d looked iiuo
her eyes with a sense of possession which frightened her.
Fur the first time in pll her existence she half shrank from
the father whom slie idolized. She was scarcely conscious
of her own shrinking, of the undefinable something which
made her set herself free, and stand on the hearthrug by
Lilias' side.

" 1 don't see your husband, my pet," said Mr. Paget.
" lie ought to hive come home long before now, that is, if
he means to come with us to-night."

" But he doesn't, father," said Valentine. " That's just
the grief I had a telegram from him, half-an-hour ago ;
he is unavoidably detained."

Mr. Paget raised his eyebrows.

'' Not at the office," he said, in a markedly grave voice,
and with another significant raise of his brows. " That I
know, for he left before I did. Ah, well, young men will
be young men."

Neither Valentine nor Lilias knew why they both flushed
up hotly, and left a wider space between them and Valen-
tine's handsome father.

He did not take the least notice of this movement on
both their parts, but went on in a very smooth, cheerful
voice.

" Perhaps Gerald does not miss as much as he thought,"
he said. " Since I saw you this morning, Val, our pro-
gramne has been completely altered. We go to Captain
Stui/t to-morrow night. I went to the office and exchanged
the box. To-night we go to the Gaiety. I have be©n

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124

,/ LIFE FOR A LOVE.

»Ji

fortunate in securing one of the best boxes in the whole
house, and Monte Christo Junior is well worth seeing."

" I don't know that I particularly care for the Gaiety,
father," said Valentine. " How very funny of you lu
change our programme."

''Well, the fact is, some business friends of mine who
were just passing througli town were particularly anxious
to see Captain Swift ^ so as I could oblige them, I did. It
is all the belter for your husbrr.d, Valentine ; he won't miss
this fine piece of drama.''

'* No, that is something to be thankful for," responded
Valentine. " But I'm sorry you selected the Gaiety as an
exchange. I don't think Lilias will care for Monte Christo.
However, it can't be helped now, and dinner waits. Sliall
wc go downstairs? "

Mr. Paget and his party were in good time in their
places. Valentine took a seat rather far back in the box,
but her father presently coaxed her to come to the
front, sui)plied both her and Lilias with opera glasses, and
encouraged both girls to look about them, and watch the
different people who vyere gradually filing into their places
in the stalls.

Mr. Paget himself neither wore glasses nor aided his
vision with an opera glass. His face was slightly flushed,
and his eyes, keen and briglit, travelled round the house,
taking in everything, not passing over a single individual.

Valentine was never particularly curious about her neigh-
bors, and as Lilias knew no one, they both soon leant back
in their chairs, and talked softly to one another.

The curtain rose, and each girl bent forward to see and
enjoy. The rest of the house was now comparatively dark,
but just before the lights were lowered, Mr. Paget might
have been heard to give a faint quick sigh of relief.

A tall girl in cream-color and soft furs walked slowly
down the length of stalls, and took her place in such a

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

position that Valentine could scarcely look down without
seeing her. This giiTs beauty was so marked that many
eyes were turned in her direction as she appeared. She
was very regal looking, very quiet and dignified in manner.
Her features were classical Jiid pure in outline, and her
Iiead, with its wealth of raven black hair, was splendidly
set.

She was accompanied by a tall, fairly good-looking man
who sat next to her.

When the curtain rose and the lights were lowered the
stall at her other side was vacant.

Mr. Paget fell his heart beat a trifle too fast. Would
that stall be full or emi)ty wiien the curtain dropjied at the
close of the first act ? Would his heart's desire, his wicked
and treacherous heart's desire be torn from him in the very
moment of apparent fruition. Suppose Gerald did not put
in an appearance at the Gaiety? Suppose at the eleventh
hour he changed his mind and resolved to leave Esther
Helps to her fate ? Suppose — pshaw ! — where was the use
of supposing? To leave a girl to her fate would not be his
chivalrous fool of a son-in-law's way. No, it was all right ;
even now he could dimly discern a faint commotion in the
neigliborhood of Esther Helps — the kind of commotion
incident on the arrival of a fresh person, the gentle soft
little movement made by the other occupants of the stalls
to let the new comer, who was both late and tiresome, take
his reserved seat in comfort. Mr. Paget sank back in his
seat with a sensation of relief; he had not listened for
nothing behind an artfully concealed curtain that morning.

The play proceeded. Much as he had said about it
beforehand, it had no interest for Mr. Paget. He scarcely
troubled to look at the stage. There was no room in his
heart that moment for burlesque : he was too busily engaged
over his own terrible life's drama. On the result of this
night more or less depended all his future happiness.

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126

A LIFE FOR A I.OVE,

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" If slic turns back to me after what she sees to-night
then I can endure," he said to himself. " I can go on to
tlie bitter end — if not — well, there are more expedients
than one for a ruined man to throw up the sponge."

The curtain fell, the liieatre was in a blaze of light;
Valentine and Lilias sank back in their seats and began to
fan themselves, 'i'hey had been pleased and amused.
Lilias, indeed, had laughed so heartily that the tears came
to her eyes.

" I hate to cry when I laugh," she said, taking out her
handkerchief to wipe them aw.iy. " It's a tiresome trick
we all have in our fann'ly, Gerald and all."

She had a habit of bringing in (It raid's name whenever
she spoke of her family, as if he were the topmost stone,
the crowning pride and delight.

Mr. Paget had his back sligiitly turned to the girls. ()ni:e
more he was devouring the stalls with his eager bright eyes.
Yes, Gerald AVyndiiam was in his stall. He was leaning
back, not exerting himself much ; he hjoked nonchalant and
strikingly handsome. Mr. Paget did not wish him to appear
too nonchalant wlien VaV^ntine first caught sight of him.
No — ah, that was better. Esther was turning to speak to
him. By Jove, what a face *'ie girl had !

Mr. Paget had often seer Helps' only daughter, for he
found it convenient occasionally to call to see Helps at
Acadia Villa. But he had never before seen her dress
becomingly, and he was positively startled at the pure, high
type of her beauty. At this distance her common accent,
her poor uneducated words, could not grate. All her ges-
tures were graceful ; she looked up at Gerald, said some-
thing, smiled, then lowered her heavy black lashes.

It was at that moment, just as Wyndham was bending
forward to reply to her remark, and she was leaning
slightly away from her other cavalier, so that he scarcely
seemed to belong to her party, that Valentine, tired of doing

.4 J.ll-E /Ov^ A l.OVE,

nothing, came close to her father, and allowed Ijcr eyes to
wander round the house. Suddenly she uttered a surprised
exclamation.

•' Look, father, look ? Is that (ierald ? Who is with him ?
VViiu is he talking to? I low is it t!)at he comes to be here?
Yes, it is (lerald ! Oh, what a lovely girl he is talking

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lo :

Valentine's words were emphatic and slightly agitated,
for she was simply overpowered with astonishment, but
they were si)oken in a low key. Liiias did not hear them.
Slie was reading her programme over for the twenlietii
time, and wondering when the curtain would rise and the
l)lay go on.

" Look, father," continued Valentine, clutching her
father's arm. " Isn't that Gerald.'* How strange of him to
be here. Who can he be talking to? I don't know her —
do you? Do you sec him, lather? Won't you go down and
tell him we arc here, and bring him uj) — and — and — the
lady who is with him. Go, please, father, you see where he
is, don't you ? "

'* I do, my child. I liave seen him for some time past.
Would you like to come home, Valentine? "

*' Home ! What in the world do you mean ? How queer
you look ! Is there anything wrong? Who is with Gerald ?
Who is he talking to? How lovely she is. I wisii she
would look up again."

'• That girl is not a lady, Valentine. She is Esther Helps
— you have heard of her. Yes, now I understand why
your husband could not come with us lo tne Haymarket
to-night. My poor cliild ! Don't look at them again,
Valentine, my darling."

Valentine looked full into her father's eyes; full, long,
and steadily she gazed. Then slowly, very slowly, a crimson
flood of color suffused her whole face ; it receded, leaving
her deathly pale. She moved away from her father and
look a back seat behind Liiias.

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A LII'E FOM A LOVE.

Tlie curtain rose again, tlie play continued. Lilias was
excited, and wanted to pull Valentine to the front.

" No," she said. " My head aches ; I don't care to look
any more."

She sat back in Iier seat, very white and very calm.

" Would you like to come home ? " said her father, bend-
ing across to her, and speaking in a voice which almost
trembled with the emotion he felt.

'' No," she said in reply, and without raising her eyes.
" I will sit the play out till the end."

When the curtain fell again she roused herself with an
effort and coaxed Lilias to come into the back of the box
with her. The only keen anxiety she was conscious of was
to protect her husband from Lilias' astonished eyes.

Mr. Paget felt well satisfied. He had managed to convey
his meaning to his innocent child's heart ; an insinuation,
a fall of the voice, a look in the eyes, had opened up a gulf
on the brink of which Valentine drew back shuddering.

" I was only beginning to love him ; it doesn't so much
matter," she said many times to herself. Even now she
thought no very bad things of her husband ; that is no
very bad things according to the world's code. To her,
however, they were black. He had deceived her — lie had
made her a promise and broken it. Why ? Because he
liked to spend the evening with another girl more beauti-
ful than herself.

" Oh, no, I am not jealous," said Valentine, softly under
her breath. " I won't say anything to him either about it,
poor fellow. It does not matter to me, not greatly. I was
only beginning to love him. Thank God there is always
my dear old father."

When the curtain rose for the final act of the play,
Valentine moved her chair so that she could slightly lean
against Mr. Paget. He took her hand and squeezed it.
He felt that he had won the victory.

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

129

CHAPTER XXIII.

Gerald had found liis task most uncongenial. In the first
place he was disappointed at not spending the evening with
Valentine and Lilias. In the second the close proximity of
such a girl as Esther Helps could not but be repugnant Ui
him. Still she was a woman, a woman in danger, and her
father had appealed to him to save her. Had he been or-
dained for the Church, such work — ah, no, he must not think
of what his life would have been then. After all, it was good
of the distracted father to trust him, and he must not
betray the tiust.

He went to the theatre and acquitted himself with extreme
tact and diplomacy. When Gerald chose to exert himself
liis manner had a quieting effect, a compelling, and almost
a commanding effect on women. Esther became quiet and
gentle ; she talked to Captain Herriot, but not noisily ; sh<?
laughed, her laugh was low and almost musical. Now and
then her quick eyes glanced at Wyndham ; she felt thirsty
for even his faintest approval — he bestowed it by neither
word nor movement.

As they were leaving the theatre, however, and the gallant
captain, who inwardly cursed that insufferable prig who
happened to have a slight acquaintance with his beautiful
Esther, grew cheerful under the impression that now his
time for enjoyment was come, Geiald said in a low, grave
voice : —

" Your father has given me a letter for you. Pray be
quiet, don't excite yourself. It is necessary that you should
go to your father directly. Allow me to see you into a cab.
Your father is waiting for you — it is urgent that you should
join him at once."

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130

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

Scarcely knowing why she did it, Estiier obeyed. She
murmured some eager agitated words to Captain Herriot;
she was subdued, frightened, shaken ; as Gerald helped her
into a tab he felt her slim fingers tremble in his. He took
his seat upon the box beside the driver, and ten minutes
later had delivered Esther safely to her father. His task
was done, he did not wait to hear a word of Helps' profuse
thanks. He drew a sigh of relief as he hurried honie.
Soon he would be with his wife — the wife whom heidoli/cd
— the wife who was beginning to return his love. Supjiosc
lier passion went on and deepened ? Suppose a day
came when to part from him would be a sorer trial than
poverty or dishonor ! Oh, if such a day came — he might
— ah, he must not think in that direction. He pushed his
hand through his thick hair, leant back in his cab, and
shut his eyes.

When he reached the little house in Park-lane he found
that the lights in the drawing-room were out, and the gas
turned low in the hall. He was later even than he had
intended to be. The other theatre-goers had returned
home and gone to bed. He wondered how they had
enjoyed Captain Swift. For himself he had not the least
idea of what he had been looking at at the Gaiety.

He let himself in with a latch-key, and ran up at once lo
his room. He wanted to kiss Valentine, to look into her
eyes, which seemed to him to grow sweeter and softer
every day. He opened the door eagerly and looked round
the cheerful bedroom.

Valentine was not there.

He called her. She was not in the dressing-room.

" She is with Lilias," he said to himself. '^ How these
two young things love to chatter."

He sat down in an easy chair by the fire, content to
wait until his wife should return. He was half inclined to
tell her what he had been doing ; he had a great longing

,M<

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

131

to confide in her in all possible ways, for she had both
brains and sense, but he restrained himself. The subject
was not one he cared to discuss with his young wife, anc^,
besides, the secret belonged to Esther and to her father.

He made up his mind to say nothing about it. He had
no conception then what this silence was to cost him, and
how different all his future life might have been had he
told his wife the truth that night.

Presently Valentine returned. Her face was flushed,
and her eyes had an unquiet troubled expression. She
had been to Lilias with a somewhat strange request.

" Lilias, I want you to promise me something, to ask no
questions, but just like a kind and truthful sister to make
me a faithful promise."

" You look strange, Valentine ; what do you want me to
promise ? "

Will you promise it ? "

If I can, I will promise, to please you ; but I never
make promises in the dark."

" Oh, there's Gerald's step, I must go. Lilias, I've a very
^ articular reason, I cannot explain it to you. I want you
not to tell Gerald, now or at any time, that we were at the
Gaiety to-night."

" My dear Val, how queer ! AVhy shouldn't poor Gerald
■enow ? And you look so strange. You are trembling."

*' I am. I'm in desperate earnest. Will you promise ? "

''Yes, yes, you silly child, if you set such store on an
utterly ridiculous promise you shqll have it. Only if I were
you, Valentine, I wouldn't begin even to have such tiny
little secrets as that from my husband. I wouldn't, Val ;
it isn't wise — it isn't really."

Valentine neither heard nor heeded these last words.
She gave Lilias a hasty, frantic kiss, and rushed back to
her own room.

" Now," she said to herself, " now — now — now — if he
tells me everything, every single thing, all may be well. I

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

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won't, ask him a question ; but if he tells, tells of his own
accord, all may be quite well yet. Oh, how my heart
beats ! It is good I have not learned to love him any
better."

Gerald rose up at her entrance and went to meet her
eagerly.

"Ah, here's my bright httle wife,'' he said. "Give me a
kiss, Valentine."

She gave it, and allowed him to fold her in his arms. She
\v;is almost passive, but her heart beat hard — she was so
e;iyerly waiting for him to speak.

"Sit down by the fi.e, darling. 1 don't like long even-
ings spent away from you, Val. How did you enjoy CaJ>-
tain Swift .? "

•' We didn't go to the Haymarket ; no, we are going to-
morrow. Father thought it a pity you should miss such a
good play."

"Then where did you go? You and Lil did not stay at
home the whole evening? "

" No, father took us to another theatre. I can't tell you
the name; don't ask me. I hate theatres — I detest them.
I never want to go inside one again as long as I live ! "

" How strongly you talk, my dear little Val. Perhaps
you found it dull to-night because your husband was not
with you."

She moved away with a slight little petulant gesture.
When would he begin to speak ?

Gerald wondered vaguely what had put his sweet-tem-
l)ered Valentine out. He stirred the fire, and then stood
will) his back to it. She looked up at him, his face was
very grave, very calm. Her own Gerald — he had a nice
face. Surely there wati nothing bad behind that face. Why
was he silent? Why didn't he begin to tell his story ? Well
she would — she would — help him a little.

She cleared her throat, she essayed twice to find her

J I IJ-r: FOR A lOVE. 133

voice. When it came out at last it was small and timo-
rous.

"Was it — was it business kept you from coming with
me to-night, Gerry ? "

" Business ? Yes, my darling, certainly."

Her heart went down with a great bound. But she would
give him another chance.

" Was it — was it business connected with tlic office ? ''

'* You speak in quite a queer voice, Valentine. \\\ a
measure it wr. • business connected with the office — in a
measure it was not. What is it, Valentine ? Wiiat is ii,
my dear? "

She had risen from her seat, put her arms roimd his neck,
and laid her soft young head on his shoulder;

" Tell me the business, Gerry. Tell your own Val.

He kissed her many times.

" It doesn't concern you, my dear wife," he said. " I
would tell you gladly, were 1 not betraying a trust. 1 had
some painful work to do to-night, Valentine. Yes, business,
certainly. I cannot tell it, dear. Yes, what Avas that you
said ? "

For she had murmured " Hypocrite ! " under her breath.
Very low she had said it, too faintly for him to catch tlie
word. But he felt her loving arms relax. He saw her
face grow grave and cold, something seemed to go out of
her eyes which had rendered them most lovely. It was
the wounded soul going back into solitude, and hiding its
grief and shame in an inmost recess of her being.

Would Gerald ever see the soul, the soul of love, in his
wife's eyes again ?

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134

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER XXTV.

1:!;]^

A FEW days after the events '''lated in the .ast chapter Mr.
Paget asked his son-in-law to have a few minutes* private
conversation with him. Once more the young man found
himself in that inner room at the rich merchant's ofiict?
which represented more or less a torture-chamber to him_
Once more Valentine's untroubled girlish innocent eyes
looked out of Richmond's beautiful picture of her.

Wyndham hated this room, he almost hated that picture ;
it had surrounded itself with terrible memories. He
turned his head away from it now as he obeyed Mr. Paget's
summons.

" It's this, Gerald," said his father-in-law. " When a
thing has to be done tlie sooner the better. 1 mean no-
body cares to make a long operation of the drawing of a
tooth for instance i "

''An insufficient metaphor," interrupted Wyndham
roughly. " Say, rather, the plucking out of a right eye, or
the cutting off a right hand. As you say, these operations
had better be got quickly over."

" I think so — I honestly think so. it would convenience
me if you sailed in the Esperance on the 25th of March
for Sydney. There is a bond fide reason for your going.
I want you to sample "

"Hush," interrupted Wyndham. "The technicalities
and the gloss and all that kind of humbug can come "later.
You want me to sail on the 25lh of March. That is the
main point. When last you spoke of it, I begged of you
as a boon to give me an extension of grace, say until May
or June. It was understood by us, although there was no

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

ipter Mr.

private
an found

■ to him
-nt eyes

picture ;

5. He

Pagct's

When a
san iio-
ig of a

ndham
eye, or
rations

nience
March
goijig.

alities
'later,
is the
f you
jNIay
^asno

sealed bond in the matter, that my wife and I should spend
a year together before this — this temporary parting took
])l;ice. I asked you at one time to shorten my season of
gr.ce, but a few weeks ago I asked you to extend it."

" Precisely, Wyndham, and I told you I would grant
your wish, if possible. I asked you to announce to your
own relatives that you would probably have to go away in
March, for a time ; but I said I would do my utmost to
defer the evil hour. I am sorry to say that I cannot do so,
[ have had news from India which obliges me to hasten
mailers. Such a good opportunity as the business which
takes you out in the Esparajice w\\\ probably not occur
again. It would be madness not to avail ourselves of it.
Do not you think so ? My dear fellow, do take a chair."
" Thank you, I prefer to stand. This day — what is this
day ? " He raised his eyes ; they rested on the office
calendar. " This day is the 24th of P'ebruary. A spring-
like day, isn't it? Wonderful for the time of year. I have,
then, one month and one day to live. Are these Valen-
tine's violets? I will help myself to a few. Let me say
good-morning, sir."

He bowed courteously — no one could be more courteouo
than Gerald Wyndham — and left the room.

His astonished father in-law almost gasped when he
found himself alone.

" Upon my word," he said to himself, " there's something
about that fellow that's positively uncanny. I only trust
I'll be preserved from being haunted by his ghost. My
God ! what a retribution that would be. Wyndham would
be awful as a ghost. I suppose I shall have retribution
some day. I know I'm a wicked man. Hypocritical, cun-
ning, devilish. Yes, I'm all that. Who'd have thought that
soft-looking lad would turn out to be all steel and venom.
I hate him — and yet, upon my soul, I admire him. He
does more for the woman he loves than I do — than I could
do. T\it\sorti2i\\ wgl>ot/i hvc. His wife — my child T

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136

J LIFE FOR A LOVE.

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** There, I'll get soft myself if I indulge in these thoughts
any longer. Now is the time for him to go. Valentine
has turned from him; any fool can see that. Now is the
time to get him out of the way. How lucky that I over-
lieard Helps that day. Never was theve a more cnpor-
lune thing."

Mr. Paget went home early that evening. Valentine
was dining with him. Lately, within the last few weeks,
.>he often came over alone to spend the evening with her
father.

*■ Where's your husband, my pet ? " the old man used to
&ay to her on these occasions.

And she always answered him in a bright though some-
what hard little voice.

" Oh, Gerald is such a book- worm — he is devouring one
of those abstruse treatises on music. I left him buried in
it," or, "Gerald is going out this evening," or, '* Gerald
isn't well, and would like to stay quiet, so " — the end was
invariably the same — " I thought I'd come and have a cosy
chat with you, dad."

" And no one more welcome — no one in all the wide
world more welcome," Mortimer Paget would answer,
glancing, with apparent pleased unconcern, but with secret
anxiety, at his daughter's face.

The glance always satisfied him ; she looked bright and
well — a little hard, perhaps — well, the blow must affect her
in some way. What had taken place at the Gaiety would
leave some results even on the most indifferent heart. The
main result, however, was well. Valentine's dawning love
had changed to indifference. Had she cared for her husi
band passionately, had her whole heart been given into his
keeping, she must have been angry ; she must have
mourned.

As, evening after evening, Mr. Paget came to this con.
elusion, he invariably gave vent to a sigh of relief. He
never guessed that if he could wear a mask, so also could

// LIFE FOR A LOVE.

137

• •

his child. He never c\cii siisp.cled lluit benealli Vtv. en-
tine's giiy laughter, under the soft shining of her clear eyes,
under her smiles, her light easy w 'ds, lay a pain, lay au
ache, which ceased not to trouble her day and night.

Mr. Paget came home early. Videiitine was wailing fur
him in the drawing-room.

'* We shall have a cosy evening, father," she said. " Oh,
no, Gerald can't come. He says he has some letters to
write, I think he has a heada( lie, loo. I'd have stayed
with him, only he prefers being (piiet. Well, we'll have a
jolly evening together. Kiss mc, d.id."

He did kiss her, tiien slic linked his hand in her arm,
and they went downstairs and dined together, as they used
to do in the old days before eitlier of them had- heard of
Gerald Wyndham.

" Let us come into the library to-night," said Valentine.
" You know there is no room like the library to me."

" Nor to me," said Mr. Paget l^riglitly. " It reminds me
of when you were a child, my darling."

" Ah, well, I'm not a child now, I'm a woman."

She kept back the sigh which rose to her lips.

" I think I like being a child best, only one never can
have the old childish time back again."

" Who knows, Val ? Perhaps we may. If you have
spoiled your teeth enough over those filberls, shall we go
mto the library? I have something to tell you — a little
bit of news."

" All right, you shall tell it sitting in your old arm-
chair. "

She flitted on in front, looking quite like tlic child she
more or less still was.

"Now isn't this perfect?" she said, when the dooi was
shut, Mr. Paget established in his arm-chair, and the two
pairs of eyes fixed upon the glowing fire. '"• Isn't liiis
perfect?"

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.•/ LIFE FOR A LOVE,

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" Yes, my darling — perfect. Valentine, there is no love
in all the world like a father's for his child."

"No greater love has come to mc," replied Valcmiiic
slowly ; and now some of the pain at her heart, notwith-
standing all iicr brave endeavors, did come into her face.
" No greater love luii come t(j me, but I can imagine, yes,
I can imagine a mightier."

*• What do you mean, cliild ? "

" I'or instance — if you loved your husband perfectly,
and lie — he loved you, and there was nothing at all between
— and the joy of all joys was to be with him, and you were
to feel that in thought — in word — in deed — you were one,
not two. There, what am I saying? The wildest non-
sense. Ti.cre isn't such a thing as a love of that sort.
What's your news, father ? "

** My dear child, how intensely you speak ! "

** Never mind ! Tell mc what is your news, father."

Mr, Paget laughed, his laugh was not very comfortable.

" Has Gerald told you anything, Valentine?"

'' Gerald ? No, nothing special ; he had a headache this
evening."

" You know, Val — at least we often talked the matter
over — that Gerald might have to go away for a time. He
is my partner, and partners in such a firm ai: mine have
often to go to the other side of the world to transact
important business."

" Yes, you and Gerald have both spoken of it. He's not
going soon, is he ? "

" That's it, my pet. The necessity has arisen rather
suddenly. Gerald has to sail for Sydney in about a
month."

Valentine was sitting a little behind her father. He could
not see the pallor of her face ; her voice was quite clear
and quiet.

" Poor old Gerry," she said ; *' he won't take me, will he,
father ? "

/f LIFE FOR A T.OVE.

t30

"Impossible, my dear — absolutely. You surely don't
want to go."

*' No, not particularly."

Valentine yawned with admirable effect.

" She really can't care for iiim at all. What a wonderful
piece of luck," muttered her father.

*'■ I daresay Gerald will enjoy Sydney," continued his
wife. " Is he likely to be long away? "

•* Perhaps six months — perhaps not so long. Time is
always a matter of some uncertainty in cases of this kind."

*' I could come back to you while he is away, couldn't I,
dad ? "

" Why, of course, my dear one, I always intended that.
It would be old times over again — old times over again for
you and your father, Valentine."

" Not quite, I think," replied Valentine. ** We can't
go back really. Things happen, and we can't undo them.
Do you know, father, I think Gerald must have infected
me with his headache. If you don't mind, 1*11 go home."

Mr. Paget saw his daughter back to Park lane, but he
did not go into the house. Valentine rang the bell, and
when Masters opened the door she asked him where her
husband was.

'• In the library, ma'am ; you can hear him can't you?
He's practising of the violin."

Yes, the music of this most soul-speaking, soul-stirring
instrument filled the house. Valentine put her finger to
her lips to enjoin silence, ,i,nd went softly along the passage
which led to the library. The door was a little ajar — she
could look in without being herself seen. Some sheets of
music were scattered about on the table, but Wyndham was
not playing from any written score. The queer melody
which he called Waves was filling the room. Valentine
had heard it twice before — she started and clasped her
hands as its passion, its unutterable sadness, its despair,

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140

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

reached her. Where were the triumph notes which had
come into it six weeks ago?

She turned ard fled up to her room, and locking the
door, threw herself by her bedside ;ind burst into bilter
weeping.

" Oh, Gerald, I love you ! I do iove you ; but I'll never
show it. No, never, until you tell me the truth."

\ 4

A l//'£ J'OK J 10 I'M,

CHAPTER XXV.

" Yes," said Augusta VVyndham, '* if there is a young man
who suits me all round it's Mr. Carr. Yes," she said,
standing very upright in her short skirts, with her hair in
it tight pig-tail hanging down her back, and her determined,
wide open, bright eyes fixed upon an admiring audience
of younger sisters. " He suits me exactly. He's a kind
of hail-fellow-well-met ; he has no nonsensical languishing
airs about him ; he preaches nice short sermons, and
never bothers you to remember what they are about after-
wards ; he's not 1 id at tennis or cricket, and he really can
cannon quite decently at billiards; but for all that, \( yotd
think, you young 'uns, that he's going to get inside of
Gerry, or that he's going to try to pretend to know better
than Gerry what I can or can't do, why you're all finely
mistaken, so there ! "

Augusta turned on her heel, pirouetted a step or two,
whistled in a loud, free, unrestrained fashion, and once
more faced her audience.

** Gerry said that I cou/t/ give out the library books.
Now is it likely that Mn Carr knows more of my capacities
after six months* study than Gerry found out after fifteen
years ? "

" But Mr. Carr doesn't study you^ Gus. It's Lilias he's
always looking at," interrupted little Rosie.

"You're not pretty, are you, Gus?" asked Betty.
" Your cheeks are too red, aren't they ? And nurse says
your eyes are as round as an owl's ! "

" Pretty ! " answered Augusta, in a lofty voice. " Who
cares for being pretty ? Who cares for being simply pink

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

and white? I'm for intellect. I'm for the mareti of mind.
Gerry believes in me. Hurrah for Gerry ! Now, girls, off
with your caps, throw them in the air, and shout hurrah for
Gerry three times, as loud as you can ! "

" What an extraordinary noise the children are making
.on the lawn," said Lilias to Marjory. " I hear Gerald's
name. What can they be saying about Gerald ? One
would almost think he was coming down the avenue to see
the state of excitement they are in ! Do look, Meg, do."

" It's only one of Gussie's storms in a tea-cup," res-
ponded Marjory, cheerfully. " I am so glad, Lil, that you
found Gerald and Val hitting it off so nicely. You con-
sider them quite a model pair for affection and all that,
don't you. pet? "

" Quite," said Lilias. ** My mind is absolutely at rest.
One night Val puzzled me a little. Oh, nothing to speak
off-— nothing came of it, I mean. Yes, my mind is abso-
lutely at rest, thank God ! What are all the children doing,
Maggie ? They are flying in a body to the house. What
can it mean ? "

" We'll know in less than no time," responded Marjory,
calmly. And they did.

Four little girls, all out of breath, all dressed alike, all
looking alike, dashed into die drawing-room, and in one
breath poured out the direful intelligence that Augusta had
mutinied.

" Mr. Carr forbade her to give away the library books,"
they said, " and she has gone up now to the school-room
in spite of him. She's off; she said Gerry said she might
do it, long ago. Isn't it awful of her ? She says beauty's
nothing, and she's only going to obey Gerry," continued
Betty. ''What shall we do? She'll give all the books
away wrong, and Mr. Carr will be angry."

They all paused for wnnt of breath. Rosie went up and
laid her fat red hand on Lilias' knee.

%><■

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

»43

((

You

" I said it was you he stared at," she remarked,
wouldn't Hke him to be vexed, would you?"

The words had scarcely passed her lips before the door
was opened, and the object of the children's universal
commiseration entered. A deep and awful silence took
jjossession of them. Lilias clutched Rosie's hand, and felt
ail inane desire to rush from the room with her.

Too late. The terrible infant flew to Adrian Carr, and
clasping her arms around his legs, looked up into his face.

'• Never mind," she said, " it is wrong of Gussie, but it
isn't Lilias' fault. She wouldn't like to vex you, 'cause you
stare so at her."

" Nursie says that you admire Lilias ; do you ? " asked
Betty.

" Oh, poor Gussie ! " exclaimed the others, their interest
ill Lilias and Carr being after all but a very secondary
matter. " We all do hope you won't do anything dreadful
to her. You can, you know. You can excommunicate
her, can't you ? "

" But what has Augusta done ? " exclaimed Carr, turning
a somewhat flushed face in the direction not of Lilias, but
of Marjory. " What a frightful confusion — and what
does it mean r "

Marjory explained as well as she was able. Carr had
lately taken upon himself to overhaul the books of the lend-
ing library. He believed in literature as a very elevating
lever, but he thought that books should not only be
carefully selected in the mass, but in lending should be
given with a special view to the needs of the individual who
l)orrowed. Before Gerald's marriage Marjory had given
away the books, but since then, for various reasons, they
had drifted into Augusta's hands, and through their means
this rather spirited and daring young lady had been able to
inflict a small succession of mild tyrannies. For instance,
poor Miss Yates, the weak-eyed and weak-spirited village

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

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dressmaker, was dosed with a series of profound and dull
theology ; and Macallister, the sexton and shoemaker, a
canny Scot, who looked upon all fiction as the " work of the
de'il," was put into a weekly passion with the novels of
Charles Reade and Wilkie Collins.

These were extreme cases, but Augusta certainly had
the knack of giving the wrong book to the wrong person.
Carr heard mutterings and grumbling. The yearly sub-
scriptions of a shilling a piece diminished, and he thought it
full time to take the matter in hand. He himself would
distribute the village literature every Saturday, at twelve
o'clock.

The day and the hour arrived, and behold Miss Augusta
Wyndhara had forestalled him, and was probably at this
Very moment putting " The Woman in White " into the
enraged Macallister's hand. Carr's temper was not alto-
gether immaculate ; he detached the children's clinging
hands from his person, and said he would pursue the truant,
pubHcly take the reins of authority from her, and send her
home humiliated. He left the rectory, walking fast, and
letting his annoyance rather increase than diminish, for
few young men care to be placed in a ridiculous situation,
and he could not but feci that such was his in the present
instance.

The school-house was nearly half a mile from the rectory,
along a straight and dusty piece of road ; very dusty it
was to-day, and a cutting March east wind blew in Can's
face and stung it. He approached the school-house — no,
what a relief — the patient aspirants after literature were
most of them waiting outside. Augusta, then, could not
have gone into the school- room.

** Has Miss Augusta Wyndham gone upstairs ? " he asked
of a rosy-cheeked girl who adored the " Sunday At Home.''

" No, please, sir. Mr. Gerald's come, please, Mr. Carr,
sir," raising two eyes which nearly blazed with excitement.
*' He shook 'ands with me, he did, and witl^ Old Ben, there ;

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

»4S

and Miss Augusta, she give a sort of a whoop, and she
had her arms round his neck, and was a-hugging of him
befce us all, and they has gone down through the fields
to the rectory."

'' About the books," said Carr ; '* has Miss Augusta
given you the books ? "

*' Bless your 'eart, sir," here interrupted Old Ben, " we
ain't of a mind for books to-day. Mr. Gerald said he'd
come up this evening to the Club, and have a chat with us
all, and Sue and me, we was waiting here to tell the news.
T.itteratoor ain't in our line to-day, thank you, sir."

" Here's Mr. Macallister," said Sue. " Mr. Macallister,
Mr. Gerald's back. He is, truly. 1 seen him, and so did
Old Ben."

" And he'll be at the Club to-night," said Ben, turning
his wrinkled face upwards towards the elongated visage of
the canny Scot.

"The Lord be praised for a' His mercies," pronounced
Macallister, slowly, with an upward wave of his hand, as if
he were returning thanks for a satisfying meal. '* Na, na,
Mr. Carr, na books the day."

Finding that his services were really useless, Carr went
away. The villagers were slowly collecting from different
quarters, and all faces were broadening into smiles, and all
the somewhat indifferent sleepy tones becoming perceptibly
brighter, and Gerald Wyndham's name was passed from
lip to lip. Old Miss Bates wiped her tearful eyes, as she
hurried home to put on her best cap. Widow Simpkins
determined to make up a good fire in her cottage, and not
to spare the coals ; the festive air was unmistakeable. Carr
felt smitten with a kind of envy. What wonders could not
Wyndham have effected in this place, he commented, as he
walked slowly back to his lodgings. Later in the day he
called at the rectory to find the hero surrounded by his
Adoring family, and bearing his honors gracefully,

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

Gerald was talking rather more than his wont ; for some
reason or other his face luid more color than usual, his eyes
were bright, he smiled, and even laughed. Lilias ceased
to watch him anxiously, a sense of jubilation filled the
breast of every worshipping sister, and no one thought of
parting or sorrow.

Perhaps even Gerald himself forgot the bitterness which
lay before him just then ; perhaps his efforts were not all
efforts, and that he really felt some of the old home peace
and rest with its sustaining power.

You can know a thing and yet not always realize it.
Gerald knew that he should never spend another Saturday
in the old rectory of Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. That Lilias'
bright head and Lilias' tender, steadfast earnest eyes would
be in future only a memory. He could never hope again
to touch that hair, or answer back the smile on that
beloved and ha])py face. The others, too— but Lilias,
after his wife, was most dear of all living creatures to
Gerald. Well, he must not think ; he resolved to take
all the sweetness, if possible, out of this Saturday and Sun-
day. He resolved not to tell any of his people of the com-
ing parting until just before he left.

The small sisters squatted in a semicircle on the floor
round their hero ; Augusta, as usual, stood behind him,
keeping religious guard of the back of his head.

" If there is a thing I simply adore," that vigorous young
lady was often heard to say, '' it's the back of Gerry's
head."

Lilias sat at his feet, her slim hand and arm lying across
his knee ; Marjory flitted about, too restless and happy to
be quiet, and the tall rector stood on the hearth-rug with his
back to the fire.

" It is good to be home again," said Gerald. Whereupon
a sigh of content echoed from all the other throats, and it
was at this moment that Carr came into the room.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

147

"Come in, Carr, come in," said the rector. '* There's a
place for you, too. You're quite like one of the family,
you know. Oh, of course you are, my dear fellow, of
course you are. We have got my son back, unexpectedly.
Gerald, you know Carr, don't you."

Gerald stood up, gave Carr's hand a hearty grip, and
offered him his chair.

" Oh, not that seat, Gerry," groaned Augusta, " it's the
only one in the room I can stand at comfortably. I can't
fiddle witli your curls if I stand at the back of any other
chair."

Gerald patted her cheek.

** Then perhaps, Carr, you'll oblige Augusta by occupy-
ing another chair. I am sorry that I am obliged to with-
hold the most comfortable from you."

Carr was very much at home with the Wyndhams by
now. He pulled forward a cane chair, shook his head at
Augusta, and glanced almost timidly at Lilias. He feared
the eight sharp eyes of the younger children if he did more
than look very furtively, but she made such a sweet picture
just then that his eyes sought hers by a sort of fascination.
For tlie first time, too, he noticed that she had a look of
(uiald. Her f^ice lacked the almost spiritualized expres-
sion of his, l)ut undoubtedly there was a likeness.

The voices, interrupted for a moment by the curate's
entrance, soon resumed their vigorous flow.

" Why didn't you bring my dear little sister Valentine
down, Gerald ? " It was Lilias who spoke.

He rewarded her loving speech by a flash, half of plea-
sure, half of pain in his eyes. Aloud he said : —

*' We thought it scarcely worth while for both of us to
come. I must go away again on Monday."

A sepulchral groan from Augusta. Rosie, Betty and Joan
exclaimed almost in a breath : —

" And we like you much better by yourself."

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J r.IFF FOR A r.OVE

We are all

very

"Oh, hush, clnldren," said Marjory.
fondofVal.''

*' You have brought a great deal of delight into the village,
Wyndhaiii," said Carr, and he related the little scene which
had taken place around the school-house. " I'd give a good
deal to be even half as popular," lie said with a sigh.

" You might give all you possessed in all the world, and
you wouldn't succeed," snapped Gussie.

*• Augusta, you really are too rude," said Lilias with a
Hush on her face.

"• No, I'm not, Lil. Oh, you needn't stare at me. I like
liim, and he knows it," nodding with her head in the direc-
lion of Adrian Carr ; " but yon have to be born in a place,
and taught to walk in it, and you have had to steal apples
in it and eggs out of birds' nests, and to get nearly drowned
when fishing, and to get some shot in your ankle, and
you've got to know every soul in all the country round, and
to come back from scliool to them in the holidays, and for
them first to see your moustache coming ; and then, beyond
and above all that, you've got just to be Gerjy, to have his
way of looking, and his way of walking, and his way of
shakihg your hand, and to have his voice and his heart, to
be loved as well. So how could Mr. Carr expect it ? "

'' Bravo, Augusta," said Adrian Carr. ••I'd like you
for a friend better than any girl I know."

'^ Please, Gerry, tell us a story," exclaimed the younger
children. They did not want Augusta to have all the talk-
ing.

" Let it be about a mouse, and a cricket on the hearth,
and a white elephant, and a roaring bull, and a grizzly
bear."

'* And let the ten little nigger-boys come into it," said
Betty.
" And Bo-Peep," said Rosie.

'' And the Old Man who wouldn't say his prayers," ex^
claimed Joan.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

149

" And let it last for hours," exclaimed they all.

Gerald begged the rest of the audience to go away, hul
they refused to budge an inch. So the story began. All
the characters appeared in due order ; it lasted a long time,
and everybody was delighted.

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A L/FE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER XXVI.

LiLiAS Wyndham never forgot that last Sunday with
Gerald spent at Jewsbiiry-on-the-Wold. The day in itself
was perfect, the air blew softly from the west, the bun
shone in a nearly cloudless heaven ; the gentle breezes, the
opening flowers, the first faint buds of spring on tree and
hedge-row seemed all to give a foretaste of summer. No-
body knew, none could guess, that in one sense they fore-
told the desolation of dark winter.

It was in this light that Wyndham himself regarded the
lovely day.

'* I leap from calm to storm," he said to himself. " Never
mind, I will enjoy the present bliss ! "

He did enjoy it, really, not seemingly. He took every
scrap of sweetness out of it, almost forgetting Valentine for
the time being, and living over again the days when he
was a light-hearted boy.

He went to church twice, and sat in the corner of the
square family pew which had always been reserved for hirn.
As of old, Lilias sat by his side, and when the sermon came
he lifted little Joan into his arms, and she fell asleep with
her golden head on his breast. The rector preached and
Gerald listened. It was an old-fashioned sermon, somewhat
long for the taste of the present day. It had been carefully
prepared, and was read aloud, for the benefit of the con-
gregation, in a clear, gentlemanly voice.

Gerald almost forgot that he was a man with an unusual
load of suffering upon him, as he listened to the time-
honored softly-flowing sentences.

" Blessed are the pure in heart," was the rector's text,
and it seemed to more than one of that little village con-

/I LIFE FOR A LOVE.

J5»

gregation that he was describing his own son when he drew
his picture of the man of purity.

In the evening Carr preached. He was as modern as
the rector was the uversc. He used neither M.S. nor
notes, and his sermon scarcely occupied ten minutes.

" To die is gain," was his texl. There were some in
the congregation who scarcely understood the vigorous
words, but they seemed to one weary man like the first
trumpet notes of coming battle. They spoke of a fight
wiiich led to a victory. Wyndham remembered them by-
:uul-bye.

It was the custom at the rectory to have a kind of open
house on Sunday evening, and to-niglit many of Gerald's
friends dropped in. The large party seemed a happy one.
The merriment of the night before had deepened into some-
thing better. Lilias spoke of it afterwards as bliss.

" Do you remember," she said to Marjory, in the deso-
late days which followed, " how Gerald looked when he
played the organ in the hall ? Do you remember his face
when we sang '■ Sun of my soul ? ' "

The happiest days come to an end. The children went
to bed, the friends one by one departed. Even Lilias and
Marjory kissed their brother and bade him good-night.
He was to leave before they were up in the morning. This
he insisted on, against their will.

" But we shall see you soon in London," they both said,
for they were coming up in a few weeks to stay with an
aunt. Then they told him to kiss Valentine for them, and
went upstairs, chatting lightly to one another.

The rector and his son were alone.

" We have had a happy day," said Gerald, abruptly.

" We have, my son, It does us all good to have you
with us, Gerald. I could have wished — but there's no good
regretting now. Each man must choose his own path,
and you seem happy, my dear son ; that is the main thing."

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152

// LIFE FOR A lOVE.

1 ^l'"Sili

** I never thought primarily of happiness," responded
Gerald. " Did yon listen to Carr's sermon to-night? He
proved his case well. To die is sometimes gain."

The rector, who was seated by the fire, softly patted his
knee with one hand.

*' Yes, yes," he said, "Carr proved his case ably. He's
a good fellow. A /ittle inclined to the broad church, don't
you think? "

'*' Perhaps so."

Gerald stood up. His face had suddenly grown deadly
white.

** Father, I kept a secret from you all day. I did not
wish to do anything to mar the bliss of this perfect Sunday.
You — youll break it to Lilias and Maggie, and the younger
children. I'm going to Sydney on Wednesday. 1 came
down to say good-bye."

He held out his hand. The rector stood up and grasped
it.

" My dear lad — my boy. Well — well — you'll come back
again. Of course, I did know that you expected to go
abroad on business for your firm. My dear son. Yes, my
boy — aye — you'll come back again soon. How queer you
look, Gerald. Sit down. I'm afraid you're a little over-
done."

" Good-bye, father. You're an old man, and Sydney is
a long way off. Good-bye. I have a queer request to
make. Grant it, and don't think me weak or foolish. Give
me your blessing before I go."

Suddenly Wyndham fell on his knees, and taking his
father's hand laid It on his head.

" I am like Esau/' he said, " Is there not one blessing
left for me ? "

The rector was deeply moved.

" Heaven above bless you, my boy," he said. ** Your
mother's God go with you. There, Gerald, you are mor-

A LIPE 1^0 R A LOV*E,

»!li

bid. You will be back with me before the snows of next
winter fall. But God bless you, my boy, wherever you are
and whatever you do I "

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A Ul'I:. t'OK A LOVE,

iii

CHAPTER XXVII.

Valentine was sitting in her pretty drawing-room. It
was dinner time, but she had not changed her dress. She
was too yomig, too fresh, and unused to trouble, for it yet
to leave any strong marks on her face. The delicate color
in her cheeks had slightly paled, it is true, her bright hair
was in confusion, and her eyes looked larger and more
wistful than their wont, but otherwise no one could tell
that her heart was beating heavily and that she wr.s listen-
ing eagerly for a footstep.

Seven o'clock came — half-past seven. This was Gerald's
last night at home ; he was to sail in the Esperance for
Sydney to-morrow. Valentine felt stunned and cold,
though she kept on repeating to herself over and over : —

'' This parting is nothing. He's sure to be home in six
months at the latest. Six months at the very latest. In
these days there is really no such thing as distance. What
is a six months' parting ? Besides, it is not as if I were
really in love with him. Father asked me the question
direct last night, and I said I wasn't. How could I love
him with all my heart when I remember that scene at the
Gaiety ? Oh, that scene ! It burns into me like fire, and
father's look — I almost hated father that night. I did
really. Fancy, Valentine hating her father ! Oh, of course
it passed. There is no one like my father. Husbands
aren't hke fathers, not in the long run. Oh, Gerald, you
might have told me the truth ? I'd have forgiven you, I
would really, if you had told me the truth. Oh, why don't
you come ? Why don't you come ? You might be in time
this last evening. It is a quarter to eight now. I am

// LI IE h'OR A LOVE,

^%%

impatient — I am frightened. OIi, there's a ring at the
hall door. Oh, Miank God. No, of course, Gerald, I don't
love you — not as I could have loved — and yet I do — I do
love you — I do / "

Slie clasped her hands — a footstep was on the stairs.
The door was opened, Masters brought her a thick letter
on a salver.

" Has not Mr. VVyndham come ? Was not that ring Mr.
Wyndhani's ? "

*' No, madam, a messenger brought this letter. He Caid
there was no answer."

The page withdrew,andValentine tore open tiie envelope.
A letter somewhat blotted, bearing strong marks of agita-
tion, but in her husband's writing, lay in her hand. Her
eager eyes devoured the contents.

" I can't say good-bye, my darling — there are limits even
to my endurance — I can't look at you and hear you say
' Good-bye, Gerald.' I bade you farewell this morning
when you were asleep. T am not coming home to-night,
but your father will spend the evening with you. You love
him better than me, and I pray the God of all mercy that
lie may soften any little pang that may come to you in this
separation. When you are reading this I shall be on my
way to Southampton. I have bid your father good-bye
and he will tell you everything there is to tell about me.
The Esperance sails at noon to-morrow, and it is a good
plan to be on board in good time. I cannot tell you,
Valentine, what my own feelings are. I cannot gauge my
love for you. T don't think anything could probe it to its
depths. I am a sinful man, but I sometimes hope that
God will forgive me, because I have loved as much as the
human heart is capable of loving. You must remember
that, dear. You must always know that you have inspired
in one man's breast the extreme of love I

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^ LIFE FOR A LOVE*

" Good-bye, my darling. It is my comfort to know that
the bitterness of this six months' separation falls on me.
If I thought otherwise, if I thought even for a moment that
you cared more for your husband than you do for the world's
opinion, or for riches, or for honor, that you would rather
have him with poverty-and shame, that he was more to you
even than the father who gave you your being, then I would
say even now, at the eleventh hour, 'fly to me, Valentine.
Let us go away together on board the Esperance, and forget
all promises and all honor, and all truth.' Yes, I would say
it. But that is a mad dream. Forget this part of my letter,
Valentine. It has been wrung from a tortured and almost
maddened heart. Good-bye, my wife. Be thankful that
you have not it in you to love recklessly.
" Your husband,

" Gerald Wyndham."

*' But I have ! " said Valentine. She raised her eyes.
Her father was in the room.

" Yes, I can love — I too can give back the extreme of
love. Father, I am going to my husband. I am going to
Southampton. What's the matter? What are you looking
at me like that for ? Why did you send Gerald away with-
out letting him come to say good-bye ? Not that ic matters,
for I am going to him. I shall take the very next train to
Southampton."

" My darling," began Mr. Paget.

'* Oh. yes. father, yesi But there's no time for loving
words just now. I've had a letter from my husband, and
I'm going to him. I'm going to Sydney with him. Yes—
you can't prevent me ! "

" You are talking folly, Valentine," said Mr. Paget.
" You are excited, my child ; you are talking wildly. Going
with your husband? My poor little girl. There, dear,
there. He'll soon be biick, You can't go with him, you

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

IS7

know, my love. Show me his letter. What has he dared
to say to excite you like this ? "

•' No, you shan't see a word of his dear letter. No, not
for all the world. I understand him at last, and I love him
with all my heart and soul. Yes, I do. Oh, no, I don't
love you as I love my husband."

Mr. Paget stepped back a pace or two. There was no
doubting Valentine's words, no doubting the look on her
face. She was no longer a child. She was a woman, a
woman aroused to passion, almost to fury.

"I am going to my husband," she said. And she took
no notice of her flxther when he sank into the nearest chair
and pressed his hand to his heart.

" I have got a blow," he said. " I have got an awful
blow."

But Valentine did not heed him.

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER XXVIII.

** Yes, my darling," said Mr. Paget, two hours later ; his
arms were round his daughter, and her head was on his
shoulder. " Oh, yes, my dear one, certainly, if you wish
it."

" And '; ou'll go with me, father ? Father, couldn't you
come too? Couldn't we three go.? Yes, that would he
nice, that would l>e happiness."

" A good idea," said Mr. Paget, reflectively. " But
really, Val, real.y now, don't you think Wyndham and I
rather spoil you ?' You discover at the eleventh hour tliat
you can't live without your husband, that as he must cross
to the other side of tlie world, you must go there too. And
now in addition / have to accompany you. Do you think
you are worth all this ? That any girl in the world is worth
all this ? "

" Perhaps not, father,"

Valentine was strangely subdued and quiet

*' I suppose it would be selfish to bring you," she said ;
" and we shall be back in six montlis."

** True," said Mr. Paget in a thoughtful voice ; " and
even for my daughter's sake my business must not go
absolutely to the dogs. Well, cliild, a wilful woman — you
know the proverb — a wilful woman must have her way. I
own I'm disappointed. I looked forward to six months
all alone with you. Six months with my own child — a last
six months, for of course I always guessed that when Wynd-
ham came back you'd give yourself up to him body and
soul. Oh, no, my dear, I'm not going to disappoint you.
A wife fretting and mourning for her husband is tlie last

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

159

person"! sliould consider a desirable companion. Run
upstairs now and get your maid to put your things together.
I shall take you down to Southampton by an early train in
the morning, and in the meantime, if you'll excuse me,
Valentine, I'll go out and send a telegram to your hus-
band."

" To tell him that I'm coming ? "

" Yes, are you not pleased ? "

*' No, don't do that. I will meet him on board the boat.
I know exactly what the scene will be. He'll be looking
— no, I shan't say how he'll be looking — but I'll steal up
behind him, and slip my hand through his arm, and then
— and then ! Father, kiss me. I love you for making me
so happy."

Mr. Paget pressed his lips to his daugliter's forehead.
For a brief moment his eyes looked into hers. She
remembered by-and-bye their queer expression. Just now,
liowcver, she was too overwrought and excited to have
room for any ideas except the one supreme longing and
passion which was drawing her to her husband.

"Shall we have dinner? " said Mr. Paget after another
pause.

Valentine laughed rather wildly.

"Dinner? I can't eat. Had not you better go home
and have something ? Perhaps I did order dinner, but I
can't remember. My head feels queer ; I can't think pro-
perly. Go home and iiave something to eat, father. You
can come back later ow. I am going upstairs now to
pack."

She left the room without a word, and Mortimer Paget
heard her light step as she ran up to her bedroom. He
hegan to talk velicmently to himself.

" Does that child, that little girl, whom I reared and
fostered — that creature whom I brought into existence —
think she will checkmate me now at the supreme moment.

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No, there are Hm\ts. I find that even my love for Val-
entine has a bottom, and I reach it when I see the pri-
soner's cell, solitary confinemen'., penal servitude, looming
large on the horizon. Even your heart must suffer, little
Valentine, to keep such a fate as that from my door. Poor
little Val ! Well, the best schemes, the most carefully laid
plans sometimes meet with defeat. It did not enter into
my calculations that Val would fall madly in love with that
long-faced fellow. Pah ! where's her taste ? What men
women will admire. Well, Valentine, you must pay the
penalty, for my plans cannot be disturJied at the elevenlli
hour ! "

Mr. Paget went softly out of the house, but he did not
go, as Valentine innocently supposed, home to dinner. No,
he had something far more important to attend to. Some-
thing in which he could be very largely assisted by that
confidential clerk of his, Jonathan Helps.

Meanwhile, Valentine and her maid were having a busy
time. Dresses were pulled out, trunks dusted and brought
into the middle of the room, and hasty preparations were
made for a journey.

Valentine's low spirits had changed to high ones. She
was as happy as some hours ago she had been miserable.
Her heart was now at rest, it had acknowledged its own
need — it had given expression to the love which was fast
becoming its life.

*' You are surprised, Suzanne," said Mrs. Wyndham to
her maid. " Yes, it is a hurried journey. I had no idea
of going with Mr. Wyndham, but he — poor fellow — he
can't do without me, Suzanne, so I am going. I shall join
him on board the Esperance in the morning. You can
fancy his surprise — his pleasure. Put in plenty of dinner
dresses, Suzanne. Those white dresses that Mr. Wynd-
ham likes — yes, that is right. Of course I shall dress every
evening for dinner on board the Esperance. I wonder if

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

I6i

many other ladies are going. Not that it matters — I shall
have my husband. What are you saying, Suzanne ? "

"That it is beautiful to lof," replied the maid, looking
up with adoring eyes at her pretty animated young mis-
tress.

She was both young and pretty herself, and she sympa-
thized with Valentine, and admired her immensely for her
sudden resolve.

"Yes, love is beautiful." answered Valentine gravely.
Her eyes filled with sudden soft tears of happiness. " And
there is something better even tlian love," she said, look-
ing at Suzanne, and speaking with a sudden burst of confi-
dence. "The highest bliss of all is to give jov to those
who love you,"

"And you will do that to-morrow, madame," replied
Suzanne fervently. " Oh, this lof, so beautiful, so rare —
yo'i will lay it at monsieur's feet — he is goot, monsieur is,
and how great is his passion for madame."

The young Swiss girl flitted gaily about, and by-and-bye
the packing even for this sudden voyage was accomplished.

'* You will take me with you, madame } " said Suzanne.

" No, Suzanne, there is no time to arrange that, nor
shall I really want you. We may have to rough it a little,
my husband and I ; not that we mind, it will be like a
continual picnic — quite delicious."

" But madame must be careful of her precious nealth."

The color flushed into Valendne's cheeks.

" My husband will take care of me," she said. ** No,
Suzanne, I shall not take you with me. You will stay
here for the present, and my father will arrange matters
for you. Now you can go downstairs and have some
supper. I shall not want you again to-night."

The girl withdrew, and Valentine stood by the fire, gaz-
ing into its cheerful depths, and seeing many happy dream
pictures.

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" Yes, I shall certainly go with him. Even if what 1
dread and hope and long for is the case, I shall be with
him. I can whisper it first to hirn. I ought to be with
him — I ought to be with my husband then. Why did
Suzanne speak about my health? No one will tai^e such
case of me as Gerald. Even my father cannot approach
(ierald for tenderness, for sympathy when one is out of
sorts. How soothing is Gerald's hand; how quieting.
Once I was ill for a few hours. Only a bad headache, l)ul
it went when lie made me lie very still, and when ht-
clasped my two hands in one of Ins. Yes, I quite believe
in Gerald. P>en though 1 do not understand that night
at the Gaiety, still I absolutely believe in my husband. He
is too noble to tell a lie \ he had a reason for not explaining
what looked so strange that night. He had a right reason,
probably a good and great one. Perhaps I'll ask him again
someday. Perhaps when he knows there's a little — lillle
cJiild coming he'll tell me himself. Oh, God, kind, good,
beautiful God, if you are going to give me a child of my
very own, help me to be worthy of it. Help me to be
worthy of the child, and of the child's father."

Mr. Paget's ring was heard at the hall door, and Valen-
tine ran down to meet him. He had made all arrange-
ments he told her. They would catch the 8.5 train in the
morning from Waterloo, and he would call for her in a cnh
at a sufficiently early hour to catch it.

His words were brief, Init he was quite quiet and busi-
ness-like. He kissed his daughter affectionately, told hci
to go to bed at once, and soon after left the house,

Valentine gave directions for the morning and went back
to her room. She got quickly into bed, for she was deter-
mined to be well rested for what lay before her on the
following day. She laid her head on the pillow, closed her
eyes, and prepared to go to sleep. Does not everybody
know what happens on these occasions ? Does not each

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

163

individual who in his or her turn has especially desired for
the best and most excellent reason a long sleep, a deep
sleep, an unbroken and dreamless sleep found il recede
further and further away — found eyes more watchful — brain
more active, limbs more restless, as the precious moments
fly by ? How loud the watch ticks, how audible are the
minutest sounds !

It was thus with Valentine Wyndham that night. No
sleep came near her, and by slow degrees as the fire grew
faint and the night deepened in silence and solemnity, her
happy excitement, her childish joy, gave place to vague
apprehensions. All kinds of nameless terrors came over
her. Suppose an accident happened to the train? Sup-
pose the Esperance sailed before its time ? Above all, and
this idea was agonizing, was so repellant tliat she abso-
lutely pushed it from her — suppose her father was deceiv-
ing her. She was horrified as this thought came, and came.
It would come, it would not be banished. Suppose hei
father was deceiving her ?

She went over in the silence of the night the whole scene
of that evening. Her own sudden and fierce resolve, her
father's opposition, his disappointment — then his sudden
yielding. The more she thought, the more apprehensive
she grew ; the more she pondered, the longer, the more
real grew her fears. At last she could bear them no
longer.

She lit a candle and looked at her watch. Three o'clock.
Had ever passed a night so long and dreadful ? There
would not be even a ray of daylight for some time. She
could not endure that hot and restless pillow. She would
get up and dress.

All the time she was putting on her clothes the dread
that her father was deceiving her kept strengthening —
strengthening. At last it almost reached a panic. What
a fool she had been not to go to Southampton the night

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164

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

before. Suppose Gerald's ship sailed before she reached
it or him.

Suddenly an idea came like a ray of light. Why should
she wait *"or her father? Why should she not take an earlier
train to Southampton } The relative depths of Valentine's
two loves were clearly shown when she did not reject this
thought. Tt mattered nothing at all to her at this supreme
moment whether she offended her father or not. She
determined to go to Southampton by the first train tlial
left V' iter' > that morning. She ran downstairs, found a
time-ial']. w that a train left at 5.50, and resolved to
catch ii ^<ht ' 'ould take Suzanne with her, and leave
a message for her lather ; he could follow by the 8.5 train
if he liked.

She went up'tairs and woke her maid.

" Suzanro, get np at once. Dress yourself, and come to
me, to my room."

In an incredible short time Suzanne had obeyed this
mandate.

*' I am going to take you with me to Southampton,
Suzanne. I mean to catch the train which leaves here at
ten minutes to six. We have plenty of time, but not too
much. Can you make some coffee for us both ? And then
eitiier you or Masters must find a cab."

Suzanne opened her bright eyes wide.

" I will go with you, my goot madam," she said to herself
" The early hour is noting, the strangeness is noting.
That olt man — I hate that olt man ! I will go alone with
you, mine goot mistress, to find the goot husband what is
so devoted. Ach I Suzanne does not like that olt man ! "

Coffee was served in Valentine's bedroom. Mistress
and maid partook of it together. Masters was aroused,
was fortunate enough in procuring a cab, and at five
o'clock, for Valentine's imi)aticncc could l)rook no longer
delay, she and Suzanne had started together for Waterloo.

\ i

A LJJ'E IVR A LOr/<.

Once more her spirits were high. Slie had dared some-
thing for Gerald. It was already sweet to her to be brave
for his sake.

Before she left she wroic a short letter to her father — T
constrained little note — for her fears stood between her
and him.

She and Suzanne arrived at Waterloo long before the
train started.

" Oh, how impatient I am ! " whispered Mrs. Wyndiiam
to her maid. ^* Will time never pass? I am sure all ilie
clocks in London must be wrong, this last night has been
like three."

Tlie longest hours, however, do come t^ an id, and
presently Valentine and Suzanne found th' '!n^ ^Ivcs being
whirled out of London, and into the early .orning of a
bright clear March day.

The two occupied a compartment to thenuexves. Suzanne
felt wide awake, talkative, and full of intense curiosity ;
but Valentine was strangely silent. She ceased either lo
laugh or to talk. She drew down her veil, and establishing
herself in a corner kept looking out at the swiftly passing
landscape. Once more the fear which had haunted her
during the night returned. Even now, perhaps, she would
not be in time !

Then she set to work chiding herself. She must be
growing silly. The Espcrance did not leave the dock until
noon, and her train was due at Southampton soon after
eight. Of course there would be lots of time. Even her
father who was to follow by the later train could reach the
Espcrance before she sailed.

The train flew quickly through the country, the slow
moments dropped into space one by one. Presently the
train slackened speed — presently.it reached its destination.

Then for the first time Valentine's real difficulties began.
She had not an idea from which dock the Esperance was

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A LIFE FOR A LOl^J^..

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to sail. A porter placed her luggage on a fly. She and
Suzanne got in, and the driver asked for directions. No,
the Esperance was not known to the owner of the hackney
coach.

When the porter and the cabman questioned Mrs. Wynd-
ham she suddenly felt as if she had come up against a
blank wall. There were miles of ships all around. Jfshe
could afford no clue to the whereabouts of the Esperana
the noon of another day might come before she could reach
the dock where it was now lying at anchor.

At last it occurred to her to give the name of her father's
shipping firm. It was a great name in the city, but neither
the porter nor the cabman had come under its influence.
They suggested, however, that most likely the firm of Paget
Brothers had an ofiice somewhere near. They said fur-
ther that if there was such an office the clerks in it could
give the lady the information she wanted.

Valentine was standing by her cab, trying not to show
the bewilderment and distress which had seized her, when
a man who must have been listening came up, touched his
hat, and said civilly : —

*' Pardon, madam. If you will drive or walk down to
the quay, this quay quite close, there is an office, you cannot
fail to see it, where they can give you the information you
desire, as they are always posted up with regard to the out-
going and in-coming vessels. That quay, quite near,
cabby. Messrs. Gilling and Gilling's office."

He touched his hat again and vanished, being rewarded
by Valentine with a look which he considered a blessing.

" Now," she said, '' now, I will give you double fare,
cabman, treble fare, if you will help me to get to the Es-
perance in time ; and first of all, let us obey that good
man's directions and go to Messrs. Gilling and Gilling."

The quay was close, and so was the ofiice. In two
minutes Valentine was standing, alas, by its closed doors.

I ll'i: I' OR A lOVE,

167

A sudden fierce impatience came over her, she rang the
office bell loudly. Three times she rang before any one an-
swered her summons. Then a rather dishevelled and
sleepy-looking boy opened the door wide enough to poke
his head out and asked hei her busin^-ss.

•• I want to get news of the ship called the Esperancc.^^

-' Otificc don't open till nine."

He would have pushed the door to, but Suzanne stepping
foiward deftly put her foot in.

" Mine goot boy, be civil," she said. *' This lady has
come a long way, and she wants the tidings she asks very

sore.

The oflfice boy looked again at Valentine. She certainly
vvas^pretty ; so was Suzanne. But the office really did not
o])en till nine, and the boy could not himself give any
tidings.

" You had better step in," he said. " Mr. Jones will be
iicre at nine. No, I don't know nothing about the ship."

It was now twenty-five minutes past eight. Valentine
sank down on the dusty chair which the Ijoy i)ushed for-
ward for her, and Suzanne stood impatiently by her side.

Outside, the cabman v/histled aclieerfulair and stamped
his feet. The morning was cold ; but what of that ? He
himself was doing a good business ; he was certain of an
excellent fare.

"Suzanne," said Valentine suddenly. *' T)o you mind
going outside and waiting in the cab. I cannot bear any-
one to stare at me just now."

Suzanne obeyed. She was not offended. She was too
deeply interested and sympathetic.

The slow minutes passed. Nine o'clock sounded from a
great church near, and then more gently from- the office
clock. At three minutes past nine a bilious-looking clerk
came in and took his place at one of the desks. He started
when he saw Valentine, opened a ledger, and pretended to
be very busy.

1 68

// LIFE FOR A LOVE,

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'* Can you tell me, at once, please, from which dock the
Espeyancc sails ? " asked Mrs. Wyndham.

Her voice was impressive, and sharp with pain and wait-
ing. The clerk thought he might at least stare at her. Things
were slow and dull at this hour of the morning, and she was
a novelty. He could have given the information at once,
l)ut it suited him best to dawdle over it. Valentine could
have stamped with her increasing impatience.

The clerk, turning the leaves of a big book slowly, at last
put his finger on an entry.

^^ Esperance sails for Sydney 25th inst., noon. Albert
and Victoria Docks."

"Thank you, thank you," said Valentine. "Are the.se
docks far away ? "

" Three miles off, madam."

" Thank you."

She was out of the of ke and in the cab almost before he
had time to close his book.

*' Drive to the Albert and Victoria Docks, instantly,
coachman. I will give you a sovereign if you take me there
in less than half an hour."

Never was horse beaten like that cabby's, and Valen-
tine, the most tender-hearted of mortals, saw the whip
raised without a pang. Now she was certain to be in time ;
even allowing for delay she would reach the Esperance
1)efore ten o'clock, and it did not sail until noon. Yes,
there was now not the most remote doubt she was in good
lime. And yet, and yet — still .she felt miserable. Still her
lieart beat Avith a strange overpowering sense of coming
defeat and disaster. Good cabman — go faster yet, and
faster. Ah, yes, how they were flying ! How pleasant it
was to be bumped and shaken, and jolted — to feel the
ground flying under the horse's feet, for each moment
brought her nearer to the Esperance and to Gerald.

At last they reached the dock. Valentine sprang out of

// LIFE FOR A LOVE,

169

ihe cab. A sailor came forward to helj* wiih her luggage.
Valentine put a sovereign into the cabman's hand.

" Thank you," she said, " oh, thank you. Ves, I am in
good time."

Her eyes were full of happy tears, and the cabman, a
rather hardened old villain, was surprised 10 find a lump
rising in his throat.

"Which ship, lady?" asked the sailor, touching his
cap.

" The Esperancc, one of Paget Brothers' trading vcss'ls.
I want to go on board at once ; show it to me. Suzanne,
you can follow with t..j luggage. Show me the F^s/^rrd/ice,
good man, my husband is waiting loi me."

" You don't mean the Experiancc. bound for Sydney ? "
asked the man. *' One of Paget Jiroihers' big ships ? "

" Yes, yes ; do you know her ? Point her out to me."

"Ay, I know her. I was helping to lade her till twelve
last night."

"Just show her to me. I am in a frightful hurry. She
is here — this is the right dock."

" Ay, the Albert and Victoria. The Experiance sailing
for Sydney, noon, on the 25th."

*' Well, where is she? I will go and look for her by
myself."

" You can't, lady, she's gone."

"What — what do you mean? It isn't twelve o'clock.
Suzanne, it isn't twelve o'clock."

" No, lady."

The old sailor looked compassionate enough.

" Poor young thing," he soliloquized under his breath,
'• some 01 tc has gone and done her. The Experiance was lo
sail at noon," he continued, " and she's a bunny iidy iiip,
too. I was lading her up till midnight ; for last night there
came an order, and the captain — Captalr. Jellyby's is his
name — he was all flustered and in a taking, and lie said wq

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170

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

was to finish and lade up, and she was to go out of port
sharp at eight this morning. She did, too, sharp to tlie
minute. I seen her weigh anchor. Thafs her, lady — look
out Ihere — level with the horizon — she's a fast going ship
and she's making good way. Let nie hold you up, lady —
now, can you see her now ? Thafs the Experiance.^^

■ A:--

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

^ut of port
5ii'irp to tlie
, lady— look

^^"^^-^g ship
» up, lady—

171

ance.

»>

CHAPTER XXIX.

The Esperance was a well-made boat ; she was about four
thousand tons, with improved engines which went at great
speed. She was a trading ship, one of the largest and
most important of those belonging to Paget Brothers, but
she sometimes took out emigrants, and had room for a few
saloon passengers ; old travellers, who knew what comfort
was, sometimes preferred to go in such ships as the Espe-
rance to the more conventional lines of steamers. There
was less crowding, less fuss ; there was also more room
and more comfort. The meals were good and abundant,
and the few passengers, provided they were in any sense
of the word congenial spirits, became quickly friends.

Gerald, as one of the members of the firm, was of course
accommodated with the very best the Esperance could
offer. He had a large state room, well furnished, to him-
self ; he was treated with every possible respect, and even
consulted with regard to trivial matters. Only, however,
with regard to very trivial matters.

When he arrived at Southampton on the evening of the
24th, he went at once on board the Esperance.

" We shall sail at noon to-morrow," he said to the cap-
tain.

Captain Jellyby was a pleasant old salt, with a genial,
open, sunburnt face, and those bright peculiar blue eyes
which men who spend most of their lives on the sea often
have, as though the reflection of some of its blue had got
into them.

" At noon to-morrow," replied the captain, " Yes, and
that is somewhat late ; but we shan't have finished coaling
before."

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A rifF. Fo/^ A LOVE^

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;; But we stop at Ply„,o„.,, ,„,„ p „

r^^^t^ :Z:;:jt' ----- -^ ^^

''^>ve„t into ,,,e saloon Tndi?" °'' '"'' ''""g^' "-„
'" be absorbed with its Romans '' "'' " ^""^ ''W^ea.ed

'■•-tte leS-Ti,;: '"'' '•°' "'^'""g- ' He l,ad written a d
^ ictici that iiionunp Turi i, ^ '"^^'^^e" a despe-

'>'.« mo„,e,n of bitternes's , dV"" "P'"^"' "'-> ""« i„
S'ippo.se V-,lentl„„ a> '''^'^P'^rale hope.

--f ' st,;;;r 'i^rr,t"-i- ^'f -^'^^ "-'

;'°7'^. stung ic n„o action .' Su, 2 ' r' ''""' f""'-''
fo'- her In,.,band, tbe awaicened t^^ "" "'^^ '="'^d «'"

Jf Valentine cinie ol
'"ould be no death. Tbere mlhf , ^'"''""■"^ ^■•""^. ">e,e
Poverty, tl.e^e „„g,,t ,e d sh^no '';'"'' "^"^ ™'g'^' '-
be all life t,,e„_,tfe, and JTaus,; r "° ^''"'- '' '^°"'d

H- owned to himself th.t f , ^'^'"'^^ ^'-^'o-r-
"-ould take i, :f ,„s ,,i,J7; '^ '•« temptation came he

''■m he would tell her -.1 H ,'"' """"gb '° come to

P-i^>e wrun, fron:;.C and Lit S ''' °^ '"^ "-'

Ihe hours flew by • he mJcJ,- , ^^ "'"^^ ^eep it

^'-k- Nine, it J'st tl^lf ^-^ -"^ 'oolceda't the
board, and his pt„ses qulk " ed r "^ ^ ^°"'>'' o"
nothing. The clock struck ten P^^sed-it was

"ft. All the other J: se Je'r r .^ ,"7-"^"' ---gl.t

ZiZT'r^ '''emsel^::^:'!'^^^'-''^ ^°- °"
l^erald was a one in fh» . 1

the saloon. Again .here was a

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

sound a little different from the constant cries of the
sailors.

Captain Jellyby's name was shouted, and there was a
rush, followed by renewed activity. Gerald rose slowly,
shut his book, and went on deck. It was a dark night
although the sky was clear and full of stars. A man in an
overcoat and collar turned well up over his ears brushed
past Wyndham, made for the gangway and disappeared.

" Good heavens — how like that man was to old Helps."
soliloquized Gerald.

He stayed on deck a little longer ; he thought his imagin-
ation had played him a trick, for what could bring Helps
on board the Esperance. Presently the captain joined
him.

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CHAPTER XXX.

" I AM sorry, Mr. Wyndham," said Captain Jellyby, " to
have to offer you on your very first night on board my
good ship very broken slumbers. We shall be lading with
coals all night. Are you easily disturbed by noise ! But
I need scarcely ask, for that noise would almost rouse the
dead."

Gerald smiled.

** A broken night is nothing," he said ; *' at least to me.
I suppose there always is a great commotion the last night
before a vessel sails on a long voyage."

" Not as a rule — at least that isn't my way. We meant
to break off and have a quiet time at midnight, and start
operations again at six o'clock in the morning. But I've
had directions from head quarters which oblige me to
quicken my movements. Doocid inconvenient, too ! "

" What do you mean ? " said Gerald, the puises round
his heart suddenly quickening. '* We sail at noon to-
morrow."

"We sail at eigl-.t in the r:i..rning, my good sir, and I,
for one, call it doocid inconvenient. (Yes, Cadgers, what
do you want? Get all hands possible on board.) I beg
your pardon, Mr. Wyndham. (Yes, Cadgers.) Back with
you presently, sir."

The captain disappeared, and Wyndham went down to
his cabin.

What did this sudden cliange mean ? Who had given
the order ? Was that really Helps who had been on board ?
Wei'; Wyndham was in a manner master on this vessel. It
w?s his own, part of his property ; he had been told over

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

»75

and over again by his father-in-law that on this voyage,
this pleasant voyage, he could give his own orders, and
short of anything which would jeopardize the safety of the
boat, the captain would humor his wishes. He would
countermand an order which was putting everybody out ;
he did not choose to leave his native shore before the time
sj)eeified — noon on the following day. In such a short life
as liis even four hours were of moment. He would not
lose the four hours of hope, of the possibility of hope yet
left to him.

He went on deck, sought out the captain where he was
standing, shouting out hoarse directions to gangs of ener-
getic looking sailors.

'• A word with you, Captain Jellyby," he said. " There is
some mistake in the order which you have received. I
mean that I am in a position to cancel it. I do not wish
the Esperance to sail before noon to-morrow."

His voice was very distinct and penetrating, and the
sailors stopped work and looked at him. Astonishment
was written legibly on their faces.

" Lade away boys, work with a will," said the captain.
Then he put his hand on Gerald's shoulder, turned him
round, and walked a pace or two away.

" I quite understand your position, Mr. Wyndham," he
said. " And in all possible matters I shall yi' ;d you due
deference. But "

" Yes," said Wyndham.

" But — we sail at eight to-morrow morning, sharp."

" What do you mean ? Who has given vou the order ? "

'* I am not prepared to say. My orders are explicit.
Another time, when Captain Jellyby can meet the wishes
of Mr. Wyndham with a clear conscience, his orders shall
also be explicit."

The captain bowed, laid his hand across his heart and
turned awa.

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176

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

Wyndham went back to his own cabin, and was tor-
tured all night by a desire, sane or otherwise, he could not
tell which, to leave the Esperance and return to London
and Valentine.

The lading of the vessel went on ceaselessly, and sharp
at eight the following morning she weighed anchor and
steamed away. Wyndham had lain awake all night, but at
seven in the morning he fell into a doze. The doze deep-
ened into quietness, into peaceful and refreshing slumber:
the lines departed from his young face ; he had not un-
dressed, but flung himself as he was on his berth. Wiien
the Esperance was flying merrily thro'igh the water, Cap-
tain Jellyby had time to give Wyndham a thought.

" That is a nice lad," he said to himself. He has a nice
face, young too. I don't suppose he has seen five-and-
twenty, but he knows what trouble means. My name
is not Jack Jellyby if that young man does not know
what pretty sharp trouble means. Odd, too, for he's
rich and has married the chief's daughter, and what a
fuss the chief made abous, his reception here. No ex-
pense to be spared ; every comfort given, every attention
shown, and his orders to be obeyed within reason.
Ay, my pretty lad, there's the rub — within reason. Vou
looked keen and vexed enough last night when I had to
hasten the hour for tiie departure of the Esperance. I
wonder what the chief meant by that. Well, I'll go and
have a look at young Wyndham ; he may as well com.e with
me and see the last of his native shore. As the morning is
f.ne ic w.!! be a pretty sight."

'The capt. m went and begged for admission to Wynd-
hatp'q cabin. There was no answer, so he opened the
door aiid poked his red smiling face round.

** Bles me, the boy's asleep/' he said ; and he came up
;3iid took ' good look at his new passenger.

Gerald was dreaming now, arid a smile played about his
lip!:.. Suddenly he opened his eyes and said ;— >

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// LIFE FOR A LOVE.

177

<' Yes, Valentine, yes, I'm coming ! " and sprang to his
feet.

The captain was standing with his legs a little apart,
looking at him. The vessel gave a lurch, and Wyndham
staggered.

" Are we off?" he said. "Good God, are we really
off?"

" We were off an hour ago, young sir. Come up on
deck and see what a pretty coast line we have just here."

Wyndham put his hand to his forehead.

" 1 have been cheated," he said suddenly. "Yes. I've
been cheated. I can't speak about it \ things weren't
clear to me last night, but I had a dream, and I know now
what it all means. I woke with some words on my lips.
What did I say, captain ? "

" You called to some fellow of the name of Valentine —
your brother, perhaps."

" I haven't a brother. The person to whon^ I called was
a woman — my wife. She was coming on board. She
would have sailed with me if we had waited. Now it is
too late."

The captain raised his shaggy brows the tenth of an
inch.

'• They must be sending him on this voyage on account
of his health," he mentally soliloquized. " Now I see day-
light. A little touched, poor fellow. Pity — nice fellow.
Well, the chief might have trusted me. Of course I must
humor him, poor lad. Come on deck," he said aloud.
'' It's beastly close down here. You should have the port-
hole open, the sea is like glass. Come on deck and get
a breath of fresh air. Isn't Valentine a rather uncommon
name for a woman ? Yes, of course, I heard you were
married. Well, well, you'll be home again in six monthr>.
Now come on deck and look around you."

*' Look here, captain," said Gerald suddenly. " T can't

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178

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

,5 " . J^r'^^.

explain matters. I daresay you think me queer, but you're
mistaken."

" They all go on that tack," muttered the captain.
*' Another sym])tom. Well, I must humor him. I don't
tliink you cjuclmV' lie said, aloud. " You're finely mistaken.
You had a dream, and you called on your wife, whom you
have just parted from. What more natural ? Bless you,
I know all about it. I w.as married myself."

" And you leli your wife ? "

" I left her, and what is worse she left me. She went
up to ihe angels. Bless her memory, she was a young
thing. I .see her yet, as she bade me good-bye. Come on
deck, lad."

" Yes ; come on deck,'' said Gerald hoarsely.

All that day he was silent, sitting mostly apart and by
himself.

But the captain had his eye on him. In the evening he
came again to Captain Jelly by.

" You touch at Plymouth, don't you? "

"Sometimes."

"This voyage, I mean."

" No."

" I wish you to stop at Plymouth."

" Look here, my lad. ' No ' is the only word I can give
you. We don't touch land till we get to Teneriffe. Go and
lie down and have a sleep. We shall have a calm sea to-
night, and you look fagged out."

" Are you a man to be bribed ? " began Wyndham.

" I am ashamed of you, I am not."

The captain turned his back on him. Wyndham caught
bim by his shoulder.

" Are you a man to be moved to pity ? "

'* Look here; my lad, I can pity to any extent ; but if you
think any amount of compassion will turn me from my
duty, you're in the wrong box. It's my duty, clear as the

MMI

A LIFF. FOR A LOi^E,

179

sky above, to go straight on to Teneriffe, and on I shall go.
You understand ? "

" Yes," said Gerald, " I understand. Thank you, cap-
tain, I won't bother you further."

His voice had altered, his brow had cleared. He
walked away to the further end of the deck, whistling a
light air. The captain saw him stop to pay some small
attention to a lady passenger.

" Bless me, if I understand the fellow ! " he muttered.

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A LU'E fuR A LO^£t

CHAPTER XXXI.

When a die has been cast — cast irrevocably — as a rule
tjiere follows a calm. It is sometimes the calm of peace,
sometimes that of despair ; but there is always a stillness,
effort is over, words don't avail, actions arc paralyzed.

(lerald Wyndhani sat on deck most of that evening.
'rht'K* w.is a nuuritd lady, a < ertain Mrs. Harvey, on board,
she was going to Australia with lu-r husband and one little
gill. She was about thirty, and very delicate. Gerald's
face tf)ok her fancy, and they struck up an acqunintnnce.

The evening was so calm, so mild, the water so still, the
sky above so clear that the passengers brought wraps and
lingered long on deck, Mrs. Harvey talked all the time
to Gerald. He answered her not only politely but with
interest. She was an interesting woman, she could talk
well, she had great sympathy, and she wanted to draw
VVyndham out. In this she failed, although she imagined
she succeeded. He learned much of her history, for she
was very communicative, but when she joined her husband
dowMistairs later thatevening sh ? could not tell him a single
thing about their fellow-passenger.

" He has a nice face,'' they both remarked, and they
wondered wluj he was.

It did not occur to them to speak of him as sad-looking.
On the contrary, Mrs. Harvey spoke of his cheerful smile
and of his strong appreciation of humor.

" It is delightful to meet a man who ran see a joke," she
said. '' Most of them are so dense."

"I wonder which family of Wyndhams he belongs to,"
remarked the husband.

.-/ /.//•/:• FOR .1 LOVE.

iSi

" I wonder if he is married," added tiie wife.

Then they both resolved that they would find out to-
morrow. Hut they did not, for the next day Wyndham
(lid not coniJ on deck at all. He stayed in his own cabin,
and had one or two iiUei views vvilli the captain.

" You know very little about me, (Japtain Jellyby,'' he
said, oncft,

" I know that yon are married to Miss Paget," replie(i
the captain, •" and I am given to understand that she is a
very charming young lady."'

" I want you to keep the fact of my marriage to your-
self."

The captain looked a little surprised.

'■Certainly, if you wish it," he said.

" I do wish it. I am knocked over to-day, for the fact is,
I — I have gone through some trouble, but I don't mean
to inflict my troubles on you or my fellow-passengers.
I hope I shall prove an acfpiisition rather than otherwise
on board llij Espcrancc. But what I do not want, wl);it
would be particularly rcpellant to me, is that the other
saloon passengers should gossip about me. When they
find that I don't talk about myself, or my people, or my
wife, they will become curious, and ply you with questions.
Will you bo mum on the subject? "

" Mum as the grave," said the captain rising and
stretching himself. " liOrd, we'll have some fun over
this. If there are a deadly curious, gossiping, wrangling,
hole picking set in this wide world, it's the saloon pas-
sengers on board a boat of this kind. I'll make up n
beautiful mystery about you, my fine fellow. Won't they
enjoy it ! Why, it will be the saving of them."

"Make up any mystery you like," replied Wyndham,
"only don't tell them the truth. That is, I mean, wh;U
you know of the truth."

*' And that's nothing," muttered the captain to himself

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(716)872-45.3

1 82

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

as he went away. "Bless me, he is a queer kllun.
Touched — he must be touched."

Gerald spent twenty-four hours in Ciod only knows what
deep waters of mental agony. The other passengers
thought he was suffering from an attack of sea-sickness,
for they were just now meeting the heavy channel sea,
untl the captain did not undeceive them. They passed
Plymouth before Gerald again appeared on deck, and
when he once more joined his fellow-passengers they
were outside tiie Bay of Biscay.

Gerald had not suffered from any bodily discomfoil,
but others on board tlie Esperance were less fortunate, aiuj
when he once more look his place in the saloon, and Went
up on deck, he found that work, whicli all his life loiii;
seemed to fall to his share, once more waiting for him
It was tlie work of miking other people comfortable
The Harvcys' little girl was very weak and fretful. Shu
had gone through a bad time, but when Wyndham lifted
her in his arms, sat down with her in a sheltered pari of
the deck, and told her some funny fairy tales, his inllii-
ence worked like the wand of a good magician. Slie
smiled, told Mr. Wyndham he was a very nice man, gave
him a kiss, and ran downstairs presently to eat her supper
with appetite.

Little C'eciiy Harvey was not the only person who came
under Wyndham's soothing influence. During this first
evening he found himself more or less in the position of
a sort of general sick-nurse. But the next day people
were better, and then he appeared in another role. He
could entertain, with stories, with music, with song. He
could recite ; above all things he could organize, and had
a knack of showing off other people to the best advantage.
Long before a week had passed, Wyndham was the most
l)opular person on board. He was not only popular with
saloon passengers, but with the emigrants. There were

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several on board, and he often spent some hours with
them, playing vvitli the children, and talking with the
mothers, or, rather, getting the mothers to talk to him.

They were flying south now. and every day the air grew
more balmy and the sea smo(Uhcr. The emigrants, boys
;nul girls, fathers .nul mothers, used to lie out on the deck
ill the sun, and a very ])retty picture they made ; the
(lilidrtMi rolling about laughing and playing, and the
nviihers, most of them were young mothers, looking on
;ir.d regarding them with pride.

There was scarcely an emigrant mother on board that
ship who had not confided her story, her hopes and her
fears to Wyndham, before the voyage was over.

Soon that thing happened which had happened long ago
ai Jiwsbury-on-the-Wold, which had happened in the
small house in l*;irk-lane, which had happened even with
the odds against V'yw\ to his wife — everybody loved Wyiid-
luun. Hearts warmed as he came near, eyes brightened
wlien they looked at him. He was in the position of a
universal favorite. That sometimes is a dangerous position.
lUit not in his case, for he was too unseltish to make
enemies.

All this time, while his life was apparently drifting, while
the hours were apparently gliding on to no definite or
especial goal, to a landing at Melbourne — to a journey
across a new Continent — while his days were going by to
all intents and purposes like anybody else's days, he knew
that between him and them lay an immeasurable gulf He
knew that he was not drifting, but going very rapidly
down a hill. The fact is. Wyndham knew that the end,
as far as he was concerned, was near.

His father-in-law had planned one thing, but he had
planned another. He told no one of this, he never
whispered this to a living creature, but his own mind was
inexorably made up. He knew it when he bade his father

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good-liyc tliiit last Siindny ; when lie looked al Lilias ami
Marjory, and ihe olhcr children, he knew it ; he know it
when he kissed his wife's cheek tliat last morning when
she slept. In his own way he could be a nian of iron will.
II is will was as iron in this special matter. Only once
had his determination been shaken, and that was when In-
i>lcaded with Valentine, and when he hoped against li<)])c'
that she would listen to his prayer. The last linii<'iiii<^f
sparks of that hope died away when the captain reriiM.l
to touch at Plymouth. After that moment his own fived
will never wavered.

His father-in-law had asked him for half a death; he
should have a whole one. That was all. Many another
man had done what he meant to do before. Still it was
the End — the great End. No one could go beyond it.

He made his plans very carefully ; he knew to effect his
object he must be extremely careful. He would die, but it
must never be supposed, never breathed by mortal soul
that he had passed out of this world except by accident.
He knew perfectly what the captain thought of him during
the first couple of days of his residence on board the
Esperance.

" Captain Jellyby is positive that I am touched in the
head," thought Wyndham. " I must undo that suspicion."

He took pains, and he succeeded admirably. Wyndham
was not only a favorite on board, but he was cheerful, he
was gay. People remarked not on his high but on his
good spirits.

"Such a merry, light-hearted fellow," they said of him.

Wyndham overheard these remarks now and then. The
captain openly delighted in him.

** The ship will never be lucky again when you leave
h^r," he I'aid. " You're worth a free passage to any cap-
tain. Why you keep us all in good humor. Passengers,
emigrants, sailors and all. Here, come along. I thought

A LIFE FOR A LOt'E.

you ratlier a gloomy young chap when first I set eyes on
you; but now — ah, well, you were homesick. Quite
accountable. Here, I have a request from the second
mate, and one or two more of the jack tars down there.
They want you to sing them a song after supper. They
say it isn't fair that we should have you to ourselves in the
saloon."

Gerald laughed, said he would be happy to oblige the
sailors, and walked away.

" As jolly a chap as ever I laid eyes on," muttered the
captain. " I liked him from the first, but 1 was mistaken
in him. I thought him gloomy. Not a bit. I wonder
his wife could bear to let him out of her sight. I wouldn't
if I were a lass. There, hark to him now ! Bless me, we
are having a pleasant voyage this time."

So they were. No one was ill ; the amount of rough
weather was decidedly below the average, and cheerfulness
and contentment reigned on board.

The ship touched at TenerifTe, but only for a few hours,
and then sped on her way to the Cape. It was now getting
very hot, and an awning was spread over the deck. Under
this the saloon passengers sat, and smoked and read. No
one suspected, no one had the faintest shadow of a suspi-
cion that black care lurked anywhere on board that happy
ship, least of all in the breast of the merriest of its crew,
Gerald Wyndham.

The Esperance reached the Cape in safety, there some
of the passengers, Gerald amongst them, landed, for the
captain intended to lie at anchor for twenty-four hours.
Then again they were away, and now they were told they
must expect colder weather for they were entering the
Southern Ocean, and were approaching high latitudes of
polar cold. They would have to go through the rough
sea of the " Roaring Forties," and then again they would
emerge into tropical sunshine.

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

II?

■'1.

Soon after ihey left the Cape, little Cecily Harvey fell
ill. She caught a chill and was feverish, and the doctor
and her mother forbade her to go on deck. She was only
eight years old, a pretty, winsome child. Gerald felt a
special tenderness for her, for she reminded him of his own
little sister Joan. During this illness she often lay for
hours in his arms, with her little feverish cheek pressed
against his, and her tiny hot hand comforted by his firm
cool clasp.

" Mr. Wyndham," she said on one of these occasions,
" I wish you wouldn't do it."

"Do what, Cecily?"

" Run up the rigging as you do. I heard one of the
sailors talking to Mrs. Meyrich the other day, and he said
you were too daring, and some day you'd have a slip, and
be overboard, if you did not look sharp."

" Oh, I'll take care of myself, Cecily. At one time I
thought of being a sailor, and I was always climbing, always
climbling at home. There isn't the least fear. I'm not
rash. I'm a very careful fellow"

" Are you? I'm glad of that. Had you tall trees at your
home?"

Gerald gave the little hand a squeeze.

" They were like other trees," he said. " Don't let us
talk of them."

" Mustn't we ? I'm sorry. I wanted to hear all about
your home."

" I haven't a home, Cecily. Once I had one, but you can
understand that it is painful to speak of what one has
lost."

'* I'm very sorry for you, dear Mr. Wyndham. Did you
lose a little sister, too ? Is that why you squeeze me so
tight ? "

" I have lost many little sisters ; we won't talk of them,
either. What is the matter, Cecily ? Do you feel faint ? "

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

" No, but I hate this rough, choppy sea. I want it to be
smooth again as it used to be. Then I can go on deck,
and lie under the awning, and you can sit near me, and tell
me stories. Will you ? "

Gerald did not answer.

" mil you, Mr. Wyndham ? "

" I can lie to everyone else but not to the child," mut-
tered Gerald.

He roused himself, and sought to divert her attention.

" We are in the * Roaring Forties ' now," he said. " Isn't
that a funny name ? The sea is always very choppy and
rough here, but it won't last long. You wiil soon be in
pleasant weather and smooth seas again.

Cecily was not satisfied, and Gerald presently left her
and went on deck.

* The weather was not pleasant just now, it was cold and
squally, always veering about and causing a choppy and
disagreeable motion with the ship. Some of the ladies
took again to their beds, and went through another spell
of sea-sickness ; the more fortunate ones sat and chatted
in the great saloon — not one of them ventured on deck.
Gerald, who was not in the least indisposed in body, found
plenty to do in his role of general cheerer and comforter.
When he was not nursing little Cecily he spent some time
with the emigrants, amongst whom he was a great favorite.

On this particular day a round-faced young woman of
five and twenty, a certain Mrs. Notley, came up to him
tlie moment he appeared on the lower deck.

'* They do say it, sir, and I thought I'd speak to you, so
that you wouldn't mind. They do say you're over rash
in helping the sailors — over rash, and none so sure-footed
as you think yourself."

"Folly," said Gerald, laughing good-humoredly. "So
I can't run up a rope or tighten a rigging without people
imagining that I am putting my precious life in jeopardy.

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

Don't you listeQ to any foolish tales, Mrs. Notley. I'm a
great deal too fond of myself to run any risks. I shan't
slip, if that's what you mean — for that matter I have
always been climbing, since I was a little chap no bigger
than that urchin of yours there."

" Ay, sir, that's all very well, but it's different for all ihai
on board ship ; there may come a lurch when you least
look for it, and then the surest-footed and the surest-handed
is sometimes outwitted. You'll excuse my mentioning of
it, sir, but you're a bonny young gentleman, and you has
the goodwill of everyone on board."

"Thank you, Mrs. Notley, I like to hear you say so.
It is pleasant to be liked."

"All, sure you are that, and no mistake, and you'll for-
give me mentioning it, sir, but you'll be careful, won't you ?
You ain't married for sure, for your face is too lightsome
for that of a married man. But maybe you has a mother
and a sweetheart, and you might tliink of them, sir, and
not be over daring."

Wyndham's face grew suddenly white.

" As it happens I have neither a mother nor sweetheart,"
he said. Then he turned away somewhat abruptly, and
Mrs. Notley feared she had offended him.

The sailors prophesied " dirty weather ; " they expected
it, for this was the roughest part of the voyage. Gerald
was very fond of talking to the sailors and getting their
opinions. He strolled over to where a group of them were
standing now, and they pointed to some ugly looking
clouds, and told him that the storm would be on them by
night

Nothing very bad, or to be alarmed at, they said, still
a rough and nasty sea, with a bit of a gale blowing. The
women and children wouldn't like it, poor things, and it
would be a dark night too, no moon.

Gerald asked a few more questions.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

189

♦* I have a gioat anxiety lo see a storm," he said. *' If
it gets really stormy, I'll come up ; I can shelter beside
tiie mail at the wheel."

" Belter not, sir," one or two said. " The vessel is sure
to lurch over a good bit, and it takes more sea-weather
legs than yours to keep their footing at such a time."

" All the same," remarked a burly-looking sailor, who
was to take his i)lat:e at the wheel for some hours that
night, and thought Gerald's company would be a decided
acquisition, '* I could put the gent into a corner where he'd
he safe enough round here, and it's something to see a gale
in these parts — something to live for — not that there'll be
much loMiight, only a bit of a dirty sea ; but still "

'' Kxpect me, Loggan, if it does come," said Wyndhani.
\\k' laughed and turned away. He walked slowly along
tlic upper deck. Captain Jellyby came up and had a word
wiiii him.

" V'es, we're in for a dirty night," he remarked.

Then Wyndham went downstaiis. He chatted for a
little with the ladies in the saloon. Then he went into his
own cabin. He shut the door. The time had arrived —
the hour had come.

He felt wonderfully calm and quiet ; he was not excited,
nor did iiis conscience smile him with a sense of any special
wrong-doing. Right or wrong he was going to do some-
lliiiig on which no blessing could be asked, over which no
prnyer could be uttered. He had been brought up in a
house where i)rayers had been many ; he had whispered his
own baby prayers lo his mother when he was a little child.
Well, well, he would not think of these things now. The
hour was come, the moment for action was ripe. There
was a little daylight, and during that time he meant to
occupy himself with one last task ; he would write a letter
to his wife, a cheerful, bright everyday letter, to the wife
for whose sake he was about to rush unbidden into the

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arms of dcatii. lie luid a pari to act, and this letter was
in tlie programme. To make ail things safe and abovo
suspicion he must write it, and leave it carelessly on his
table, so that tiie next shij) they touched sliould convey it
to her.

He took out a siieet of foreign notepaper, and wroti;
steadily. His hand did not shake, he covered the whole
sheet of paper; his words were bright, contented; no
shadow of gloom touched liiem. 'i'hey were full of antici-
pation, of pleasure in the moment— of pleasure in the
coming reunion.

The writing of this letter was the very hardest task of
the man's whole life. When il w;is over great drops of
sweat stood on his forehead. He read il steadily from
beginning to end, however, and his only fear was that it
was loo bright, and that she might see through it, as in a
mirror, the anguish beneatii.

The letter was written, and now Wyndiiam had nothing
to do. He had but to sit wiih his hands before him, and
wait for the gathering durkne-ss and the ever-increasing
gale.

He sat for nearly an hour in his own cabin, he was past
any consecutive thought now ; still, so great was the con-
straint he was able to put over himself that outwardly he
was quite calm. Presently he went into the saloon. Cecily
Harvey alone was there, all the ladies having gone in to
dinner. She sprang up with a cry of delight when she saw
Gerald.

" Mr. Wyndham, have you come to stay with me ? Why
aren't you at dinner? How white you look."

" I am not hungry, Cecily. I thought you would be
alone, and 1 came out to see you. I wanted you to give
me a kiss."

*•' Of course I will — of course I will," said the affection-
ate child, throwing her arms around his neck.

^ LIFE FOR A I.OVF..

e afiffction-

Yoii remind inc of one of the little sisters I have lost,"
he said hurriedly. " Thank you, Cecily, thank you. Fk*
a good child, always. 1 would say ' (jod bless you ' if I
dared."

" Why don't you dare? You area good man, a very
good man, the best I know."

•' Hush, Cecily, you don't know what you are talking
about, (live me another kiss. Thank you sweet little

He went back aj^ain to his own cabin. The longing for
compassion at this crucial moment had made hiim run a
risk in talking so to Ceri'y. He blamed himself, but
scarcely regretted the act.

li was certainly goinj; to be a dirty night, and already
llie ailors were busy overhead. 'J'he good ship creakid
;ind strained as she fought her way liiroiigh the waters.
The ladies loudly exjire'^sed tlieir uneasiness, and the
gentleman-passengers fought down some cpi.-dms which
tliey considered unmanly. »

Wyndham rose iVtiin his seat in the datk, j)ressed his
lips to the letter In- had written to his wife, suddenly he
started, reeled a step and fell back.

There is no accousuing for what hapjjened — but happen
it did

Valentine herself sioiu/ Insicfe him. strelcheil out Jier
arms, to him^ utterei/ a brief ery, and tlien vanished.

He felt like a m idman ; he pressed iiis hands to his head
and rushed on deck.

• • • t • • • *

"Stand there, Mr. AVyndham, there," said the sailor
Loggan. " You'll be safe enough. Oh, yes, more than
one wave will wash us. Shall I lash you to the wheel, sir?
Maybe it would be safer."

*' No, no, thank you."

The voice was quite quiet and calm again.

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J TJFF FOR A lOVF.,

Certainly the night was a rough one, but between and
under the loud voice of the storm, Loggan and his com-
panion exchanged some cheerful phrases.

•'No, sir, I ain't never afcarcd."

" What if you were to go to the bottom? "

" The will of the good (lod be done, sir. IM go a-doing
of my duty."

"You're an honest fellow, Loggan ; shake hands wiih
me.

"That I will, Mr. Wyndham. What are you doing
with that rope, sir? It's cold, it's slippery — oh, the knot
has got loose, I'll call a man to tighten it, sir ; let me — let
me. You'll be over, sir, if you don't look out ; we're going
to lunge this way. Take care, sir — take care— /c/r God's
sakt% take care ! "

Wyndham took care.

A Ul'E lOK A LOVt,

»93

CHAPTKR XXXII.

The summer came early that year. The rectory was a
charming phice in the summer, and on this i)articuhir
bright day in June one of ihc nuniirous school-feasts w.is
in course of preparation, and all the younj^' Wyndhanis
were working with a will and cn('r;:ify win'c.h < ould scarcely
be surpassed. The feast was in full progress ; the village
children consumed lea and buns, as only village children
can. Augusta was refusing to hcl[) the babies to any
more ; Joan and Belly \\ere luilf-crying because she
snatched the rich currant bnns out (jf their hands ; Mar-
jory was leading the most obstreporous members of her
flock away to the other end of the long meadow, where
they could play orange and lemons, nuts in May, and
other festive games ; and Lilias, as she helijcd to pnck
away the remnants of the feast, was answering some ques-
tions of Carr's.

" We ought to have iieard by now," she was saying.
" My father is a little uneasy, but I am not — at least, of
course, I am anxious for Valentine. The suspense must
be very trying for iier I "

" When did your brothei's ship sail?"

"On the 25th of March."

''And this is the 15th of June. The Esperance must
have been reported at Lloyd's long ago."

" How stupid of me never to think of that," said Lilias,
her face brightening. " But would they not put the arri-
vals in the papers ? I have certainly looked and never
seen it."

" You have probably overlooked it. I will write and in-
quire for you. The Espera7ice^ even allowing for delays.

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194

.^ LIFE FOR A LOVE.

has probably reached its destination some weeks ago. On
llic other hand it would be sc:irccly possible for you to
have had a letter from your brother. Yes, you dre riglu
not to be anxious ; I will go and have a ciiat with your
father presently. Is Mrs. Wyndham well? "

" I think so — fairly well. She is coming to stay with us
next week."

Carr strolled away.

" What a nice comfortable young man he is tuniinc;
into," said Marjory, wlio came up at that momcni. '' Ah,
yes, your face is brighter already for liaving had an inter-
view with him. Whisper no secrets to me. T know — I
know."

I.ilias' clear brown skin was transfused witii color.

" Don't be silly, Marjory," she said. " I don't mind
owning that Mr. Carr is a comfortable per.son to talk to.
He has just been removing my fears about Gernld.'"

" Oil, I thought you had no fears."

'• AVell, father's fears, then. He has been s;iying things
to me which will remove my father's fears completely."

'• That is right — Heaven be praised. You and the rector
are nothing but a pair of old ^roaks lately. Hey-ho ! I
am perfectly weary of your long faces and your apprehen-
sions. Thank goodness. Val is coming ; she'll wake us up
a little."

Lilias opened her dark eyes.

" I did not know you cared so much for Valentine," she
said,

" I admired her very much the last time I saw her.
That was a month ago — she seemed so spirited and cour-
ageous. I used to think her something of a doll, hut she's
a woman now. and a fine one. Perhaps it's the thouglit of
the baby coming."

" Or perhaps," said Lilias, *' she has found out at last
what our Gerald is."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

»9S

IS tunvinu

" Both, most likely," said Marjory. " Anyhow, slic's
changed \ and the funniest part is that that old man ''

** What old man, Marjory ? "

" Don't interrupt me — her father. 1 always call him
that old man — well, I think he's afraid of her. She doesn't
pet him the way she used, but she's very gentle with him.
Oh, she's a good bit altered ; there's something in her now."

" I suppose there was always something in her," said
Lilias. "For Gerald" — her lips trembled — "gave up so
much for her."

" No more than any man gives up for any woman," said
Marjory. " A man shall leave his father and mother. Oli,
yes, poor old Lil, I know how you felt it. You alway.s
made an idol of Gerald. I suppose you'll marry some
day j you are so pretty — and h'm — h'm — there's somebody
waiting for somebody — there, I don't want to tease, only
when you do marry, my pretty sister, I wonder if he'll
come inside Gerald in your heart."

" I won't marry until I love som^ one even better Hian
my only brother," replied Lilirs in a grave voice. " That
time has not come yet," she added, and then she turned
away.

The games went on as fast as ever; Marjory romped
with the merriest. Lilias was graver than her sister, not
sc fond of pastimes, perhaps not quite so generally popu-
lar. She went into the house, sat down by the organ in
the hall and began to play. She had almost as much
talent as Gerald ; her fingers wandered over the keys, she
was in a dreamy mood, and her thoughts were carrying her
back to a bygone scene — to Gerald's face on that Sunday
night. She heard again the rich tones of his voice, and
heard his words : —

^1 '

I. !

" Till in the ocean of Thy love
We loose ourselves in Heaven above."

196

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

" Oh, Gerald," she said with a kind of sob, '* things have
been hard for me since you went away. It was not your
marriage alone, I had prepared myself for that ; but it was
more — it was more. The Church of God — you gave that
up. Yes, yes. There has been a shut door between us,
Cierald, since you and Valentine first met ; and where are
you now — where are you now ? "

" Lilias," said little Joan running in breathlessly, '^ father
v/ants you in his study, quickly. I don't think he's quite
well. He has just had a letter, and he looks so queer."

'* I'll go to him at once," said Lilias.

She could be apprehensive enough, but in real danger,
in times of real anxiety, her head could be cool and her
steps firm.

" Yes, father," she said, motioning the frightened little
Joan away.

She shut the library door behind her.

" Yes, father. What is it? Jo says that you have got
a letter, and that you want nic"

"Oh, I don't suppose it's anything," said the rector.
''That is, I don't mean to be uneasy. Here's the letter,
Lilias. You ought to r^ad it, perhaps. It's from Paget.
He is evidently nervous himself, but I don't suppose there
is any need. Read it, and tell me what you think."

The rector thrust a sheet of pape»- Into his daughter's
hand. Then we it over to one of his book shelves and
pretended to be busy rummaging up some folios. Lilias
read as follows : —

*' My Dear Sir, — I write on a subject of some little anxiety. I
did not wish to trouble you before it was necessary, but now I confess
that we — I refer to my house of business — have cause to feel uneasiness
with regard to the fate of the Esperance, She is quite a month overdue at
Sydney ; even allowing for nil possible delays, she is at least that time
overdue. The last tidings of lier wcie from tlie Cape, and it is fearo<l
from their date that she r-.u-rt have encountered rough weather in tlie
Southern Ocean, Nothing is known, however, and every hour we look

A Ufe I- or a love.

ttr

for a cable announcing her arrival at Melbourne if not at Sydney. Tt
is possible she may have been injured, -vhich will account for the delay,
but 1 scarcely apprehend anything worbc. I ought scarcely to say that
1 am anxious ; up to the present there is no real cause to apprehend
anything worse than an accident to the vessel. Vessels are often a
month behind their time, and all is satisfactorily explained at the end.
I am now troubling you with regard to another matter. I do not waul
my daughter and your son's wife to be needlessly alarmed. It is most
important that her mind should be kept free from apprehension until
after the birth of their child. You kindly asked her to go to see you.
Can you have her at the rectory at once ? And will you send Lillns
to fetch her ? I know you and yours will keep all fears from her, and,
poor child, she reads my face like a book.

Yours faithfully,

, " Mortimer Paget."

" Well, Lilias," said the rector. '* Well ? He's a little
over nervous, isn't he, eh ? Vessels are o'ten a month
overdue. Eh, Lilias? But of course they are. Somehow
I'm not nervous since I got that letter. I was before, but
not now."

He rubbed his hands together as he spoke.

" It's summer now, and we'll have Gerald back before
the next snow comes. I told the boy so when he bid me
good-bye ; he was a bit upset that night after you girls
went to bed. Poor fellow, I had quite to cheer him ; he's
a very affectionate lad. No, I'm not nervous, and I won-
der at Paget. But what do you think, Lihas ? "

Lilias folded up the letter, and put it back in her old
father's hand. Then she stole her arm round his neck,
and kissed him.

"We will be brave," she said. ''If we have fears we
won't speak of them ; we have got to think of Valentine
now, not of ourselves."

The rector almost shook Lilias' hand from his neck.

•* Fears," he said, in a light and cheerful voice, a voice
which was belied by his tremulous hands, and by his almost

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

petulant movement. " Fears t my dear girl, they really
don't exist. At this moment, were we clairvoyant, we
should see Gerald either rising leisurely from a good night's
rest, or sitting down to his breakfast in one of those lux-
urious houses one reads of in Froude's ' Oceana.' Vessels
like the Esperance don't go to the bottom. Now, Lil, at
what hour will you go to fetch Valentine ? You will go
up to town to-morrow, of course."

" By the first train," replied Lilias. Her lips quivered.
She turned away ; there was nothing more to be said. Her
father's manner did not in the least deceive her.

" Dear old man ! " she said to herself. " If he can be
brave, so will I. But oh, Gerald, does any heart ache
more for you than the heart of your sister Lilias ? "

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

199

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Valentine had got a blow. The first real great blow
which had ever been dealt to her. It had a most curious
effect. Instead of stunning or rendering her weak and in-
capable, it suddenly changed her from a child into a
practical and clever and wide-awake woman. The very
quality of her voice changed. It became full, and inspired
respect the moment she spoke. She was quite aware that
her father had deceived her, that he did not mean her to
accompany Gerald to Sydney.

She said nothing about this knowledge — not even that
evening when she got home and found her father looking
ten years older, but standing on the step of her own little
home waiting for her.

** I was too late," she said, quietly. " The Esperance
sailed four hours before its time. I must do without
Gerald for six months ; in six months he will be home."

" In six months," echoed Mr. Paget, follov/ing her up-
stairs to the drawing-room. '* Kiss me, my darling," he
said. " Valentine, you will come back to your own home
to-morrow."

Valentine raised her cheek to meet her father's lips.

" I think I would rather remain here," she said. " This,
after all, is my only real home ; you don't mind my keeping
the house, do you, father? "

" No, my dear, if you wish it. On^y I thought "

His last words came out almost tremulously.

** Sometimes we are mistaken in our thoughts," respond-
ed Valentine. " I should like best to stay on in my hus-
band's house. Six months will not be long passing ; and —
father, I have some news for you. In July — if 1 live until

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200

./ LIFE FOR A LOVE.

July — God is going to give me a child — Gerald's child and
mine. I should like it to be born here."

" Thank God," exclaimed Mr. Paget. " I am very glad
of this, Valentine," he said. "This — this — is an inestim-
able mercy. I hope your child will be a son. My dear
daughter, this news lifts a great weight off my mind."

He looked what he felt, delighted.

" Of course you must live wherever you like best," he

said. " July — this is March — the child's father will be "

but he did not finish this sentence.

He went away soon afterwards. Ten years had been
added to his life in that one single day.

He knew, one glance into Valentine's eyes told him, that
she no longer believed in him. What was any success
with the heart of his darling turned aside ?

He walked home feeling tottering and feeble ; he had
had a blow, but also a strong consolation — his daughter's
child — his grandson. Of course the child should be a
boy. There was something to live for in such news as
this. A boy to step into his shoes by-and-bye — to keep
up the credit of the old house ; a boy who should have no
shame on him, and no dark history. Yes, yes, this was
very good news, and unlooked for ; he had much to live
for yet.

After this Mr. Paget followed his daughter about like a
shadow. Every day her mind and her powers were develop-
ing in fresh directions. She had certainly lost some of the
charm of her childisli ways, but her gain had been greater
than her loss. Her face had always been spirituelle, the
expression sprightly, the eyes under their arched brows full
of light. People had spoken of the girlish face as beau-
tiful, but now that it belonged to a grave and patient, in
some respects a suffering woman, they found that it pos-
sessed more than ordinary loveliness. The soul had conic
back again into Valentine's eyes. vShe knew two things.

A LIFE FOK A LOVE.

201

She was loved — her luisband told her lliat no woman had
ever been loved so well before. She was also to become
a mother. She considered herself, notwithstanding her
crosses, blessed among women, and she resolved to live
worthily.

Patience and faith both were hers, and whenever she felt
inclined to rebel, to fret, to fume, she thought of the day
when she should show her baby to Irt husband, and tell
him face to face that all her heart, all her best affections
were divided between him and their child.

She kept to her resolution of living on in the little house
in Park Lane. She led a busy life, interesting herself a
good deal in the anxieties and cares of others. When a
woman takes u}) that ro/e she always finds abundance to
do, for there are few i)airs of shoulders that have not a
burden to carry. She also wrote by every mail to her hus-
band. She had already received one letter from him,
posted at Teneriffe. This letter was affectionate — cheerful.
Valentine read it over and over. It was a very nice letter,
hut its wo ds did not reach down into her heart as that
other letter of Gerald's, written before he sailed, had done.
She was puzzled by it. Still she owned to herself that it
was just the letter she ought to receive, just the pleasant
happy words of a man who was leading a busy and useful
life; who was going away for a definite object, and hoped
soon to return to his wife and his home.

All went well with Valentine until a certain day. She
rose as usual on the morning of that day, went down to
breakfast, opened one or two letters, attended to a couple
of domestic matters, and went slowly back to thedrawing-
ro(Mn. She liked to dust and lidy her little drawing-room
hciself. She had put it in order this morning, had arranged
fresh flowers in the vases, and was finally giving one or two
fresh touches to Gerald's violin, which she always kept
near her own piano, when she was startled by the con-
sciousness that she was not alone.

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202

.4 LIFE FOR A LOVE.

She raised her head, turned quickly, a cold air seemed
to blow on her face.

*' Valentine ! " said her husband's voice, in a tone of
unspeakable agony.

She fancied she even saw his shadowy outline. She
stretched out her arms to him — he faded away.

sr,

\\t\

That afternoon Mrs. Wyndham paid her father a visit
in the City. She was shown into his private room by
Helps, who eyed her from head to foot with great anxiety.

Mr. Paget looked into her face and grew perceptibly
paler. He was certainly nervous in these days — nervous,
and very much aged in appearance.

** Is anything wrong, Valentine ? " he could not help say-
ing to his daughter. It was the last sentence he wished to
pass his lips — he bit them with vexation after the words
had escaped them.

" Sit down, my dear ; have you come to take me for a
drive, like — like — old times ? "

" I have not, father. I have come to know when you
expect to hear tidings of the arrival of the Esperance at
Sydney."

" Not yet, Valentine. Impossible so soon. In any case
we shall have a cable from Melbourne first — the vessel will
touch there."

" When are you likely to hear from Melbourne ? "

*' Not for some days yet."

** But you know the probable time. Can you not ascer-
tain it ? Will you hear in ten days ? In a week ? In three
days ? '

" You are persistent, Valentine."

Mr. Paget raised his eyes and looked at her from head
to foot.

" I will ascertain," he said in an almost cold voice, as
he sounded an electric bell by his side.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

403

Helps answered the summons.

" Helps, when is the Rsperance due at Melbourne ? "

Again Helps glanced quickly at Mrs. Wyndham ; he
was standing rather behind her, but could catch a glimpse
of her face.

" By the end of May," he said, speaking slowly. His
quick eyes sought his cliiefs ; they took their cue. " Not
sooner," he continued. ** Possibly by the end of May."

" Thank you," said Valentine.

The man withdrew.

" I have nearly a month to wait," she said, rising and
looking at her father. " I did not know that the voyage
would be such a lengthy one. When you do hear the news
will be bad, father ; yes, the news will be bad. I have
nothing to say about it, no explanation to offer, only I
know."

Before Mr. Paget could make a single reply, Valentine
had left him. He was decidedly alarmed about her.

" Can she be going out of her mind ? " he soliloquized.
" Women sometimes do before the birth of their children.
What did she mean ? It is impossible for her tolcnow any-
thing. Pshaw ! What is there to know ? I verily believe I
am cultivating that abomination of the age — nerves ! "

Whatever Valentine did mean, she met her father that
evening as if nothing had happened. She was briglit, even
cheerful ; she played and sang for him. He concluded that
she was not out of her mind, that she had simply had a fit
of the dismals, and dismissed the matter.

The month passed by, slowly for Valentine — very slowly,
also, ior her father. It passed into space, and there was
no news of the Esperafice. More days went by, no news,
no tidings of any sort. Valentine thought the vessel was a
fortnight overdue. Her father knew that it was at least
a month behind its time. When he wrote his letter to the
rector of Jewsbury-on-the-Wold he felt even more anxious
than his words seemed to admit.

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./ ///•/•: FOR .1 lovr..

li-l

The day after the receipt of this letter Lih'as came to
town and took Valentine home with her. The next morn-
ing Mr. Paget went as usual to his office. His first inquiry
was for news of the Esperance. The invariable answer
awaited him.

" No tidings as yet."

He went into the snug inner room where he lunched,
where Valentine's picture hung, and where he had made
terms with Gerald Wyndham. He sank down into an easy-
chair, and covered his face with his hands.

" Would to God this suspense were at an end," he said.

The words had scarcely passed his lips when Helps
knocked for admission at the inner door, he opened it,
caught a glimpse of his servant's face, and fell back.

" You heard,'' he said. " Come in and tell me quick.
The Esperance is lost, and every soul on board

"Hush, sir," said Helps. ''There's no news of the
Esperance. Command yourself, sir. It isn't that — it's the
other thing. The young gentleman from India, he's outsido
— he wants to see you."

"Good God, Helps. Positively I'm faint. .Shut the
door for a moment ; he has come, then. You are sure ?"

*' This is his card, sir. Mr. George Carmichael."

" Give me a moment's time, Helps. So he has come.
It would have been all right but for this confounded
uncertainty with regard to the Esperance. But it is ail
right, of course. Plans such as mine don't fail, they are
too carefully made. All the same, I am shaken, Helps.
Helps, I am growing into an old man."

"You do look qaeer, Mr. Paget; have a little brandy,
sir ; you'd better."

" Thank you ; a little, then. Open that cupboard, you
will find the flask. Brandy steadies the nerves. Now I
am better. Helps, it was in this room I made terms with
young Wyndham."

*' God forgive you, sir, it was."

! H

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J ///'/; fO/i A LOt'E.

flo5

" Why do you say that ? You did not disapprove at
the time."

" I didn't know Mr. Wyndluim, sir ; iiad 1 knovn, I
wouldn't have allowed Lreathing man to harm a hair of
his iicad."

'• How would you have i)reventcd it?"

" How ? "

'I'h'" old clerk's face took an ugly look.

"Split on you, and gone to i)rison, of course," he said.
*' Now, shall I send V . Cleorgc Carmichael in ? It was for
his sake you did it. My God, what a sin you sinned ! 1
see Mr. VVyndham's face every night of my life. Good
God. why should men like him he hurled out of the world
because of sinners like you and me?"

*• He's not hurled out of the world," exclaimed Air.
Paget.

He rose and swore a great oath. Then he said in a
quieter voice : —

*' Ask Mr. Carmichael to step into my office."

*' Into this room, sir? "

" Into this room. Go, fool."

Certainly Mr. Paget had some admirable qualities. By
the time a pale-faced, slight, languid-looking man made
his appearance, he was perfectly calm and self-possessed.
He spoke in a courteous tone to his visitor, and hade him
he seated.

They exchanged a few commonplaces. Then Mr. George
Carmichael, who showed far more uneasiness than his host,
explained the motive of his visit.

"You knew my father," he said. ** Owing to a strange
circumstance, which perhaps you are aware of, but which
scarcely concerns the object of this call, certain papers of
importance did not come into my hands until I was of
age. These are tho papers."

He placed two yellow documents on the table.

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2o6

A LIFE FOR A LOWE,

" I find by these that I am entitled to money which ynii
hold in trust."

'• Vou are," said Mr. Paget, with a kindly smile.

" 1 am puzzled to know why 1 was never made aware of
the fact. I was brought ui) as a poor man. I had no
expectations. I have not been educated to meet the
position which in reality availed me. Somebody has done
me a wrong."

'* I assure you not me, Mr. Carmichacl. Perhaps,
however, 1 can throw some light on the subject. If you
will do me the favor of dining with me some evening wc
can talk the matter over at oui' leisure."

" Thank you, I have very little leisure."

The stranger was wonderfully restless.

'* .'\fter a struggle I have succeeded in obtaining a good
post in Calcutta. I hurried over to see you. I must hurry
back to my work. Oh, yes, thanks, I like India. Tlit^
main point is, when can you hand me over my money.
Wiih interest it amounts to "

" Including interest it amounts to eighty thousand
l)ounds, Mr. Carmichael. Allow me to congratulate you,
sir, as a man of fortune. There is no need to hurry back
to that beggarly clerkship."

" It's no*^ a clerkship, Mr. Paget, nor beggarly. I'm a
partner in a rising concern. The other man's name is
Parr ; he has a wife and children, and I wouldn't desert
him for the world. Eighty thousand pounds ! By Jove,
won't Parr open his eyes."

Mr. George Carmichael was now so excited that his
shyness vanished.

** When can I have my money, sir ? "

" In a month's time."

" Not until then ? I wanted to go back to India next
week."

" It can be sent after you."

/f LIFE FOR .1 1 Ol'F.,

307

A slow siispic i JUS siiiil<' < !\|»t hhiiuI ihu ymmg iikui's
lips ; lie looked more wellhrccl than lu* was.

•• None of that," he said. " I don't stir iinlii I get the
chetjue. I say, can't yon ^^ivo ii in at oncj .^ It's niinc."

•' Not a day sooner liian a inMiiili. I nui^l lake that
lime to realize so large a .sunj. You shall have it this day
luunth."

" Beastly inconvenient. Parr will be in no end of a
taking. I suppose there's no help for it, however."

" None."

" This is the 17th of June. Now you're not i)laying inc
a trick, are you ? You'll pay me over that money all
square on the 17th of July."

Mr. Paget had an imposing presence. He rose now,
slowly, stood on the hearthrug, under his daughter's picture,
and looked down at his guest.

" I am sorry for you," he said. " Your education has
certainly been imperfect. Your father was a gentleman,
and my friend. You, I regret to say, are not a gentleman.
I don't repeat my invitation to dine at my house. With
regard to the money it shall be in your hands on the 17th
July. I am rather pressed for time this morning, Mr.
Carmichael, and must ask you to leave me. Stay, however,
a moment. You are, of course, prepared to give me all
l)roofs of identity ? "

" What do you mean, sir? "

" What I say. The certificate of the marriage of your
parents and certificate of the proof that you are the person
you represent yourself to be must be forthcoming. I must
also have letters from your friends in India. No doubt,
of course — no doubt who you are. but these things are
necessary."

Notwithstanding that he was the owner of eighty thou-
sand pounds, Mr. George Carmichael left th<i august
]>r(sence of tiie head of Paget Brothers feeling somewhat
crestfallen.

f
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208

.-i LIFE FOR A LOVE.

He had scarcely done so before Helps rushed in.
" A cable, sir ! Praise the Lord, a cable at last ! "
He thrust the sheet of paper into his employer's hands.

It came from Melbourne, and bore the date of the day

before.

« Ksperance arrived safely. Delay caused by broken machinery.
Accident of a painful nature on board. Full particulars by mail.

'•Jellyby."

itil-J \

1 r*^^ \ .!•

i h a, J'

r:kh

ed in.

last ! "
>yer's hands.

of the day

en machinery,
sby mail.
'Jbllyby."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

209

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Mr. Paget was most careful that the full contents of the
cable did not go to his daughter at Jewsbury-on-the-Wcld.
He read it three or four times, then he took up a telegraph
form and wired to her as follows : —

'* Esperance arrived safely. Delay caused by injury to machinery,"

This telegram caused intense rejoicing at the rectory,
and Mr. Paget had his gloomy part to himself. He conned
that part over and over.

A serious accident. To whom ? About whom ? What
a fool that Jellyby was not to have given him more particu-
lars. Why did that part of the cablegram fill him with
consternation ? Why should he feel so certain that the
accident in question referred to his son-in-law ? Well, he
must wait over a month for news, and during that month
he must collect together eighty thousand pounds. Surely
lie had enough to think of. Why should his thoughts revert
to Wyndham with an ever-increasing dread ?

" Wyndham is safe enough," he said. *' Jolly enough,
too. I make no doubt. His money waits for him at Balla-
rat. Of course bad news will come, but /shall see through
it. Oh, yes, /shall see through it fast enough."

Days of suspense are hard days — long and weary days.
As these days crept one by one away Mr. Paget became
by no means an easy person to live with. His temper
grew morose, he was irritable, manifestly ill at ease, and
he would often for hours scarcely utter a word.

The 17 th of July passed. Mr. Carmichacl again called
for his money. A part was paid to him, the balance the

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

head of the great shipping hrm assured the young man
could not possibly be forthcoming for another month or
six weeks.

" I am sorry," Mr. Paget said, " extremely sorry not to
be able to fulfil my word to the letter. But I must have
time to realize sucli a large sum, and I greatly fear I must
claim it."

Mr. Carmichael had a cheque in his hand for ten thou-
sand pounds. He could scarcely feel discontented at such
a moment, and took his departure grumbling but elated.

" Helpb," said Mr. Paget, '* I have taken that ttn
thousand pounds out of the business, and it can ill afford
to lose it. If news does not come soon we are undone, and
all our plotting and planning won't save the old place
nor the honor of the old house."

" No fear," muttered Helps. "The news will come. I
have bad areams at night. The house will be saved. Don'i
you fret, Mr. Paget."

He went out of the room looking as morose and ugly as
possible, and Mortimer Paget hurled no blessings after
him.

The next day was fraught with tidings. A thick packet
lay on the chiefs desk, bearing the imprint of the Espe-
ranee on it. By the side of the packet was a telegram.
He opened the telegram first : —

" Jewsbury-on-the- Wold, lo a.m.
** Valentine had a son this morning. Both doing well."

The tears absolutely sprang to Mr. Paget's eyes. His
hands trembled ; he looked round furtively ; there was no
one by. Then he raised the telegram to his lips and kissed
it. Valentine had a son — he haa a g-andson. Another
head of the old house had arisen on the horizon.

He rang his electric bell; he was so excited that he
could not keep these tidings to himself.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

211

" I have sent for you to receive your congratulations,
Helps," he said ; " and — and here's a cheque for ten
pounds. Ycu must go home early and have a good supper
—champagne and all that sort of thing. Not a word. Helps,
my good fellow, you deserve it. You quite deserve it ! "

" May I ask what for, Mr. Paget? Forgive me, sir. I see
that the packet from the Esperance has come."

'* So it has. It can wait. Take your money, Helps, and
drink my grandson's health. He arrived this morning,
bless him — my daughter had a son this morning."

" Indeed, sir. Tt's a pity the father isn't there. It would
have been pretty to have seen Mr. Wyndham as a father.
Yes, sir. I'm glad your young lady is doing well. Babes
come with trouble, and it seems to me they mostly "o with
trouble. All the same, we make a fuss of them — and the
world's too full as it is."

" This child supplies a long felt need," replied the baby's
grandfather, frowning, '•' He is the future head of the
house."

" Poor innocent. Yes, sir, I congratulate you as in duty
i^ound. You'll soon read that packet, won't you, sir. It
seems a sort of a coincidence like, getting news of the
father and the babe in one breath."

**ril read the packet presently," said Mr. Paget. '*Go
away now, Helps ; don't disturb me."

Left alone, the pleased man spread out the pink sheet
of paper in such a position that his eye could constantly
rest on it. Then he broke the seal of Captain Jellyby's
yarn, and began to read.

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211

A LII'E FOR A LO^E,

CHAPTER XXXV.

M, I

'■^ Esperancey April lo.
" My Dear Sir,—

" I begin a letter to you under peculiarly afflicting circumstances,
Your son-in-law, the favorite of every one on board, one of the nicest
young gentlemen I have had the luck to meet, fell overboard last night,
between nine and ten o'clock, when a very heavy sea was running. lie
was standing at the wheel, talking to a sailor of the name of Loggan.
Loggan said he was very cheerful and keen to watch the storm. lie
was helping to tighten up a bit of rope when the boat gave a lurch.
Loggan shouted to him to take care, but he was taken off his feet, and
the next moment was in the water. We put out the boats and did all
in our power, but in addition to the storm the night was very dark, and
we never saw nor heard anything more of the unfortunate young gentle-
man. The night was so rough he must have gone to the bottom almost
directly. I cannot express to you, sir, what a gloom this has cast upon
ail on board. As I said already, your son-in-law was beloved by pas-
sengers and sailors alike. His death was due to the most ordinary
accident.

"Well, sir, regrets are useless, but if regrets would bring Mr. Wynd-
ham back, he wo. Id be safe and well now ; he was one of the most
taking young men I ever came acre ^s, and also one of the best. Please
give my respectful condolences ♦ ■ his poor young wid ow "

Here there was a break in the narrative,
up some days later.

It was taken

((

I had scarcely written the last when an awful thing happened.
There was a fearful crash on board, and in short, sir, our funnel was
blown down. 1 can scarcely go into particulars now, but for many
days we lay at the mercy of the waves, and I never thought to see land
any more. It speaks well for the worthiness of the Ssferance that she
weathered such a gale. But for many days and nights the destruction
to your property, for the water poured in in all parts, and the miserable
state of the passengers, baffles description. The ship was in such a con-
dition that we could not use steam, and when the storm abated had to

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

^'3

I'lM

drtifas best we couM. For our main masts were also broken, iinl we
could put on scarcely any sail. Our provisions were also becoming
short.

'' A week ago, by the mercy of God, we came within hail of (In-
steamer Salavianca^ which towed us into port, and the Esperancc h.T^
been put into dock at Melbourne for repairs.

'* Under these appalling circumstances, Mr. Wyndham's loss has
not been fortTOtten, but to a certain extent cast on one side. rt'iiia|),-« I
ought to say here, sir, that when your son-in-law commenced his voy-
age to Sydney under my auspices, he appeared to be in such a state of
agitation, and in such distress of mind, that I feared for his brain, and
wondered if you had sent him on this voyage by a doctor's orders. He
made also a request to me which seemed to confirm this view. He
begged me not to let out to anyone on board the smallest particulars (I
really did not know any) of his hisiory. In especial he did not wish
his wifv' spoken of. He looked strange when he mad{> *hese reciuests,
.and even now I can see the despair in his ey«is when x refused — you will
remember, sir, by your express desire — to touch at Plymouth. I may
as well say frankly, that had Mr. Wyndhani continued as depressed as
he was the first few days of the voyage, I should have scarcely con-
sidered his untimely end altogether due to accident. But I am happy
to be able to reassure your mi-id on that point. That he felt the sepa-
ration from his wife terribly at first there is no doubt, but there is also
no doubt that he got over this feeling, that he was healthily happy, and
altogether the brightest fellow on board. In short, sir, he was the lift
of the ship; even now we are never done lamenting him. Untimely
as his fate was, no one could have been more I'eady to rush suddenly
into the presence of his Maker. I enclose with this a formal certificate
of Mr. Wyndham's death, with the latitude and longitude of the exact
spot where he must have gOne down accurately described. This certifi-
cate is duly attested by tlie Consul here, and I delayed one day in
writing to you in order that it should go.

" I remain, sir,

" Yours respectfully,

" Harry Tellyby.*'

" P.S. — I iorgot to mention that two of our boats have been absolutely
lost ; but I will send you a full list of casualties by next mail."

Helps had never felt more restless than he did that
morning ; he could not attend to his ordinary avocations.

( ,.

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

Truth to tell, Helps' position in the house of Paget Broi. is
had always been more or less a dubioii.s one. It was patent
to all that he was confided in to a remarkable degree ])\
the head of the house. It was also observed that he had
no special or defined post. In short that he did a liiili'
of everybody's work, and seemed to have nothing abj.o
lately depending on himself.

All the same, when Helps was away the whol'-j establisli
ment felt a loss. If the old clerk was useful for no other
purpose, he was at least valuable as a scape-goal. He could
bear blame which belonged to others. It was convenient
to make excuses, and to shift uncomfortable omissions of
all sorts from one's own shoulders.

" Oh, I thought Helps would have seen to that."

Helps saw to a great deal, and was perfectly indifferent
to these inuendoes. Of one thing he was certain, that they
vrould never reach the chiefs ears.

On this particular morning Helps would assist no one .
he had ten pounds in his pocket, and he knew that lh(
futur owner of the great business lay in his cradle at Jews
bury-on-the-Wold. Little cared he for that.

" Whatnews of Mr. Wyndham ? " This was his thought ol
thoughts. " What secret lies hidden within that sealed
packet ? What is my master doing now ? When will he
ring for-me ? How soon shall I know the best and the
worst? Oh, God, why did I let that young man go? Why
didn't I split? What's prison, after all ? My God. what
is prison compared to a heart on fire ! "

Helps pottered about. He was a very wizened giey
little fellow. The clerks found him decidedly in the way.
They muttered to one another about him, and Mr. Man-
ners, one of the juniors, requested him in a very cutting
voice to shut the door and go away.

Helps obeyed the command to the very letter. By this
time his state of mind might have been described as qh the

A Jiir. FOR I I on:.

2'5

rack. For two hours Mr. Paget had been reading that
letter. Impossible; no letter would take that time to read.
Why had he not rung ? Surely he must know what Helps
was enduring. Surely at this crisis of his fate — at this
crisis of both their fates — he must want to see his faithful
servant. Why then did he not ring ?

At last in despair Helps knocked at tlie door of the outer
office. There was no answer. He turned the handle,
pushed the door ajar and went in. The room was empty.
Ml. Paget's pile of ordinary business letters lay unopened
oil liis desk. Helps went up to the door of the inner room,
and pressed his ear against the keyhole. There was not a
stir within. He knocked against a chair, and threw down
a book on })urpose. If anything living would bring Mr.
Paget out it was the idea of anyone entering, or disar-
ranging matters in his oftlcc. Helps disarranged matters
wildly ; he threw down several books, he upset more than
one chair ; still the master did not appear. At last he
knocked at the door of the inner room. There was no
response. Then he knocked again, louder. Then he ham-
mered with his fists. Then he shook the door. No re-
sponse. The inner room might as well have been a grave.
Pie rushed away at last for tools to break open tiie door.
He was terribly frightened, but even now he had sufficient
presence of mind not to bring a third person to share his
master's secret. He came back with a pick-lock, a ham-
mer and one or two other implements. He locked the door
of the outer office, and then he set boldly to work. He
did not care what din he made ; he was past all thought
of that now. The clerks outside got into a frantic state of
excitement ; but that fact, had he known it, would have
made no difference to Helps.

At last his efforts were crowned with success. The
heavy door yielded, and flew open with a bang. Helps
fell forward into the room himself He jumped up hastily.

;.: •

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ai6

A LIFE FOR A LO^^E,

A quiet, orderly, snug room ! The picture of a fair and
lovely girl looking down from the wall ! a man with grey
hair stretched on the hearthrug under the picture ! a man
with no life, nor motion, nor movement. Helps flew to his
master. Was lie dead ? No, the eyes were wide open ;
they looked at Helps, and one of the hands was stretched
out, and clutclied at Helps' arm, and pulled it wildly
aside.

" AVluit is it, my dear master ? " said the man, for \\vkv
was that in the face which would have melted any heart id
pity.

'• Don't ! Stand out of my light," said Mr. Paget. " Hold
me — steady me — let me get up. He's there— there by the
window ! "

'' Who, my dear sir ? Who ? "

** The man I've murdered ! He's there. Between me
and the light. It's done. He's standing between me and
the light. Tell him to move away. I have murdered liiin !
I know that. Between me and the light — tlie light ! Tell
him to move away — tell him — tell him ! "

Mortimer Paget gave a great shriek, and covered his
terrified eyes with his trembling hands !

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

ai7

covered his

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"What is the matter, Lilias? I did not do anything
wrong."

The speaker was Augusta Wyndhani.

Three years have passed away since she last appeared
in this story ; she is grown up now, somewhat lanky still,
with rather fierce dark eyes, and a somewhat thin pro-
nounced face. She is the kind of girl who at eighteen is
still all angles, but there are possibilities for her, and at
five and twenty, if time deals kindly with her, and circum-
stances are not too disastrous, she might be rounded, soft-
ened, she might have developed into a handsome woman.

*' What is it, Lilias ? " she said now. " Why do you
look at me like that ? "

" It is the same old story, Gassie," replied Liliai, whose
brown cheeks were paler, and her sweet eyes larger than of
old; " you are always wanting in thought. It was thought-
less of you to make Valen:ine walk home, and with little
Gerry, too. She will come in fagged and have a headache.
I relied on your seeing to her, Gussie ; when I asked you
to take the pony chaise I thought of her more than you,
and now you've come back in it all alone, without even
fetching baby."

" Well, Lilias." Augusta paused, drew herself up, leant
against the nearest paling, crossed her legs, and in a pro-
vokingly petulant voice began to speak.

*' With how much more of all that is careless and all that
is odious are you going to charge me? " she said. " Oh,
of course, ' Gussie never can think.' Now I'll tell you what
this objectionable young woman Augusta did, and then you

•

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

can judge for yourself. I drove to Netley Farm, and got
the butter and the eggs, and then I went on to see old
James Holt, the gardener, for I thought he might have
those bulbs we wanted ready. Then I drew up at the turn-
stile, and waited for that precious Mrs. Val of yours."

" Don't/* said Lilias. " Remember whose "

" As if I ever forget— but he — he had others beside her
— he never had any Augusta except me," two great tears
gathered in the great brown eyes ; they were dashed hastily
aside, .viid the speaker went on.

" There's twice too much made of her, and that's a fact.
You live for her, you're her slave, Lilias. It's perfectly
ridiculous — it's absurd. You have sunk your whole life
into hers, and since Marjory's wedding things have been
worse. You simply have no life but in her. He wouldi.'t
wish it ; he hated anyone to be unselfish except himself.
Well, then — oh, then, I won't vex the dear old thing. Have
you forgiven me, Lil ? I know I'm such a chatter-pate. 1
hope you have forgiven me."

" Of course I have, Gussie. I'm not angry with you,
there's nothing to be angry about. You are 'a faulty
creature, I admit, but I also declare you to be one of the
greatest comforts of my life."

** Well, thac's all right — that's as it should be. Now for
my narrative. I waited by the turnpike. Valentine and
baby were to meet me there. No sign of them. I waited
a long time. Then I tied Bob to the gate, and started on
discovery bent. You know it is a pretty lane beyond the
turnpike, the hedges hid me. I walked along, whistling and
shaking my whip. Presently I was assailed by the tuneful
duet of two voices. I climbed the hedge and peeped over.
I looked into a field. What did I see ? Now, Lilias tlie
wise, guess what I saw ? "

" Valentine and our little Gerald," responded Lilias.
" She was talking to him ; she has a sweet voice, and surely

// LII'E FOR A LOVE,

ai9

there never was a dearer little pipe than wee Gerry's. They
must have looked pretty sitting on the grass."

' They looked very pretty — but your picture is not aiiite
correct. For instance, baby was sound asleep."

"Oh, then, she had him in her arms, and was cooing to
him. A lovelier scene than ever, Augusta."

" A very lovely scene, Tiilias ; only, one woman's voice
would not make a duet."

Somethijig in Augusta's eyes caused Lilias to droop her
own. She turned aside to pick a spray of briony.

"Tell me what you saw," she said abruptly.

"I saw Valentine and Adrian ('arr. They were sitv'ng
close together, and baby was asleep on his breast, not on
hers, and he was comforting her, for when I peeped over I
saw him touch her hand, and then T saw her raise her hand-
kerchief and wipe away some tears. Crocodile's tears, I
call them. Now, Lilias, out of my way. I mean to vault
over this gate."

"VVhit for, dear?"

"To relieve my f elings. Now I'm better. Won't you
have a try ? "

" No, thank you, I don't vault gates."

" Aren't you going to show anything ? Good gracious, I
should simply explode if I had to keep in things the way
you do. Now, what's the matter ? You look white all the
same ; whiter than you did ten minutes ago. Oh, if it was
me, I couldn't keep still. I should roar like a wounded
lion."

"But I am not a wounded lion, Augusta, dear."

Lilias laid her hand on her sister's shoulder.

"I am older than you,''- she continued, " and perhaps
v^jieter. Life has made me quieter. We won't say any-
thing about what you saw, Augusta. Perhaps none of us
have such a burden to bear as Valentine."

" Now, Lilias, what stuff you talk. Oh, she's a humbug,
an4 I hate her. There, I will say it, just for once. She

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

took Gerald away, and now she wants to take Adrian from
you. Oh, I know you're an argel — you'd bear anything,
but I'm not quite a fool."

'* They are coming ; you must hush," said Lilias, putting
her hand across her young ,istcr's lips,

Augusta cast two wrathful eyes behind her, lightly
vaulted back over the gate, anc vanished from view round
the first corner. Lilias opened the gate and went slowly t
meet the group wlio were coming down the dusty country
road.

Valentine was in blr.ck, but rot in widow's weeds. She
had a shady hat over her clustering bright hair, and round
this hat, the baby, little Gerry, had stuck quantities of
leaves and grasses and what wild flowers his baby fingers
could clutch. With one hand she was holding up her long
dress ; her other held a basket of primroses, and her face,
bright now with color in the cheeks, laughter on the lips,
and the fire of affection in the eyes, was raised to where her
sturdy little son sat on Carr's broad shoulder.

The child was a handsome little fellow, cast in r. far more
masculine mould than his father, to whom he bore scarcely
any resemblance.

As Luias, in her dark grey dress, approached, she
looked altogether a more sorrowful and grief-touched figure
than the graceful, almost childish young widow who came
to meet her.

So Carr thought, as with a softened light in his eyes he
glanced at Lilias.

" A certain part of her heart was broken three years
ago," he inwardly commented. " Can I — is it in my
power — will it ever be in my power to comfort her ? "

But Lilias, knowing nothing of these feelings, only noted
the happy-looking picture.

" Here we are ! " said Carr, catching the boy from his
shoulder and letting him jump to the ground. *' Run tp
youraimtie now, little man."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

2%\

Off waddled the small fat legs. Lilias stooped and
rt;(.eived the somewhat dusty embrace of two rounded arms,
while cherub lips were pressed on hers.

" You do comfort me, little Gerry," she gasped under
her breath.

Then she rose, almost staggering under his weight.

" Let me carry him for you," said Carr, coming up to
her.

" No, thank you, I like to have him," she said ; and she
liirned and walked by Valentine's side.

" Are you tired, Val ? I did not mean you to walk home.
I sent Augusta with Hob and the basket chaise. I thought
you knew they were to meet you at the turnpike."

" I'm afraid I forgot," answered Valentine. "I met Mr.
(!arr, and we came to a delicious field, full of primroses, and
haby wanted to pick lots, didn't you, treasure ? We sat and
luid a rest ; I am not very tired, and Mr. Carr carried this
big boy all the way home. Hey-ho," she continued, throw-
ing off her hat, and showing a head as full of clustering
richly-colored hair as of old, *' what a lovely day it is, it
makes me feel young. Come along, baby, we'll race toge-
ther to the house. It's time for you to go to sleep, little
master. Now, then — baby first, mother a^^'^r — one, two,
three and away ! "

The child shouted with glee, the mother racea after him,
they disappeared through the rose-covered porch of the
old rectory. Lilias raised two eyes full of pain to Carr's.

"Is she beginning to forget?" she asked.

'* No ; why should yc u say so ? She will never forget."

" She looked so young just now — so like a child. Poor
Val ! She was only twenty-two her last birthday. Mr. Carr,
i don't want her to forget."

" In one sense rest assured she never will — in another—
would you wish her to endure a lifelong pain ? "

" I would — I would. It was done for her — she mus^
never forget."

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222

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

" You always allow me to say plain words, don't you ? ''
said Carr. " May I say some now ? "

" Say anything yoa please, only don't teach her to
forget."

"What do you medn ?"

The man's eyes blazed. Lilias colored all over her
face.

•' I mean nothing," she said hurriedly. " Come into the
flower-garden. We shall have a great show of roses this
year. Come and look ?' ihe buds. Voii were going to say
something to me," she added presently.

" Yes. I was going to preinire you for what may come
by-and-bye. It is possible that in the future — remember,
I don't know anything — but it is possible that in the future
your young sister-in-law may oiu e more be hai)py. I don't
know how — I am not going to prognosticate anything, but
I think as a rule one may safely infer that the very bitterest
grief, the most poignant sorrows which come before twenty
are not abiding. Mrs. Wyndham has her child. It would
not do for the child to associate only sorrow with the
mother's face. Some time in the future she will be happy
again. It is my opinion that your brother would be glad
of this."

" Hush ; you don't know. My brother — my only bro-
ther ! I at least can never be the Lilias of old."

" I believe you," said Cair mucli moved by her tone.
" You, too, are very young ; but in your heart. Miss Wynd-
ham, in your heart you were an older woman, a woman
more acquainted with the grave side of life, than that poor
young thing was when the blow fell."

Lilias did not answer for a moment or two.

" I am glad Marjory is out of it all," she said then.
" You know what a long nervous illness she iiad at the time.
Dear old Marjory, she was such a tempestuous darling."

" But she is happy now."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

" Oh, yes, she has her husband. PhiHp is very good,
he suits Marjory. Yes, slie is quite happy now, and I am
not miserable — you mustn't think it. I know in whom I
have believed."

Her eyes were raised to the sky overhead.

•' I know He won't fail me. Some day Gerald and I
shall meet."

" Some day, assured!}-," answered Carr.

*' And in the meantime, I am not unhappy, only I don't
intend ever to forget. Nor shall she."

" One question," said Carr. " Have you heard news
lately of Mrs. Wyndliam's f^ither ? "

'• I believe he has recovered. He never comes here. I
must own I have a great antipathy to Valentine's father. I
don't want to hear of him nor to think of him."

" I can understand that. Still, if it will not trouble you
greatly I should like to ask you a question or two with
regard to him. He was very ill, at the — at the time, wasn't
he ? "

"He was very ill, mentally, he was quite off his head
for several months."

'' Don't you think that was rather strange? "

" I never thought much about it, as far as he was con-
cerned. Of course he must have had a dreadful shock.''

" But not such a shock as you had. Not a shock to be
named with what that poor girl, his daughter, went through.
Your brother was not his own son, and — and '

*' I never thought about it, Mr. Carr. I heard that he
was ill, and that the illness was mental. He has been quite
Well again for some time."

'' I assure you you're mistaken. I met him a fortnight
ago in town. I never saw n man so completely altered in
the whole course of my life."

" Please don't tell me about him. It never was, nor
could be, an interesting subject. Ah, there is my dear
father calling me. I must run to him."

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224

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

The rector was seen approacliing. His figure was
slightly more bent, and his hair whiter than of old. Lilias
linked her hand within his arm, and Carr turned away.

" I can never have it out with her," he said to himself.
*' I never seem to have the courage when I'm with lici.
And besides, I don't believe she'd leave her father. But
if she did — if I ever could hope to win her for my witc,
then I might venture to whisper to her some of my suspi
cions. How little she guesses what my thoughts arc.
Can I act in any way without consulting her ? I have a
good mind to try."

\x • I, 4

WuV-^

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

225

CHAPTER XXXVII.

The house of Paget Biotliers was never more flourishing
than during the spring and summer of iS — . It was three
years since the dcalli of its junior i):jtner, Gerald Wynd-
ham, and tliree years since Mortimer Paget liad paid away
in full the trust money of eighty thousand pounds which
he owed to (xeorge Carmichael, of the firm of Carmichael,
Parr and Co., Calcutta. Altliough none of the parties
concerned quite intended it, certain i)ortions of the story
of this trust got abroad, and became the subject of a nine
days' gossip in the City and elsewhere. It had never even
been whispered that Paget Brothers were in difficulties.
Still such a sum would not be easy to find even hi the
wealthiest concern. Then the fact also trickled out that
Wyndham's life had been insured, heavily insured, in three
or four different offices. His death must have come in
handily, people said, and they said no more — just then.

The fact was, that had one been even inclined to suspect
foul play, Mr. Paget's dangerous illness at the time would
have prevented their doing so. Surely no man ever before
grieved so bitterly for a dead son-in-law as did this man.
The blow had felled him with a stroke. For many months
his mind gave way utterly. The words spoken in delirium
are seldom considered valuable. What Mr. Paget did or
said during the dark summer which followed Wyndham's
death never got known. In the autumn he was better ;
that winter he went abroad, and the following spring he
once more was seen in the City.

He looked very old, people said, but he was as shrewd
and careful a business man as ever.

■ \

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226

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

" I have to put things in order for my grandson," he
would say.

Nobody ever saw him smile just then, but a liglu used
to come into his sunken dark eyes wiien the child's name
was mentioned.

Valentine and the boy spent most of tlieir time in the
old liouse in Park Lane. She was very gentle with her
father, but the relations they had once borne to each other
were completely altered. He now rather slirank from ])er
society. She li.id to seek him, not he her. He was mani-
festly ill at ease when in her presence. It was almost
imjiossible to get him to come to see her in her own house.
When he did so jie was attacked by a curious nervousness.
He could seldom sit still ; he often started and looked
behind him. Once or twice he perceptibly changed color,
and on all occasions he gave a sigh of relief when he said
good-bye.

Tiie child visited his grandfather oftenerthan the mother
did. With the child Mortimer Pnget was absolutely at
home and liappy.

The third summer after Wyndham's death passed away.
Valentine spent most of the lime at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold.
Mr. Paget went abroad, as he always did, during August
and September. In October he was once more in town.
Valentine came back to London, and their small world
settled down for its usual winter routine.

On all sides there were talks of this special winter prov-
ing a hard one, the cold commenced early and lasted long.
In all the poorer quarters of the great city there were
signs of distress. Want is a haggard dame. Once known
her face is dreaded. As the days grew short, the darkness
deepened, and the fogs became frequent, she was often
seen stalking about tiie streets. Poorly clad children,
shivering women, despairing defiant-looking men all trem
bled and fled before hek. The cold was intense, work

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

227

became slack, and then, to increase all other evils, the
great cruel monster, Strike, put down his iron heel. Want
is his invariable handmaid. Between them they did much
havoc.

It was on a certain short November day of this special
winter that Mortimer Paget arrived early at his office.
He drove there in his comfortable brougliam, and stepped
out into the winter cold and fog, wrapped up in his rich
furs. As he did so a woman with two small children came
hastily up, cast a furtive glance to right and left, saw no
policeman near, and begged in a high piteous whining
voice for alms.

Mr. Paget had never been known to give alms indiscri-
minately. He was not an uncharitable man, but he hated
beggars. He took not the least notice of the woman,
although she pushed one of the hungry children forward
who raised two piteous blue eyes to the hard man's face.

" Even a couple of pence ! " she implored. *' The
father's on strike, and they've had nothing to eat since
yesterday morning."

" I don't give indiscriminate charity," said Mr. Paget.
" If your case is genuine, you had better apply at the
nearest office of the Charity Organization."

He was pushing open the outer office door when some-
thing arrested his attention.

A man came hurriedly up from a side street, touched the
woman on the shoulder, lifted one of the hungry children
into his arms, and the whole party hurried away. The
man was painfully thin, very shabbily dressed, in a long
frock coat, which was buttoned tight. He had a beard and
moustache, and a soft slouch hat was pushed well forv/ard
over his eyes.

The woman's face Ht up when she saw him. Both the
children snailed, and the whole group moved rapidly away.

The effect of this shabby man's presence on those three
helpless and starving creatures was as if the sun had come

'I n

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228

^1 LIFE FOR A LOVE.

i . i

out. Mr. Paget staggered to his office, walked through
the outer rooms as if he were dazed, sought his sanctuui,
and sat down shaking in every limb.

Since his strange illness of three years ago, Helps had
been more like a servant and nurse to him than an ordin-
ary clerk. It was his custom to attend his master on his
fr.st arrival, to sec to his creature comforts, to watch his
moods.

Helps came in as usual this morning. Mr. Paget had
removed his hat, and was gazing in a dull Vc ::ant way
straight l)efore him.

" You are not yourself this morning, sir," said the clerk.

He pushed a footstool under the old man's feet, removed
the fur-lined overcoat and took it away. Then standing
in front of him he again said : —

" Sir, you are not yourself to-day."

" The old thing. Helps," .said Mr. Paget. He shook
himself free of some kind of trance with an effort. " The
doctors said I should be quite well again, as well as ever.
They are mistaken, I shall never be quite well. I saw him
in the street just now, Helps."

"Indeed, sir?"

It was Helps' role as much as possible to humor his
patient.

" Yes, I saw him just now — he takes many guises ; he
was in a new one to-day — a starved clerk out of employ-
ment. That was his guise to-day. I should not have re-
cognized him but for his hand. Perhaps you remember
Wyndham's hand, Helps ? Very slender, long and tapered
— the hand of a musician. He took a ragged chi'ld in his
arms, and his hand — there was nothing weak about it —
clasped another child who was also starved and hungry.
Undoubtedly it was Wyndham — Wyndham in a new guise
— he will never leave mc alone."

" If T were you, Mr. Paget," said Helps after a pause,
" I'd open the letters that are waiting for replies. Yf>U

./ /.///■, /PA' ./ I.OVE.

229

kiiou* wluLl llu do( lor siiicl, liial when iho l,iiif:\ cinic you
mustn't chvoll m ii. Yon nuirit l)c sure and ceitain not 10
let it lake a lioid on you, sir. Now you know, jii.t a^ well as
I do, that you didn't see poor Mr. Wyndham — may Meaven
preserve liis ^,oui 1 Is il likely now, sir, liuil a spirit like
Mr. Wyndham's, hapi)yabov.' tlie sky with the angels,
would come down on earth to troul)]c and haiuUyou? Is
it likely now, sir? If I were you I'd cast the fancy from
me ! "

Mr. Paget raised his iiand to sweep back the white liair
from his hollow, lined face.

*'You believe in heaven then. Helps?"

" I do for some folks, sir. I believe in it for Mr. Gerald
Wyndham."

" Fudge ; you thought too well of the fellow. Do you
believe in heaven for suicides ? "

*• Sir — no, sir — his deatli came by accident."

"It did not ; he couldn't go through with the sacrifice,
so he ended his life, and he haunts me, curse him ! "

''Mr. Paget, I hope God will forgive you."

" He won't, so you needn't waste your hopes. A man
has cast his blood ui)on my soul. Nothing can wash the
blood away. Helps, I'm the most miserable being on earth.
I walk through hell fire every day.''

" Have your quieting mixture, sir ; you know the doc-
tor said you must not excite yourself There, now you
art^ better. Shall 1 help you to open your letters, sir? "

" Yes, Helps, do ; you're a good soul. Helps. Don't
leave me this morning ; he'll come in at the door if you
do."

There came a tap at the outer office. Some one wanted
to speak to the chief. A great name was announced.

In a moment Mr. Paget, from being the limp, abject
wretch whom Helps had daily to comfort and sustain, be-
< ame erect and rigid. From head to foot he clothed him-

:;i

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ft^o

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

self as in a mask. Erect as in his younger days he walked
into the outer room, and for two hours discussed a matter
which involved the loss or gain of thousands.

When his visitor left him he did so with the inward re
mark : —

" Certainly Paget's intellect and nerve may be considered
colossal.'^

A LIFE FOd / LOVE.

%l\

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Esther Helps still took charge of her father's house in
Acacia Villas. She was still Esther Helps. Perhaps a
more beautiful Esther than of old ; a little steadier, too,
a little graver — altogether a better girl.

For some unaccountable reason, after thv^-t night at the
theatre when Wyndham had sat by her side and taken her
back from destruction to her father's arms, she had almost
ceased to flirt. She said nothing now about marrying a
gentleman some day, and as the men wlio were not c,entle-
nien found she would have nothing to do with them, it
began to be an almost understood thing among h'jr friends
that Esther, lovely as she was, would not marry. This
resolve on her part, for it amounted to an unspoken
resolve, was followed by other changes. She turned her
attention to her hitherto sadly neglected mind. She read
poetry with Cherry, and history and literatuie generally by
herself. Then she tried to improve her mode of speech,
and studied works on etiquette, and for a sliort time be-
came frightfully stilted and artificial. This phase, how-
ever, did not last long. Tlie girl had really a warm and
affectionate heart, and that heart all of a sudden had been
set on fire. The flame never went out, It was a holy
flame, and it raised and purifiea her whole nature.

She loved Wyndham as she might have loved Christ
had He been on earth. Wyndham seemed to her to be the
embodiment of all nobility. He had saved her, none knew
better than she did from how much. It was the least she
could do to make her whole life worthy of her savior. She
guessed by instinct that he liked refinement, and gentle

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awni'tfiiiiMffifm.

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23a

// LIFE FOR A LOVE.

I-

speech, and womanly ways. So it became her aim in life
to seek after those things, and as far as possible to acquire
them.

Then the news of his death reached her. Only Cherry
knew how night after night Esther cried herself to
sleep. Only Cherry guessed why Esther's cheeks were so
sunken and her eyes so heavy. Her violent grief, how-
ever, soon found consolation. Gerald had always been
only a star to be gazed at from a distance ; he was still
that. When she thought of heaven she pictured seeing
him there first of all. She thought that when the time
came for her to go there he might stand somewhere near
the gates and smile to see how she, too, had conquered,
and was worthy.

Now she turned her attention to works of charity, to a
life of religion. It was all done for the sake of an idol, but
the result had turned this flippant, worldly, vain creature
into a sweet woman, strong in the singleness of her aim.

I^sther cared nothing at all about dress now. She would
have joined a Deucojicss' Institution but she did not care
to leave her father. She did a great deal of work, how-
ever, amongst the poor, and at the beginning of this severe
winter she joined a band of working sisters in East Lon-
don as an associate. Slie usually went away to her work
immediately after breakfast, returning often not until late
at night, but as she wore the uniform of the as.sociation,
beautiful as she was she could venture into the lowest
(|uarlers, and almost come home at any hour without ren-
dering herself liable to insult.

One night as Cherry was preparing supper she was sur-
prised to hear Esther's step in the passage two or three
hours before her usual time of returning. Cherry was
still the same strange mixture of poet and cook that she
had ever been. With the " Lays of Ancient Rome " in
0110 band and her frying-pan held aloft in the other, she
rushed out to know what was the matter.

// LIFE FOR A LOVE,

•31

** Why, Essie," slic exclaimed, catching sight of her cou-
sin's face. "You're ill, Essie; come in and sit down by
the fire. I do hope to goodness you haven't gone and
caught nothing."

" I have caught nothing," said Esther. " I am not ill."

She untied her bonnet strings and loosened her long
straight cloak.

"Is father in, Cherry? 1 want to see him the minute
he returns."

" You'll have to wait then," said Cherry, turning away
in a half offended manner. If Esther did not choose to
confide in her she was not going to force confidence.

She resumed her cooking with vigor, reading aloud por-
tions from the volume on her knees as she did so.

*' The Lady Jane was tall and slim ;
The Lady Jane was fair "

" Essie, I wish you wouldn't fidget so. Whatever is the
matter?"

" I want my father," repeated Esther.

"Well, he's not in. Uncle's never back till an hour after
this. J tell him he's more and more of a nurse and less
and less of a clerk every day of his life ; he don't like it,
but it's true. That old Mr. Paget is past bearing."

Esther rose with a sigh, folded her cloak, laid it on a
chair, placed her bonnet on top of it, and going over to the
fireplace gazed into the flames.

C erry's cooking frizzled and bubbled in the pan, Cher-
ry's own head was bent over her book.

"This is the rarest fun," she exclaimed suddenly.
" Didn't Lady Jane pay Sir Thomas out ? Lord, it were
l)rime. You never will read the ' Ingoldsby I>egcnds,'
Estlior. Now I call them about the best things going.
How white you do look. Well, it's a good thing you aro
in time for a bit of supper. I have .ried eggs and tomatoes

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234

A Lltli I'OR A 1.0 VE,

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to-night, browned up a new way. Why don't you take
your cloak and bonnet upstairs, Kssie, and sit down easy
like? It fidgets one to see you shifting from one fool to
another all the time."

" I'm going out again in a minute," said Esther. '• i
came in early because 1 wanted my father. Oh, there's
his latch-key in the door at last. Don't you come, Cherry,
I want to speak to him by myself."

Cherry's hot face grew a little redder.

*' I like that," she said to herself. " It's drudge, drudge
with me — drudge, drudge from morning till night ; and
now she won't even tell me her secrets. I never has no
livening up. I liked her better when she was flighty
and flirty, that I did — a deal better. We'll, I'll see what
comes of that poor Sir Thomas."

Meanwhile Esther, with one hand on her father's
shoulder, was talking to him earnestly.

" I want you to come back with me, father — back this
very minute."

'< Where to, child?"

" To Commercial Roaa. There's to be a big meeting of
the unemployed, and the Sisters and I, we was to give sup-
per to some of the women and children. The meeting
will be in the room below, and the supper above. I want
you to come. Some gentlemen are going to speak to them ;
it won't be riotous."

Helps drew a deep sigh. It was a damp drizzling night,
and he was tired.

" Can't you let me be this time, Essie? " he said.

" No, father, no, you must come to-night."

" But I can't do nothing for the poor fellows. I pity
them, of course, but what can I do ? "

" Nothing, only come to the meeting."

** But what for, Essie ? "

" To please me, if for no other reason,"

./ l.fFE rOR A 1.0 VE,

't you take
clown t-asy
one foot to

Esther. '• I
Oh, there's
inc, Clierr)',

dge, drudge
"ight ; and
-vcr has no
was flighty
11 see wjiat

ler father's

—back this

meeting of
togivesup-
le meeting
'e. I want
ik to them ;

zling night,

aid.

's. I pity

23s

" Oh, if you put it in thnt way."

" Ves, I put it that way. \'ou needn't take off your great
coat. I'll have njy <:loak and bonnet on again in a jiffy."

" What, child, am 1 to have no supjjer ?*'

I'oor Helps found the smell from tlic kitchen very appe-
tising.

•' Afterwards, when you come back. Everything good
when you come back. Now, do come. It is so impor-

tant

»»

She almost dragged him away. Cherry heard the house
door bang after the two.

" Well, I'm done," she exclaimed ! " Sec if I'll cook for
nobody another time."

Esther and her father found an omnibus at the corner
of their street. In a little over half-an-hour they were in
Commercial Road ; a few minutes later they found tliem-
selves in the large barn-like building which was devoted
to this particular mission.

The ground floor consisted of one huge room, which was
already packed with hungry-looking men and half-grown
boys. ♦

" Stand near the door,'' said Esther, giving her father
explicit directions. " Don't stay where the light will fall
on your face. Stand where you can look but can't be
seen."

** You don't want me to be a spy, child. What is the
meaning of all this ? "

'* You can put any meaning you like on it. Only do
what I tell you. I want you to watch the men a.' uiey
come in and out of the room. Watch them all ; don't let
one escape you. Stay until the meeting is over. Then
tell me afterwards if there is any one here whom you
know."

'* What is the girl up to ? " muttered Helps.

But Esther had already slipped upstairs. He heard
sounds overhead, and women and children going up the

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^36

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

■* —

\ .■.:.■

Stairs in groups ; iie saw more tlian one bright-looking
Sister rushing about, busy, eager, and hopeful. Then the
sounds within the large lower room showed him that the
meeting had begun, and he turned his attention to the
task set him by his daughter.

Certainly Esther was a queer girl, a dear, beautiful girl,
but queer all the same. In what a ridiculous position she
had placed him in j a tired elderly clerk. He was hungry,
and he wanted liis supper ; he was weary, and he sighted
for his pipe and his easy-chair. What had he in common
with the men who filled this room. Some of them, undoubt-
edly, were greatly to be pitied, but many of them only
came for the sake of making a fuss and getting noticed.
Anyhow, he could not \\q\\. them, and what did Esther
mean by getting him to stand in this draughty doorway on
the chance of seeing an old acquaintance; he was not so
much interested in old acquaintances as she imagined.

The room was now packed, and the gentleman who
occupied the platform, a very earnest, energetic, thoughtful
speaker, had evidently gained full attention. Helps almost
forgot Esther in ilic interest wiih which he listened. One
or two men ofl'cred to make way for him to go further into
the room; but this he decliued. He did not suppose any
friend of Esther's would appear ; still lie must be true to
the giri, and keep the draughty ):)ost she had assigned him.

At the close of the first address, just when a vociferous
clapping was at its height, Helps observed a tall very thin
man elbowing his way through the crowd. This crowd of
working men and boys would not as a rule be prepared to
show either forbearance or politeness. But the stranger
with a word whispered here, or a nod directed there,
seemed to find " open sesame " wherever he turned. Soon
he had piloted his way through this great crowd of human
beings almost to the platform. Finally he arrested his
progress near a pillar against which he leaned with his

A J.IFE lOR A LOVE,

237

arms folded. He was more poorly dressed than most of
the men present, but he had one peculiarity which rendered
him distinguishable ; he persistently kei)t his soft felt hat
on, and well pushed forward over his eyes.

Helps noticed him, he could scarcely himself tell why.
The man was poor, thin. Helps could not get a glimpse
of his face, but there was something in his bearing which
was at once familiar and bespoke the gentleman.

" Poor chap, he has seen better days," muttered Helps.
"Somehow, he don't seem altogether strange, either."

Then he turned his attention once more to watch for the
acquaintance whom Esther did not want him to miss.

The meeting came to an end and the men began to
stream out. He^ps kept his post. Suddenly he felt a
light hand touch his arm ; he turned ; his daughter, her
eyes gleaming with the wildest excitement, was standing
by his side.

" Have you seen him, father ? "

''Who, child — who? I'm precious hungry, and that's
the truth, Esther."

" Never mind yoi'r hunger now — you have not let him
escape — oh, don't tell me that."

*' Essie, I think you have taken leave of your senses
to-night. Who is it that I have not let escape ? "

" A tall man in a frock coat, different from the others ;
lie has a beard, and he wears his hat well pushed forward ;
his hands are white. You must have noticed him ; he is
certain to be here. You did not let him go ? "

" I know now whom you mean," said Helps. " I saw the
fellow. Yes, he is still in the room."

" You did not recognize him, father ? "

" No, child. That is, I seem to know something about
him. Whatever are you driving at, Esther? "

" Nothing — nothing — nothing. Go, follow the man
with the frock coat. Don't let him see you. Find out

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238

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

.r-vtl

where he lives, then bring me word. Go. Go. You'll
miss him if you don't."

She disappeared, flying upstairs again, light as a feather.

Helps found himself impelled against his will to obey
her.

" Here's a pretty state of things," he muttered. " Here
am I- faint for want of food, set to follow a chap nobody
knows nothing about through the slums."

It never occurred to Helps, however, not to obey the
earnest dictates of his daughter.

He was to give chase. Accordingly he did so. He did
so warily. Dodging sometimes into the road, sometimes
behind a lamp post in case the tall man should see him.
Soon he became interested in the work. The figure on
in the front, which never by any chance looked back, but
pursued its course undeviatingly, struck Helps once more
with that strange sense of familiarity.

Where had he seen a back like that ? Those steps, too, tlie
very way the man walked gave him a queer sensation. He
was as poor looking a chap as Helps had ever glanced at,
and yet the steps were not unknown — the figure must have
haunted the little clerk in some of his dreams.

The pursuer and pursued soon found themselves in
quarters altogether new to Helps. More and more squalid
grew the streets, more and more rufiianly grew the people ?
There never was a little man less likely to attract attention
than this clerk with his humble unpretentious dress and
mien. But in these streets he felt himself remarkable. A
whole coat, unpatched trousers, were things to wonder at
here. The men and the women, too, took to jostling him as
he i)a3sed. One bold-faced girl tilted hib hat well forward
over his eyes, and ran away with a loud laugh.

Helps felt that even for Estlier's sake he could not pro-
ceed any further. He was about to turn back when an-
other glance at the figure before him brought such a rush

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

239

Go. You'll

|t as a feather.
^iH to obey

lered. ''Here
chap nobody

(t to obey the

so. He did
X sometimes
>uld see hini.
he figure on
d back, but
s once more

eps, too, tJie
nsation. He
r glanced at,
re must have

•

emselves in
nore squalid
the people ?
ct attention
! dress and
irkable. A
U'onder at
tling him as
ell forward

Id not pro-
^ when an-
iuch a rush

of dazed wonderment, of uncanny familiarity, that all
thought of his own possible danger deserted him, and he
walked on, eager as Esther herself now in pursuit.

All this time tliey had been going in the direction of the
docks. Suddenly tlicy turn d tlown a very badly lighted
side street. There was a great brewery here, and the wall
of the brewery formed for a long way one side of the street.
Il was so narrow as to be little better than a lane, and
instead of being a crowded thoroughfare was now almost
deserted. Here and there in the brewery wall were niches.
Not one of these niches was empty. Each held its human
l)eing — man, woman, or child. It seemed to be with a
l)urpose that the tall stranger came here. He slackened
his pace, pushed his hat a little back, and began to perform
certain small ministrations for the poor creatures who were
to pass the night on the cold damp pavement.

A little girl was asleep in one of the niches ; he wrapped
her shawl more closely round her, tucking it in so as to
protect her feet. Her hair hung in a tangled mass over her
forehead. He pushed it back with a tender hand. Finally
he pressed into the little thin palm two lollypops ; they
would give comfort to the child when she awoke.

Helps kept behind, well in the shadow ; he was abso-
lutely trembling now with suppressed excitement. He had
seen by the glitter of the flaring gas the white hand of the
man as he pushed back the child's elf-locks. The two went
on again a few steps. The man in front stopped suddenly
— they were passing another niche. It had its occupant,
A girl was stretched prone on the ground — a girl whose
only covering was rags. As they approached, she groaned.
In an instant the stranger was bending over her.

" You are very ill, I fear. Can I help you ? "

" Eh ? What's that ? " exclaimed the girl.

She raised her head, stretching out something which was
more like a claw than a hand.

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

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What's that noise?" she repeated.

The noise had been made by Helps. It was an amazed
terrified outcry when he heard the voice of the man who was
bending over the girl. The man himself had observed
nothing.

** You are very ill," he repeated- " You ought to be in
a hospital."

"' No, no, none of that," she said, clutching hold of his
hand. " I ha' lain down to die. Let me die. I wor starv-
ing — the pain wor awful. Now I'm easy. Don't touch me
—don't lift me ; I'm easy — I'm a-goin' to die."

The stranger knelt a little lower.

" I won't hurt you," he said. " I will sit here by
your side. Don't be frightened. I am going to raise your
head — a little — a very little. Now it rests on my knee.
That is better."

" Eh, you're a good man ; yes, that's nice."

Her breath came in great pants. Presently she began to
wander.

"^ Is that you, mother? Mother, I've been such a bad gel
— bad everyway. The Almighty's punishing me. I'm dying,
and He's a sending me to hell."

" No," said the quiet voice of the man. " No ; you arc
the one He wants. He is seeking ^v^«."

"Eh? " she said. Once more her clouded brain cleared.
** Eh, how my breath does go. I'm a-going to hell ! "

*' No. He has sent me to find you; you are not going
there."

" How do you know ? "

She turned herself an inch or two in her astonishment
and stared up at him.

Something in his face seemed to fill her with astonish-
ment.

*' Take off your hat," she said. '' Are you Jesus Christ ? "

It was at this juncture that Helps turned and fled,

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

241

He ran as he never ran before in the whole course of his
life. Nobody saw him go, and nobody obstructed him in
his headlong flight. Presently he got back to the Mission
Hall. The place was closed and dark. He was turning
away when a woman came out of the deep shelter of the
doorway and touched his arm.

" Essie, is that you ? My God, Essie, I've seen a ghost ! "

" No, father, no — a living man."

" This is awful, child. I'm shaking all over. I'd sooner
be in my grave than go through such a thing again."

" Lean on me, father. We'll walk a bit, and soon find
a cab-stand. We'll have a cab home. It's about time you
had your supper. Don't talk a bit. Get Dack your poor
breath."

As they were driving home a few minutes later, in a
hansom, she turned suddenly.

" And you've got Mr. Wyndham's address ? "

" Good heavens, Essie, don't say his name like that ! I
suppose it's a sign of the end that I should have seen a
spirit."

" Nonsense, father, you saw no spirit. That's Mr. Gerald
Wyndham in the flesh, as much as you and I are in the
flesh. You saw no spirit, but a living man. I recognized
him this morning, but I wasn't going to take my own word
for it, so I got you to look him up. They call him Brother
Jerome down here. Nobody knows anything at all about
him, how he lives, nor nothing ; only that he goes in and
out amongst the people, and is always comforting this one
or cheering that, and quieting down rows, and soothing
people, and — and — doing more in a day than the Sisters
or I could do in a week. I've heard of him for a month
past, but I only saw him to-day. He's a mystery, and
peoi)le wonder about him, and no one can tell how he
lives, nor where he sleeps. / know, though. He sleeps
out of doors, and he starves. He shan't starve any longer,"

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER XXXIX.

')\

*' Esther," said Helps, late that night, after Cherry, in a
very sulky humor, had gone to bed, " Esther, this is a very
terrible, a very awful thnig for me ! "

*' How so, father ! "

She was kneeling by his side. Now she put her arm
round his neck, and looked into his face. Her beating,
throbbing, exulting heart told her that her discovery of
that day was new life to her.

" I am glad," she continued, after a solemn pause ; " yes,
I don't mind owning I am very glad that a good man like
Mr. Wyndham still lives."

"Qiild, you don't know what you are talking about, ll
is awful — awful — his coming back. Even if he is alive he
ought to have stayed away. His coming back like this is
terrible. It means, it means "

" What, father } "

" Child, it must never be known : he must be warned ;
he must go away at once. Suppose anybody else saw
him ? "

" Father," said Esther.

She rose and stood over the shrinking old man.

" You have got to tell me the meaning of those queer
words of yours. I guessed there was a mystery about Mr.
Wyndham ; now I am ceniain. If I don't know it bcfoie
I leave the room to-night, I'll make mischief. There ! "

" Essie — Essie — I thought you had turned into a good
girl."

" I'll turn bad again. Listen. I love that man. Not
as a girl loves her lover — not as a wife cares for her hus-

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A 1. 1 IT. FOR .1 LOVE,

243

band, tte is married, and I should not be ashamed to tell
Ill's wife how T love him. I glory in my love ; he saved me.
Father, I wasn't coming home at all thatniglit. He saved
nic ; you can understand how I feel for him. My life
wouldn't be a great deal to give up for him. There has
been mischief done to him, that I am sure. Now tell me
the truth ; then I'll know how to act. Oh, father, you're
the dearest and the kindest. Tell me the truth and you
won't repent it."

" No, Essie, child, I don't suppose I shall repent. Sit
there. You know too much, you may as well know all.
Mr. Wyndham's life was insured."

"Yes?"

** Heavily, mark you, heavily."

" Yes." She covered her face with her hands. " Let
me think. Say, father " — she flung her hands into her lap
— " was this done on purpose ? "

*' Ay, child, ay ; and a better man never lived. Ay, it
was done on purpose."

" Hv^ was meant not to come back ? "

*• That's it, Essie, my dear. That's it."

" I see ; yes, I see. Was the insurance money paid ? "

" Every farthing of it, child. A large sura paid in full.''

" If he appeared again it would have to be refunded?"

''If it could be, child."

" If it couldn t ? "

''^Then the story, the black story of why it was wanted,
would have to come out ; and — and — Esther, is the door
locked ? Come close, F.ssie. Your old father and my
master would end our days in penal servitude."

" Now I see," said Esther.

She did not scream nor utter any loud exclamation, but
began to pace softly up and down the room. Mentally
she was a strong girl ; her calm in this emergency proved
her mettle.

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After a few momciUs Helps I jg.in to speak ; his words
were wild and broken.

" Over andover I thoiighi I'd rather," he said. '* Over,
and over, and over — when 1 saw what it meant for him,
poor young gentleman, jiut 1 c.iiVl, Essie, I can't. When
it comes to the pinch I can't do it. We thought he was
deiid, my master and I, and my master he went off his
head. And over he said, yes, over and over — ' Helps, a
clean cell and a clean heart would l)e heaven to this.'
But, bless you, Essie, he couldn't stand it either at the
pinch. We thought Mr. Wyndham lying under the sia.
Oh, poor young gentleman, he had no right to come back.''

** No right? He has a wife and a child."

" A widow and orphan, you mean. No, Esther, he
should have stayed away. He made a vow, and he should
have stuck to it."

" He has not broken his vow, father. Oh, father, what
a wicked thing you have done ; you and that master to
whom you have given your life. Now let me think."

"You won't send me to prison, Esther?"

" No, no. Sit down. I must think things out. Even
now I don't know clearly about Mr. Wyndham ; you have
only treated me to half-confidences. Stay, though, I don't
wish to hear more. You mustn't go to prison. Mr.
Wyndham mustn't starve. I have it. Mr.' Wyndham shall
come here."

" Esther ! "

Poor old Helps uttered a shriek, which caused Cherry
to turn uneasily on her pillow.

" Keep yourself quiet, father. I'm a determined woman,
and this thing shall be. Mr. Wyndham shall eat of our
bread, and we will shelter him ; and I — I, Esther Helps —
will undertake to guard his secret and yours. No one
living shall guess who he is."

'* You forget — oh, this is an awful thing to do. You
forget — there's Cherry."

// Z//"^ /'OA' ./ f.OF^.

245

" I'll blind Cherry. If T can't, she must go. I shall
bring Mr. Wyndham home to-morrow night ! "

" Esther, this will kill me."

*' No, it won't. On the contrary, you'll he a better iiiul
a happier man. "N'ou wouldn't have him starve, when
through him you have youi liberty ? I'm ashamed of

you

>»

She Hi her candle and walked away.
Old Helps never went to bed that night.

out. Even

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A UrE FOR A LOVE,

lii

CHAPTER XL.

Esther did nol go out next morning. Cherry was surprised
at this. Helps went off at liIs usual hour. Cherry noliccd
that he ate little or no breakfast ; but Esther did not stir.
She sat quietly by the breakfast table. She ate well and
deliberately. Her eyes were bright, her whole Aiee was lull
of light and expression.

"Ain't you going down as usual to those dirty slums .^ '
quoth Cherry. " I'm sick of them. You and your r'otjics
both coming in so draggled like at night. I'm sick of iIk;
slums. But perhaps you mean to give them up."

"Oh, no," said Esther, waking from a reverie into which
she had fallen, ''but I'm not going this morning. I've
something else to attend to."

''Then perhaps, Esther," said Cherry, with her round
eyes sparkling, "you'd maybe think to remember your
promise of getting that pink gauze dress out of your trunk j
you know you promised it to me, and I've a mind to make
it up with yellow bows. I'm sure to want it for something
about Christmas."

" You shall have it," said Esther, in a sharp, short
voice.

The abstracted look returned to her face. She gazed
out of the window.

" Law, Essie, ain't you changed, and for the worse, I
take it ! " remarked Cherry. "I liked you a sight better
when you were flighty and frivolous. Do you remember
the night you went to the theatre with that Captain some-
thing or other? My word, wasn't uncle in a taking. 'Twas
J found your tickets, and put uncle up to getting a seat near

/I IH'E FOR A [()] A'.

247

you. Weren't you struck all cf :i heap when you found
liim there? T never Iieard how you took il."

" Hush," said Esther, rising to her feet, her face growing
very while. " I was njad, then, l)ut I was saved. That's
enough alxnit it. Cherry, you know the box-room? "

'• Yes," said Ciierry. " It's stuffed pretty well, loo.
Afostly with your trunks, what you say lielonged to your
luolhcr."

" .So they did. ^Vell, they nnist go downstairs."

"Wherever 1*1? There isn't a rorner for them in tin's
scrap of a house."

'• Corners must he found. Some of the trunks ran go
ill our bed-room — some into father's ; some into the pas-
sage, some into the drawing-room if necessary. You
needn't stare, it has got to he done."

Esther stamped her foot and looked so imperious that
Cherry shrank away,

'' 1 suppose you're a l)it mad again," she muttered, and
she began to collect the breakfast things on a tray.

"Stop, Cherry, we may as well talk this out. I'll go
upstairs now and help you with the boxes. Then we'll clean
out the attic ; if I had time I'd pai)er il, but there ain't.
Then I'm going out to buy a bedstead and bedding, and a
table and washhand stand. The attic is to be made into
a bed-room for "

Here she paused.

"Well," said Cherry, " for whom, in the name of good-
ness ? "

Esther gulped something down in her throat.

" There's a good man in the East of London, a very good
man ; he has no money, and he's starving, and he has to
sleep out ot doors ; and — and — I can't stand it, Cherry —
and I spoke to father, and we have agreed that he shall
have the attic and his food. That's it, his name is Brother
Jerome ; he's a sort of an angel for goodness."

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A LIFE IVK A LOVE,

" Slums again," said Cherry; "I'll have nothing to do
with it."

She took up her tray and marched into the kitchen,
Esther waited a minute or two, tiien she went to iier room,
put on a Coarse ciieck apron, and mounted tho narrow
attic stairs. She coiiiuu'nciMl pulling liic trunks ahoiii ; she
could not lift them alone, but she intended to push tju-nito
the head of the stairs and then shove them down.

Presently a thumping step was Jieard, and Chiiiy^,
round face appeared.

" Disgusting job, J call it," she said ; ** but if I niii',
help you, I suppose I nuist. 1 was going to learn ' Lord
'I om Noddy ' this morning. 1 thought I might wear the
pink gauze with yellow bows, and recite it at Uncle Dan's
Christmas party. Cousin Tom says I'm real dramatic when
I'm excited, and that's a beautiful piece, so rhymic and
flowing. But then we all have to bend to you, Esther, uiul
if I must help you I suppose I must."

" I think you had better, dear, and some day perhaps
you won't be sorry. He's a go(jd man, Brother Jerome is,
lie won't be no troid)le. I'll clean his room for him myself
once it's put in order, and he's sure to go out early in the
morning. He'll breakfast upstairs, and I'll take him his
breakfast, and his supper shall be ready for him here
at night. We must .see if that chimney will draw. Cherry,
for of course he'll want his bit of fire."

After this the two girls worked with a will ; tliey cleaned
and polished the tiny window, they scrubbed the floor and
brushed down the walls, and polished the little grate. Then
Esther went out and made her purchases. The greater
part of a five pound note was e::pended, and by the after-
noon Gerald Wyndham's room was ready for him.

" Brother Jerome will come home with me to-night,
Cherry," said Esther. " I may be late — I'm sure to be late
—you needn't sit up."

./ Lllli J- OR A LOVE,

249

"But I'd like to see him. Slums or no slums, he has
given me a pair of stiff arms, and I want to find out if he's
worth them."

"Oh, he's nothing to look at. Just a tall, thin, starved-
looking man, He'll be shy, maybe, of coming, and you'd
inucii belter go to bed. You'll leave some supper ready in
his room."

" What shall I leave?"

" Oh, a jug of beer and some cheese, and the cold meat
and some bread and butter. That's all, he's accustomed
to roughing it."

" Aly word, you call that roughing. Then the slums
cin'l he so bad. I always thought there was an uncom-
mon fuss made about them. Now I'll get to * Lord Tom
Noddy,* and learn off a good bit before tea time ; you
miglit hear me recite if you had a mind, Essie."

iSo

A LIFE FOR A lOt'E,

CHAPTER XLI.

" Oh, yes, she's the sweetest missus in tlie world ! *'

That was the universal opinion of the servants who
worked for Valentine Wyndham. They never wanted to
leave her, they never grumbled about her, nor thought her
gentle orders hard. The nurse, the cook, the housemaid,
stayed on, the idea of change did not occur to them.

Valentine and her Httle son came back to the house in
town at the end of October. Lilias came with them, and
Adrian Carr often ran up to town and paid a visit to the
two.

One day he came with a piece of news. He had got the
offer of an incumbency not very far from Park Lane. A
fashionable church wanted a good preacher. Carr liad
long ago developed unusual powers as a pulpit orator, and
the post, with a good emolument, was offered to him. He
came to consult Lilias and Valentine in the matter.

" Of course you must go," said liilias. " My father will
miss you — we shall all — but that isn't the point. This is
a good thing for you — a great thing — you must certainly

go."

" And I can often see you," responded Carr, eagerly.
" Mrs. Wyndham will let me come here, I hope, and you
will often be here."

" I wish you would spend the winter with me, Lilias,"
said Valentine. She had interpreted aright the expression
in Carr's eyes, and soon afterwards she left the room.

She went up to her own room, shut and locked the door,
and then stood gazing into the fire with her hands tiglitly
locked together. She inherited one gift from her father.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

251

■, "n

li me, Lilias,"

She, too, could wear a mask. Now it dropped from her,
and her young face looked lined and old.

" It isn't the grief of losing him," she murmured under
iier breath. " It's the pain — the haunting fear — that things
are wrong. Have I known my father all these years not
to note the change in hiui ? He shrinks fiom me — he
dreads me. Why? His conscience is guilty. Oh, Gerald,
if I had only let you look into my heart, perhaps you would
not have gone away. Oh, if only I had been in time to go
on board the Esperance you would have been living now.
Yes, Gerald, the terror never leaves me day and night ;
you are dead, but God did not mean you to die. My own
Gerald — my heart would liave been broken, or I should
have lost my reason, if I had not confided my fears to Mr.
Carr. Some people perhaps think I have forgotten — some
again that I have ceased to love my husband. How little
they know ! Of course I am bright outwardly. But my
hexrt is old and broken. I have had a very sad life — I am
a very unhappy woman. Only for little Gerry I couldn't
live. He is sweet, but I wish he were more like his fatlier.
Ah, there is nurse's knock at the door. Coming, nurse.
Is baby with you? "

Mrs. Wyndham unlocked her door, and a little round,
dimpled, brown-tinted child scampered in. He was fol-
lowed by his nurse, a grave, nice-looking woman of about
thirty. She was a widow, and had a son of her own.

"Has baby come to say good-night, Annette? Come
here, sweet. Come into mother's arms."

She sat down on a low chair by the fire, and the little
man climbed on her knee.

" I don't Hke 00. I 'ove 00," he said.

" He's always saying that, ma'am," remarked the nurse,
" He likes his toys — he loves his mother,"

"Course I 'ove my mother."

He laid his brown curly head on her breast,

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252

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

" Nurse, is anything the matter? You don't look well."

** That's it, madam. I'm not ill in body, but I'm sore
fretted in mind. Now, baby, darling, don't you pull your
dear ma to bits ! The fact is, ma'am, and sore I am to say
it, I'm afraid I must leave this precious child."

*' Nurse ! "

Valentine's arms dropped away from baby ; baby raised
his own curly head, and fixed his brown eyes on the woman,
his rosy lips pouted.

" Sore I am to say it, ma'am," repeated Annette, " bui
there's no help. I've ])ut off the evil day all I could,
ma'am ; but my mother's old, and my own boy has been ill,
and she says I must go home and see after them both. Of
course, madam, I'll suit your convenience as to the time
of my going, and I hope you'll get some one else as will
love the dear child. Come to bed, master baby, dear ;
your mother wants to go down to dinner."

A few days after this, as Helps was taking his comfort-
able breakfast, cooked to perfection by Cherry's willing
hands, he raised his eyes suddenly, looked across at his
daughter Esther, and made a remark.

"I'm told poor young madam is in no end of a taking."

" What young madam, father? "

** Mrs. Wyndham, The nurse is going and the child has
got wooping cough. He's bad, too, poor little 'un, and
frets about the nurse lik^ anything. My master's in a way,
too j he's wrapped up in that little lad. It was he told
me ; he said perhaps you'd know of a nurse as would suit,
Esther."

" Don't stare so. Cherry," said Esther. " Anybody
would think father was talking of ghosts, to see the big-
ness of your eyes. Well, father, yes, I'll think about a
nurse. I'm sorry the child is ill."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

253

" Don't you go and get a nurse from the Siums," retorted
Cherry. "You're all slums, you are. My word, I am
having a time since that new lodger took possession."

Here Cherry paused topour fresh water into the tea-pot.
Esther and her father exchanged frightened glances.

"Brother Jerome, indeed!" proceeded this energetic
young person. *• He's a mighty uneasy sort of Brother
Jerome. His good deeds don't seem to quieten him, any-
v/ay. And why does he always keep a hat stuck on his
head, and never raise it when he passes me on the stairs.
I know I'm broad and I'm stout, and I've no looks to
l)oast of, but it's meant for men to raise their hats to women,
and I don't see why he shouldn't. Then at night he walks
the boards overhead fit to work on anybody's nerves. I
don't recite half so dramatic as I did, because I can't get
my sleep unbroken."

" Your tongue ain't stopped, anyway," said her uncle,
almost crossly. " Esther, you'll think about the nurse for
young madam."

He rose and left the room.

Esther sat still a little longer. She heard Cherry rat-
tling the plates in the kitchen. Presently she got up, put
on her bonnet and cloak, called good-bye to her cousin,
and went out. There could scarcely be a better Sister of
the Poor than Esther Helps. She was near enough to
them socially to understand their sorrows. She had never
known starvation, but she could take in what tiny means
meant — their mode of speechwas comprehensible to her, she
was sufficiently unfastidious to go into their dirty rooms, to
witness their uncouth, semi-savage ways without repulsion.
She liked the life, it suited her, and her it. She was the
kind of woman to be popular as a district visitor. She had
abundance of both sympathy and tact. When her sympa-
thies were aroused, her manners could be affectionate. In
addition, she had a very lovely face. The poor of East

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

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^.^^■"£^^-r.-

London adore beauty ; it comes so rarely near them in
any case that they look upon it as an inestimable treasure.
The women and children liked to watch Esther when she
talked and when she smiled. The men treated her with
the respect due to a regal presence.

Esther went down as usual to her mission work to-day.
Sister Josephine, the head of this branch of work, greeted
the handsome girl with a smile when she came in, drew
her aside, and spoke to her about a particularly difficult
undertaking which was soon to be commenced. This
undertaking would require the utmost tact and talent ; the
sister asked Esther if she would be willing to become the
head of the movement.

" I don*t know anyone more suitable," she said in con-
clusion. ''Only if you come, you must consent to sleep
away from home. Some of our work — cur principal work
— will take place at night."

Esther's clear ivory-tinted skin became a shade paler.
She looked full at the sister with troubled but unshrinking
eyes.

" You do me a great honor," she said. '* But I am
afraid I must decline it. At present I cannot sleep away
frorai home. It is also possible — yes, it is quite possible —
that I may have to give up the work altogether foratime."

" Esther, are you putting your hand to the plough and
looking back ? " •

** I don't know, Sister Josephine. Perhaps I am."

The sister laid her hand solemnly on the girl's arm.

'* Esther, if you love anyone better than God, you have
no right to come here," she said.

Then she turned away and walked sorrowfully down the
long mission room. She was disappointed in Esther
Helps, and though Esther's own heart never faltered, she
felt a sharp pang pierce it.

That night she came home late.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

" Has Brother Jerome come in? " she asked Cherry.

" No. How you do fash about that man ! His supper's
waiting for him, and I saw to his fire. Now I'm going to
bed. I'm dead tired."

*' Do, Cherry. I'll sit up for Brother Jerome."

" Ask him, for goodness sake, not to march the boards
so frequent. He'll have my grey hairs to account for.
He's picked up a cough, too, and between the creaking of
the boards, and the coughing, I have nice nights lately."

" You study too much, Cherry, or you wouldn't mind
such little noises. Now go to bed, dear. I'll give Brother
Jerome a hint."

*' Good-night, Esther. Uncle's been in bed an hour or
more. I hope that brother of the slums won't keep you
long."

Cherry ran upst.-iirs, and Esther went into the bright
warm little kitchen. She left the door wide open, and
then she sat and waited.

The substance of Sister Josephine's wordff rang in her
ears.

"If you love another better than God, you have no
right to come here."

Did she love another, better than God ? No, no, impossi-
ble. A man had influenced her life, and because of his
influence she had given herself up, soul and body, to God's
service. How could she love the man best ? He had
only pointed to the higher way.

Then she heard his step outside ; his latch-key in the
door, and she felt herself tremble. He went straight up-
stairs, never glancing in the direction of the kitchen ; as
he went he coughed, and his cough sounded hollow. His
figure, never remarkably upright, was much bent.

Esther waited a few minutes ; then, her heart going pit-
a-pat, she crept very softly upstairs, passed her own room
and Cherry's, and knocked at Wyndham's door.

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A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

He came and opened it.

" Can I speak with you, brother?"

" Certainly. Come in, Esther ? "

The attic had been converted into a wonderfully snug
apartment. The bed and washing api)aratus were cur-
tained off, and the j)art of tlie room which surrounded the
hearth revealed a bright fire, a little table on which a
tempting cold suj^pcr was spread, and a deep easy chair.

"Sit down, brotlier," said Esther, "and eat. Let me
help you. lean talk while youcat^our supper. Are you
very lircd to-night ? Yes, I am afraid you are dreadfully
tired."

" I am always tired, Esther. That is in the condition
of things."

He sank back into his chair as if he were too weary to
keep out of it. Then, with a flash of the old Gerald Wynd-
ham in his eyes and manner, he sprang up.

*' I was forgetting myself Will you sit here ! "

" What^Mo you take me for, Mr. — Brother Jerome, I
mean. I have come up here to see you eat, to see you
rest, and to — to — talk to you."

" Esther, I have no words to thank you. You are, yes,
you are the noblest woman I know."

She flushed all over ; her eyes shone.

" And isn't that thanks for ever and ever ? " she said
in a voice in which passion trembled.

Wyndham did not notice. He had taken off his hat,
and Cherry's good supper stood by his side. He ale a
little, then put down his knife and fork.

" Ain't you hungry, sir ? "

" No. At first, when I came here, I was so starved that
I never could eat enough. Now I am the other way, not
hungry at all."

" And, sir, you have got a cough."

*' Yes, I had a verv bad wetting last week, and a cough

A urn FOR A LOVE.

257

Lhc condition

? " she said

is the result. Strange. I had no cough when I slept out
of doors."

" Mr. Wynd— Brother Jerome, I mean, you wouldn't go
l)ack to that old life ? Say you wouldn't go back."

The almost anguish in her voice penetrated for the first
time to Wyndiiam's car. He gave her a startled glance,
then said with warmth : —

" Estlier, you and your father have been good Samaritans
to me ; as long as it is safe I will stay witli you."

" It shall and must be safe. Who would look for you
here, of all places, when they think you are buried under
the waves of the sea ? "

" That is true. I expect it is perfectly safe for me to
stay."

He lay back in his chair, and gazed into the fire; he had
almost forgotten Esther's presence.

" And you like it — you feel happier since you came ? "
she asked, presently, in a timiv* voice.

" What did you say ? '

" Mr. Wyndham," the forbidden name came out with a
burst, "do tell poor Esther Helps that you are happier
since she found you."

She had fallen on her knees, the tears were streaming
from her eyes ; she held out her hands to him.

"Oh," she said, " I would give my life for yours."

In a moment Wyndham's dreamy attitude left him ; he
r^prang to his feet, all alive and keen and watchful. He
was the old Wyndham ; his eyes were full of pity, which
made his whole face radiant.

" Hush," he said. " Get up. Don't say any more. Not
another word — not a syllable. You forget yourself. Esther,
I saved you once — I must save you again. Sit there, yes,
tliere ; I am quite strong. I must tell you the truth.
Esther, I said just now that you were the noblest woman I

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258

A LIFE fOR A LOVE,

know. You nnist go on being noble. I will stay lierc on
that condition."

" Oh, sir, will you? " Poor Esther would have liked lo
shrink through the very boards. "Will you forgive mc,
sir?"

" Hush ; don't talk about forgiveness. There is nothing
to forgive. Esther, I will show you how much I trust yon.
1 will talk to you about my wife. I will tell you a liltK.' of
my story; I mean the part 1 can tell without implicating
others."

Jlsd 1 ^ _Si^

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

259

CHAPTER XUT.

Esther was now seated in the easy-chair ; Wyndham stood
by the mantel-piece. He had got a sliock, and that shock
had given him strength, and a good deal of his old manner.

" Esther," he said, " I cannot tell you all the story, but
some of it I should like you to hear. You arc a friend to
me, Esther, and the art that relates to myself I will con-
fide to you."

"Sir, I know th'. "-thci part; you have been the victim
of a wicked man.'

" Hush ; I don't vvish to speak about anyone but myself.
I don't blame an r .• but myself. I loved a woman, Esther
Helps, so much better than myself that for her sake I
resolved to die to the world. I need not give you the reason
of this. It seemed to me necessary for her happiness that I
should do this ; and I did not think it too much to do. I
married my wife knowing that the great love I had for
her was not returned. This seemed all for the best, as
when I died, as die to all appearance I should, her heart
would not be broken. She could continue to live happy and
honored. Do you follow me ? "

" Yes, sir, yes. Are you tired ? Will you sit, Mr. Wynd-
ham?"

" I was never less tired. When I speak of my wife I feel
as if a fresh vigor were coming into me. We were married,
and I soon found that I had overtaxed my own resolve.
In one parfiicular I could not complete the sacrifice I had
undertaken. I tried to make her love me, and for a time
— a short time — I thought I had succeeded."

The speaker paused, and the eagerness of his tone
cl^anged.

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260

.•/ L/F/: FOR A LOVE.

" I failed. The heart that I most craved for was not to
be mine. T tested it, but it did not respond. This was best,
no doubt, but the fact preyed on me dreadfully. 1 wciu
on board the Espcrance, and, then, God forgive me, liie
thought took possession of me, the idea overm. tered inc,
that I would make my fictitious death real. Everything hud
been carefully arranged with regard to my apparent death.
That part implicates others, so I will not touch upon it. I
resolved to make certainty doubly certain by dying in
earnest. Thus my wife's future would be assured. My
death would be real, the thing that might come upon her
would be averted for ever. I was in a condition when I
could not balance right and wrong ; but my intellect was
sufficiently keen and sensible to make me prepare for the
deed I contemplated. I took steps which would prevent
anyone on board thinking that I had fallen overboard by
design. My death would be attributed to the merest acci-
dent. Thus all was made absolutely safe. What is the
matter, Esther? "

*' Oh, Mr. Wyndham ! Oh, you frighten me. Did you —
did you think of your soul, sir ? "

" 1 did, Esther. But I loved my wife better than my
hope of heaven. I resolved to risk even that for her. As
I tell you, I had no sense of personal right or wrong at that
time. You see that I am a very wicked man, Esther — no
hero — a man who yielded to a dire temptation. I won't
talk about this. The night came, and I dropped into the
water. There was a storm that night. It was dark, but
now and then the stars could be seen through the rifts of
tlie clouds. As I leapt overboard I looked up, and saw
tlie brightness of the Southern Cross. Then I went under.
Tiie great waves closed over my head. The next instant
I came to tlie surface only possessed with one fierce frantic
desire, to save the life I meant to throw away. Better be
a living dog than a dead lion, T said to myself. Yes, I would
live — if only like the miserable dogs of Eastern towns,

.'/ Ill li FOR A LOVE.

a6t

would live i.s Lhc (Jiilcasl, as the scimi of the earth — I would
live. I had done a horrible thing in si-ekinj' to throw
away my life. I cried aloud in an anguish of terror : -• (lod
spare nie ! God leave my breath in my body I Don't
take my spirit oefore the judgment seat i ' Througii ihe
rifts in the elouds I saw a boat at a little distance
manned by some of the sailors who were looking for
me. I shouted, but no living voice could be heard in the
gale. Then I resolved to husband my strength. I was iin
excellent swimmer, and I could always float like a cork. \
could not swim in that sea, but I could lie quite jjassive on
the waves. 1 turned on my back, and waited for the issue
of events. I closed my eyes and felt myself being moved
uj) and down. The motion in itself was not unpleasant.
The waves were wonderfully buoyant. Instead of losing
my strength I was rested. My heart beat steadily. I knew
that my chance of life depended on my keeping very cool.
Presently something struck me. I put out my hand and
grasped a floating oar. By means of the oar I knew that
unless I froze with the cold I could keep above the water
for hours. I placed it under my arms and kept above the
water with very little effort.

'•'■ The cold, however, was intense, and I doubt that I
could have lived till morning had not another chance of
deliverance just then appeared. The clouds had almost
cleared from the sky, and by the brightness of the southern
constellations 1 saw something gleaming white a little
further off". It was not the ship, which must have been a
league or two away by now, but something I could see in
my present horizontal position. I ventured to raise my
head a very little, and saw a boat — a boat painted white — •
which, strange to say, had not been overturned by the
roughness of the waves. It was gently floating onwards in
my direction. The name Esperance was painted in gold
leiters oii the outside of the boat, near tiie bow. I guessed

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863

/i LIFE FOR A LOVE,

at once what had happened. One of the ships' boats had
got loose from its moorings in the gale, and was now sent
to me as an ark of deliverance. It was evidently on one of
the ship's oars, too, that I was supporting my head.

" Then I saw that God did not mean me to die, and a
great glow of gratitude and even happiness ran through
mc. You will wonder at this, but you don't know how
horrible death looked in the jaws of that angry sea.

" The boat came nearer, and nearer and my happiness and
sense of relief grew to almost rapture. I cried aloud : — 'God,
I thank Thee ! Take the life you have thought worth pre-
serving almost through a miracle, as your "»wn absolutely.
Take my body, take my spirit, to spend, to worship, to lose
myself in Thee f' Then the boat came up, and I had to
duck under to avoid being stunned by her.

" It is no easy matter to get into an empty boat in a rough
sea. My hands were almost numb, too, for I had been a
couple of hours in the water. I felt, however, quite cool,
self-possessed and quiet. I could think clearly, and bring
my little knowledge of boats to my aid. I knew my only
chance of not upsetting the boat was to climb over by the
stern. This, after tremendous difficulties, I accomplished.
I lay in the bottom of the boat for some time quite uncon-
scious. When at last I was able to rouse myself, daylight
had come and the storm had gone down. My clothes were
drenched through with salt water. I could not keep from
shivering, and every bone ached. I was not the least hun-
gry, but I was consumed with thirst. There were two or
three oars lashed to the side of the boat. I could row,
therefore, and the exercise warmed me. Presently the sun
came up in the heavens. I was glad of this, but its rays
beating on my uncovered head soon produced headache,
which in its turn brought on a queer giddiness and a feel-
ing of sickness. I saw now that I was going to be very ill,
and I wondered how long I should retain my senses. I

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

3^3

knew tliat it behoved mo to be very careful. I was alive,
but for my wife's sake I must appear to be dead. I saw
that I had taken tlie vei^ best possible step to insure tiiis
end, and if 1 could only carry on my purpose to its con-
clusion I should liiive adopted a far belter i)lan for secur-
ing the establishment of niy cv/n apparent death than the
one originally devised for me.

"Aching as I did from head to foot I found it difficult
to keep my thoughts collected. I managed, however, to
do so, and also to scratch out the name of the Esperance
from the bows of the boat. This 1 accomplished with my
pocket knife. I also cut away my own name from my linen,
and from two handkerchiefs which I found in my pockets.
Tliese handkerchiefs had been marked by my wife. After
this I knew there was no more I could do. \ must drift
along and take my chance of being picked up. I cannot
recall how I passed the day. I believe I rowed a little
when I felt cold; but the greater i)art of the time I simply
allowed the boat to drift.

" That evening I was picked up by a trading vessel bound
for the Cape. Its crew were mostly Dutch, and several of
the sailors were black. I faintly remember going on board
the vessel. Then all memory leaves me. I had a long
illness — a fever which changed me, turning my hair very
grey. I grew a beard in my illness, and would not alljvv
it to be removed when I got better, as I knew that in the
future I must live under the shadow of death, I must com-
pletely sink the identity which made life of value.

" I was put into hospital when we arrived at Cnpe Town,
and when I got better was given a small purse of money,
which had been collected by some people who professed
to take an interest in me. On the day I left the hospital
I really commenced my new life.

'* It is unnecessary to tell you all that followed. I had
not forgotten my vow — the vow I made to God verily out

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.^ LIFE FOR A LOi^E,

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of the deeps. I determined, as far as it was in me, abso-
lutely to renounce myself and to live for God as He reveals
himself in suffering man. I did not resolve to do this with
any ulterior motive of saving ray own soul, and atoning for
the sin of the past. I felt that God deserved all that I
could possibly give Him, and to give it absolutely and
without reservation kept me, I believe, from losing my
senses. For a time all went well. Then the hunger whicli
had been my curse came back. You will ask what that was.
It was a sense of utter starvation which no physical food
could satisfy, wliich no mental food could appease. I must
get near my wife. I had sinned for her, and now I could
not keep away from her. I must at least live in the same
country. 1 prayed against this hunger ; I fought with it,
I struggled with it, but I could not beat it down. A year
ago I came back to England. I came to London, to the
safest place for a man who must hide. Willing hands are
always needed to help to lighten some of the load of misery
in this great city. I called myself Brother Jerome, and
presently I found my niche. I worked, and I could have
been happ.\ Yes, starving in body, with nowhere to lay
my head, 1 co ild have been happy following The Blessed
example, but for the hanger which always drove me mad,
which was gnawing at my heart, which gnaws there still —
which — Esther — Esther Hel[)S — is — killing me ! "

Wyndham dropped his head on his hands. He uttered
one groan. When he raised his head again his eyes were
wet.

"• I am close to my wife," he said ; " but I have never
heard of her once — not once since I returned."

Then he sat down in the chair which Esther rose from.
He began to cough again, and Esther saw the drops of
sweat standing large on his forehead.

It was now her turn to speak. She stood upright — a tall,
slim woman — a woman who had gone through a change so

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

265

great as almost to amount to a new birth — while Wyndham
had been telling his story.

" Now," she said, " I am happy. I praise God for His
mercies, for it is given to me to comfort you."

Wyndham raised his head ; he was too exhausted to ask
her what she meant, except with his eyes.

" Your wife is well, and from this day fortli you shall
hear news of her, fresh news, once a week. Every Sunday
you shall hear."

*' Esther, don't torture me. Are you telling ms truth ? "

" I am telling you the solemn truth. Would I lit to a
man like you ? Mr. Wyndham, do you know, has anyone
ever told you that you have a child ? "

" Nob)dy. Is this the case ? My God, a child ! "

" Yes, sir, a little boy ; he is called after you. He is
three years old. You'd like to see him, maybe ? "

" Good heavens, Esther, this is like new wine to me. I
have a son of my own — Vnlentine's son ! "

He began to pace the floor.

" And you would like to see him, wouldn't you, sir? "

'• Yes — no — the joy might kill me. People have died of

joy."

" You wouldn't die of joy, sir. It has always been the
other way with you. Joy would make you live, would
cure that cough, and that sinking feeling you have told me
of."

" And the hunger, Esther — the hunger which gnaws and
gnaws. Esther, you are a wonderful woman."

"Sit down, Mr. Wyndham. Keep quiet. Don't get
excited. I'll do this for you. I made up the plan this
morning. It was about that I came to speak to you. 'i'hc
baby wants a new nurse. To-morrow 1 am going to offer
for the ])lace. I shall get ii, too, no fear of that. T shall
live in the same house as your wife, every night your s.)n
will lileep in my arms. Each Sunday I come here with my

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266

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

news — my weekful of news. Some day I bring your son.
What more natural than that I should come to my falhei
once a week. Who will suspect? Mr. Wyndham, that
hunger of yours shall have one weekly meal. No fear, no
fear. And now, sir, go to bed, and may God Almighty
bless you ! "

*■*

A Lin.. FOR A LOVE,

du7

* CHAPTER XUII.

Valentine Wyndham IkuI often said tliat no greater
treasure of a nurse could be found than the one who
came to her when little Gerald was a month old. When
she saw Esther, however, she changed her mind. Esther
was superior to Annette in personal appearance, in intel-
lect, and in a curious unspoken intangible sympathy which
brought a strange sense of comfort to Valentine's strained
and worn heart. Esther was full of tact. She was not
demonstrative, but her every look and word expressed
loving interest. Baby very soon ceased to fret for Annette.
With a child's fickleness he boldly declared that he liked
"noo nurse better than old nurse." His most loving
word for Esther was " noo nurse," and he was always con-
tented and happy when he lay in noo nurse's arms and
listened to her stories. She had wonderful stories for him,
stories which she never dreamt ot tcHing in his mother's
presence,, stories which always led to one termination — a
termination which had a wonderful fascination for baby.
They were about little fatherless boys, who in the most un-
lookedfor ways found their fiithers. Baby revelled in these
tales.

" I'se not got a farwer, noo nursie," he would generally
end sorrowfully.

Then Esther would kiss him, and tell him to wait, and
to watch for the good fairies who were so kind to little
boys.

His whooping cough soon got better, and he was able to
go out. One day Esther took him early into the Park.
He was dressed all in white fur. Esther told him he looked
like Baby Bunting.

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"^ Bui I haven't got a fanver to buy me a wabbit-skin,'*
quoih baby.

That day, however, tlie father he did not know pressed
two or tliree burning kisses on his round cheek. Esther
sat down on a chair near a very worn and shabby-looking
man. His back was partly to her. She said a word and
he turned round. He looked at the child. Suddenly a
light filled his sunken eyes— a beautiful light. He stretched
out his arms, and straight as an arrow from a bow, Baby
Bunting found a shelter in their close embrace.

" Kiss me," said the man.

"'I'he little lips pressed hi.s cheek.

" I 'ove 00," said baby, in his contented voice. " Has
'00 lillle boys of '00 own ? "

"One little boy."

" Oo 'ove him, I po.se? *'

**Ay."

Three kisses were [uessed on baby's face and he was
returned to Esther.

" Nice man," he said patronizingly, by-and-bye. ^'But
he gived raver hard kisses when he crunched me up."

That evening baby told his mother that a man met him
in '.i)c Prrk, who kissed him and looked sad, and said he
had :i iiitle boy of his own.

*' And he crunched nie up with kisses, mover," con-
cluded baby.

" Was this man a friend of yours, Esther? " queried Mrs.
Wyndham.

"Yes, madam, a friend of mine, and of my father's. A
gentleman with a very sorrowful story. I think it com-
forted him to kiss master baby."

Esther was a woman of acute observation. It seemed
to her that if there was an individual on earth to be envied
it was Valentine Wyndham. What matter though she
thought herself a widow? Still she had won a love of a

A Lir-K J'Ok A LOVE.

269

quality and depth which surely must satisfy the most
exacting heart. Esther often said to herself that if she
were Valentine she must surely rest content. As to her for-
getting Wyndham that could surely, surely never l)c.

These were Esther's thoughts, always suppposing the case
to be her own ; but she had not been many weeks in the
house in Park Lane before she began to open her eyes and
to suspect that matters were otherwise with lier young
mistress. Valentine, although still a wife, supposed herself
a widow. All the world thought her such. What more
natural than that she should turn her thoughts once more
to love. At the time of her supposed widowhood she was
under twenty years of age Why should she mourn for her
young husband all her days } Surely there was somebody
wiio considered that she ought not to mourn — somebody
who came almost daily to the house, whom Mrs. Wynd-
ham liked to talk to. For Esther noticed that her eyes
were bright after Adrian Carr went away. She did not
guess that their brightness was generally caused by the
shedding of tears.

Esther began to feel very unromronable Should she or
should she not tell Wyndham of t.^e danger which was
threatening Valentine?

There came a Sunday when Mrs, sVynuham entered her
nursery with a req' st.

" Nurse, my heaa aches dreadfully. 1 know you stipu-
lated to haveevev^^ Sunday afternoon to yourself, but if you
<^uld stay at home to-day I should be grateful."

No one cou d make requests more sweetly than Val-
entine, and Esther felt herself coloring up with the pain
of refusing.

" I am very sorry, madam," she said in a low constrained
voice ; " but — but — my father will expect me. Vou. know
it was an underst od thing, madam, that 1 was to ^'^e him
once a week. You remember my telling you I am hib only
child."

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^ llfE FOR A LOVE,

" Yes, yes," said Valentine, "and I have thought of iliat.
If you will take care of Gerry this one afternoon I will scud
tile page in a cab to your home to fetch your father here."
Esther changed color, from red to white.

" I am more sorry than I can express, my dear madam,
but it would make all the difterence to my father seeing me
in my own little home and here. My father is very humble
in his ways, dear madam. I think, perhaps, if you have a
headache, Jane, the under housemaid, might be trusted for
once with master baby."

"Jane has already gone out," replied Valentine coldly.
Then with an effort she swallowed down her resentment.
" I will be frank with you, Esther," she said. " If it was
simply a headache I could certainly take care of my little
boy, even at some inconvenience. But there is more
behind. I promised Miss Wyndham, who is now in town,
to meet her this afternoon at Mr. Carr's new church. She
is most anxious to hear him preach, and I should be sorry
to disippoint her."

" You mean yon are anxious to hear him preach," quoth
Estlicr, under her breath. " And is it on that account I
will leave a hungry heart to starve? " Aloud she said:
" Do you object to my taking master baby with me,
madam ? "

" I do object. The child must not be out so late. Then
you distinctly refuse to accommodate me, Esther ? "

" I am obliged to adhere to our arrangement, Mrs.
Wyndham. I am truly sorry."

Valentine held out her hand to her little boy.

"Come, then. Baby Bunting," she said. "Mother will
play with lier boy ; and pool Aunt Lilias must go to church
alone."

She did not look at Esther, but went quietly away, hold-
ing the child's hand.

" What a brute I am," soliloquized the nurse. " \nd

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

'loiightofihat.
^011 I will scud
* father here."

(^ear madam,
ler seeing nic
very humble
jf you have a

t>e trusted for

'ntine coldly,
lesentment.
"If it was
e of my little
-^e is more
low in town,
'lurch. She
II Id be sorry

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d she said ;
with me,

'ate. Then
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lent, Mrs.

other will
to church

271

yet, slie, poor young lady, how can she — how can she for-
get ? "

Esther's home was in all its Sunday quiet when she
reached it. Helps was having his afternoon siesta in the
kitchen. Cherry was speiidin.L^ the day with the cousins
who admired her recitations. Helps started out of his
slumbers when his daughter came in.

" Essie," he said, " I'm glad you've come. That young
man upstairs is very ill."

Esther felt her heart sinking down. She pressed her hand
to her side.

" Is he worse, father? ** she gasped.

" Oh, I don't know that he's worse ; he's bad enough as
it is, without going in for being worse. He coughs constant,
and Cherry says he don't eat enough to keep a robin
going. Esther, I wish to goodness we cou/d get him out
of this."

" Why so, father ? He doesn't hurt you. Even Chery
can't name any fault in him."

" No, but suppose he was to die here. There'd be an
inquest, maybe, and all kinds of questions. Well, I'm not
hard-hearted, but I do wish he'd go."

Esther sank down into the nearest chair.

** You speak cruel words now and then, father," she said.
" Who talks of dying ? He won't die. If it comes to that,
or any chance of it, I'll come back and nurse him to life
again."

" Essie, you think a sight of that young man."

"■ Well, I do. I'm not going to deny it. I'm going up-
stairs to see him now." .

^'^y, hold-
. " And

272

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER XLIV.

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r^ra

AT THE SOUND OF THE CLOCK.

She left the room, tripping lightly upstairs in her neat
nurse's dress. When she got to Wyndham's door and
knocked gently for admission her heart, however, was beat-
ing so wildly that she feared he might notice it,

" Come in," said liis voice ; she entered.

He was lying back in his easy-chair. When he saw
Esther he look off the soft bat which he always wore in
Cherry's presence, and greeted lier with that brightness in
his eyes which was the greatest reward he could possibly
offer her.

" You are a little late," he said; " but I thought you
would not fail me."

" I won't ever fail you, Mr. Wyndham ; you know that."

" Esther, it is safer to call me Brother Jerome."

" Not at the present moment. The house is empty but
for my father. Still, if you wish it, sir."

" I think I do wish it. A habit is a habit. The name
may slip out at a wrong moment, and then — my God, think
what would happen then ! "

*' Don't excite yourself, sir. Esther Helps is never
likely to forget herself. Still I see the sense of your wishes.
You are Brother Jerome to me always from this out. And
now, before I go any further, I want to state a fact. Brother
Jerome, you are ill."

" I am ill, Esther. Ill, nigh unto death."

** My God, yoa shan't die ! "

" Hush ; the question of dying does not rest with you
or me. 1 want to die, so probably I shall live,"

./ LIFE FOR A LOVE,

2/3

* You look like dyiug. Does Cherry feed you well ? "

"Better than well. I want for nothing."

" Is your fire kept up all night ? "

" Esther, 1 have not come to requiring a night nurse yet.
My fire goes out in th(.' early hours before the dawn."

'■' I'he coldest part of die twenty-four hours. Brother
Jerome, you must give up visiting in East London at
present."

" No, not while I can crawl. You forget that on a
certain night I surrendered my body as well as my spirit
to tiie service of comfort. While I can comfort others I will.
There is nothing else left to me."

"Then, sir, you will die — you will deliberately kill your-
self."

" No, T tried that once. I won't again. Esther, what is
tlie matter ? You are a good girl. It is a mistake for you
to waste your pity on me."

" You must forgive me, sir. Pity comes to one unbid-
den. Pity — and — and sympathy. If you get worse, 1 shall
leave my situation and come home and nurse you."

'' Then you will indeed kill me. You will take away my
last hoi)e. My one goblet of new wine will be denied me.
Then I shall truly die. Esther, what is your budget of news ?
How is my wife ? Begin — go on — tell me everything."

" Mrs. Wyndham is well, sir."

*' Well ? Do you mean by that that she is happy? Does
she laugh much ? Does she sing ? "

"Sometimes she laughs. Once I heard her sing."

" Only once, Esther ? She had a very sweet voice. I
used sometimes to tell her that it was never silent."

" Once, sir, I heard her sing."

'* Oh, once ? Was it a cheerful song ? "

" It was on a Sunday evening. She was singing to your
little boy. I think she sang the ' Happy Land.' I don't
quite remember. I came to fetch the boy to bed, and she

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974

A LIl'E FOR A LOVE,

was singing to him. She look lier hands off the piano
suddenly when I came in, and tlic e were tears in her eyes."

"Tears? She was always sensitive to music. And yet
you say she does not look sad."

** I should not call her sad, Brother Jerorne. Her face
is calm and quiet. I think she is a very good young lady."

" You need r.ot tell me that, Esther ; you managed very
well about the boy."

••Thank you, sir. I think I did. What did you feel
when you saw him, sir? "

•• Rai)ture. All my blood flowed swiftly. I lived and
breathed. I had an exquisite five minutes."

*• The boy is not like his mother, sir."

" No, nor like me. He resembles my sister Lilia.s.
Esther, I must see him again."

•• You shall, by-and-bye, but not too soon. We must
not run any risks."

" Certainly not. I will have much patience. Hold out
the hope only, and I will" cling to it indefinitely."

" You shall see th6 child again, Brother Jerome."

•• God abundantly bless you. Now go on. Tell me more.
How does my wife spend her time? Has she many
visitors?"

*' Somrtimes her father."

'• Only sometimes: ? They used to be inseparable."

" Not now, sir. There is something wrong between
them. When they meet they are constrained with one
another, and they don't meet very often. I have orders,
though, to take the child every morning to see Mr. Paget."
■ *• Have you ? I am sorry for that. He kisses my son,
does he ? "

"Yes, sir. He seems wtapped up in him ; lie "

" Don't talk of him. That subject turns my blood into
vinegar. Go on. TeU me niore. What other visitor has
my wife ?

.-/ l.n-r. FOR A LOVE.

275

" Sometimes your sister, Miss Lilias Wyndham."

" My sir.ter ? Esther, you don't know what that name
recalls. All the old innocent days ; the little hymns before
we went Xo bed, and the little prayers at our mother's knee.
1 don't think I can bear to hear much about Lilias ; but I
am glad she loves my wife."

" She does, sir. She is devoted to Mrs. Wyndham. I don't
think any other visitors come except Mr. Carr."

" Adrian Carr, a clergyman ? "

Wyndham's tone had suddenly become alert and wake-
ful.

" I believe the gentleman's name is the Rev. Adrian Carr,
Brother Jerome."

" Why do you speak in that guarded voice, Esther?
Have you anything to conceal? "

" No, sir, no. Don't excite yourself. I conceal nothing ;
he comes, that is all."

" But surely, not often ? He is my father's curate ; he
( annot often come to London."

" He is not Mr. Wyndham's curate now, sir ; he has a
church of his own, St. Jude's they call it, at the corner of
Duller-street."

" And he comes constantly to my house ? To — to see
my wife ? " •

" Your — your widow, sir."

'' God help me, Esther ! God help me ! How am I
to endure this! My ])Oor — my beloved — my sweet- -and
are you exposed to this ? Esther, Esther, this care turns
nic into a madman."

"You must stay quiet, Brother Jerome. Mr. Carr comes,
and your — your widow sees him."

" Do you think she likes him ? "

" Oh, sir, I would rather die than have to tell it to you."

" I cannot listen to your sentimentalisms. Does my wife
seem happy when Adrian Carr calls upon her? "

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" 1 thiiik she ib iiUcrcsiou ii liiin, lirother Jerotnc.*'

" Does f Jie see liini .iIdiio ? "

"Ofteii alone."

" And you say siic seems pleased? "

" I think so. li is in(:onij)iclK'n sible tome."

" Never mind whether you understand it or not. Do
you know that by this news you are turning me into a
devil? ril risk everything — everything. I'll expose the
whole vile conspiracy if my wife is entrapped into engaging
herself to Adrian Carr."

Brother Jerome was no longer a weak-looking invalid;
he began to pace his attic floor ; a fire burnt in his sunken
eyes, and he clenched his thin hands. For the time he was
strong.

" Listen to me, Esther Helps. My wife shall vm no risk
of that kind. It was in the contract that t/tat should be
prevented. I sinned for her — yes, I willingly sinned for
her — but she shall never sin for me. Rather than that we'll
all go to penal servitude. I, and your father, and her
father/'

" Do quiet yourself, Mr. Wyndham. There may be
nothing in what I told you."

Esther felt really frightened.

" Perhaps the gentleman comes to see your sister, Miss
Wyndham. He certainly comes, but — but "

" Esther, the whole thing must be put a stop to — the faint-
est shadow of risk must not be run. My wife thinks herself
a widow, but she must retain the feelings of a wife. It must
be impossible for her, while I live, to think of another
man."

•' Can you not bring yourself back to her memory, sir ?
Is there no way ? "

*' That is a good thought. Don't speak for a little. Let
me think."

Wyndham continued to pace the floor. Esther softly
built up the fire with trembling fingers. In this mood she

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

277

was afraid of Wyndham. That fire in his eyes was now to
her. She was cowed — she shivered. With her mental
vision she already saw her grey-headed father in the pri-
soner's dock.

'* Esther," said Wyndham, coming up to her suddenly,
" I have thought of a plan. It won't implicate anyone,
and if a chord in Valentine's heart still beats true lo juo
this must touch it. At what hour docs Carr generally call
to see my wife ? "

" He is a busy man ; he comes mostly at night, about
nine o'clock. He has a cup of tea, and goes away at ten.
When Miss Wyndham is there he sometimes stays on till
nearly eleven."

" He comes every night ? "

** Almost every night."

** And he leaves at ten ? "

** A few minutes after ten. When the deck strikes ten
it seems to be a sort of a signal to him, and he gets up and
goes away."

"Thank you. Ten, then, will be the hour. Esther, some-
thing else may happen at ten of the clock. You need not
look so white. I said no risk would be run. It is po.ssible,
however, that my wife may be agitated. No, you don't
suppose I am going to reveal myself to her — nothing of the
sort. Still, something will happen which may break down
her nerve and her calm. In that case she may even appeal
to you, Esther, you will be very guarded. You must re-
member that on the success of this scheme of mine depends
your father's safety, for if she engages herself to Carr I
swear by the God above me that we three, Paget, your
father, and I, go to prison."

" Sir, I must own that I feel dreadfully frightened."

" Poor Esther ! And you don't deserve it, for you are
the best of girls and quite innocent. But that is ever the
way, The innocent bear the sins of the guilty. In this

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278

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

matter, however, Esther, you must trust me, and keep your
own counsel. Now, I want to know if you have any money
you can lend nie ? "

**I have two sovereigns in my purse, sir. Will that
do?"

" Plentifully. I will tell you what I want the money
for. I want to hire a violin — a good one. Once, Esther,
I used to express my feelings through the violin. Tt talked
for me. It revealed some of the tortures of my soul. The
violin shall speak again and to my wife, Now you are pre-
pared at all points. Good-bye. Be as brave as you are
good, and the worst tnay be averted."

■.,.a ^'

A LIFE FOR A LOVJ>,

in Will that

CHAPTER XLV.

On the following night, as Esther was preparing to go to
bed, the nursery door was suddenly opened and Mrs.
Wyndham entered.

" Esther," she said, " I want baby."

" He ir, sound asleep, madam. You would not wake
him ? "

" He can be moved without disturbing him. I want
him to sleep in my bed. I want his company. My little
child ? "

She was trembling. She caught hold of tlie rails of the
baby's cot.

" Little children are sacred innocent things, aren't they,
nurse? I want my little child to-night."

" Strange," thought Esther. " I listened with all my
might, and I could not hear anything except the usual
barrel organs and German bands in the street. But she
has heard something, there isn't a doubt. How queer and
shaken she looks. Poor young thing, I do pity her ; she
can't help thinking she is a widow when she is a wife."

Aloud Esther complied with Mrs. AVyndham's request
cheerfully,

" Certainly, madam. The child will never know that
we are moving him. If you will go on to your room,
ma'am, I'll follow with master baby."

Mrs. Wyndham turned away at once.

When the nurse entered her mistress' room with the
child, there was a soft nest made in the big bed to receive
him, and the fire in the grate cast a cheerful glow over
everything.

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2$0

A LIFE fOK A LOVE.

. V i :■'.

** Let me kiss him," said the mother. " My darling, my
beloved. I'll take him into my arms presently, nurse, and
then all fears will fly away." *

" Fears, Mrs. Wyndham ? No one ought to fear in this
cheerful room."

" Perhaps not, nurse ; but sometimes I amsupcrslilious
— painfully so. Yes, put baby there. Is he not a hand-
some boy? Although I could wish he were more like his
f:ithcr."

" He seems to feature your sister-in law, Miss Lilias
Wyndham, madam."

" How queer that you should find that out ! He is not
like what Lilias is now, but they all say she was just such
another little child. Nurse, I hate high winds — there is
going to be a storm to-night."

" Would you like me to sleep on the sofa in your room,
madam ? "

" Yes, no— yes, oh, yes."

" I will bring a shawl, and wrap it round me and lie
down."

" No, don't, nurse, don't. I must not yield to this name-
less thing. I must — I will be brave. And the child, my
own little child, will comfort me."

" What is the nameless thing, dear madam?"

*' I cannot — I won't speak of it. Esther, are you — are
you go i/ig ? '*

** Certainly not, Mrs. Wyndham. I mean, not yet."

*' That is right. Take this chair; warm yourself. Esther,
I don't look on you as an ordinary nurse. Long ago I
used to be so much interested in you."

** It was very kind of you, madam ; young ladies, as a
rule, have no time to interest themselves in poor girls."

" But I had plenty of time, and did interest myself. My
father was always so much attached to yours. I was an only
child, and you wore an only child. I used to wonder if

.i.^'-^^

J LIFE FOR A LOVE.

fVX

t fo fear in this

w, Miss Lilias

111 your room,

nie and lie

you and your father cared for each other as passionately,
as loyally, as I and my father cared."

"• I don't know that, madam ; we did love each other.
Our love remains unchanged. True love ought never to
change, ought it ? "

'* It ought never to change," repeated Mrs. Wyndham.
Her face grew white, her lips trembled. " Sometimes true
love is killed by a blow," she said suddenly. Then her
expression changed again, she tried to look cheerful. " I
won't talk any more. I am sleepy, and that nest near
baby looks inviting. Good-night, dear nurse."

" Let me undress you, ma'am. Let me see you in your
nest beside the child."

*' No. Go now. Or rather — rather — stay a moment or
two longer. Esther, had.you ever the heartache ? "

" There are a few women, madam, who don't know what
the heartache means."

*' I suppose that is true. Once I knew nothing about it,
Esther, you are lucky never to have married."

Esther Helps made no response.

" To marry — to love — and then to lose," dreamily
murmured Mrs. Wyndham. "To love, and then to lose.
Esther, it is a dreadful thing to be a widow when you are
young."

" But the widow can become a wife again," suddenly re-
plied Esther.

The words seemed forced from her lips ; she was sorry
the moment she had uttered them.

Mrs. Wyndham. opened her big eyes wide.

** I suppose the widows who can become wives again
have not lost much," she responded in a cold voice.

Then she moved over to the bedside and began to un-
dress.

A few moments later Esther left her. She felt puzzled,
perplexed, unhappy. She had no key to the thoughts which

lii:

2da

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

were passing in her mistress' mind. Her impression was
that Valentine loved Carr, but felt a certain shame at the
fact.

The next evening the vicar of St. Jude's called again.
He came hurriedly lo the door, ran up the stairs without
being shown the way, and entered Valentine's presence
with a brisk step. Esther leant over the banisters to walch
him as he entered the drawing-room. It was half-past nine
when he arrived ; he had been conducting a prayer meeting
and was later than usual.

The drawing-room door was shut on the two, and Esther,
who had been sitting with the child, now crept softly
downstairs and entered a smaH bed-room at the back of
the drawing-room. This bed-room also* looked on the
street. It was the room occupied by Lilias when she visited
her sister-in-law. Esther closed the door softly behind her.
The room was dark. She went up to the window and look-
ed eagerly up and down the gaily-lighted street.

She could distinguish no words, but the soft murmur of
voices came to her through the drawing-room wall.

'* You are better to-night ? " said Carr, in a cheery, con-
fident tone ; " although you took it upon yourself to disobey
me."

" I could not go to the prayer-meeting. I could not."

" Well, well, you must act as you think best ; only I
don't think staying at home is the best thing for you."

" Oh, I shan't get over-nervous ; and Lilias is coming to
me next week."

Carr's eyes brightened.

"That is good," he said. " Well, I must not stay. I
just looked in for a moment. I knew you would not let
these superstitious fears get the better of you. Good-
night."

He held out his hand. Valentine put hers behind her.

" No," she said ; " you always stay until past ten. It

J y>-^ ^

A rriE FOR A LOVE, agj

was at ten o'clock last night " She trembled— more

words would not come.

" And I will stay until past ten to-night," responded Carr
resuming his seat. " Now, don*t look at the clock. Turn
your thoughts to me and my affairs. So Miss Wyndham
comes here next week ? "

"She does."

" Shall I put everything to the test, then ? "

Valentine's face grew bright.

" Oh how earnestly I wish you would," she cried, clasp-
ing her hands.

** Do you, indeed? Then you must think there is some
ciiance for me. Tlic fad is, Mrs. Wyndham, I am the
veriest coward that ever breathed. If I wm, I win for ever.
I mean that I am made, body, soul, and spirit If I lose, I
think morally I shall go under. A main spring will be
broken which has kept me right, kept my eyes looking
upwards ever since I knew your sister Lilias."

" But even if she refuses you, you will live on," said Va-
lentine, in a dreamy voice. " We often have to live on
when the main spring is broken. We creep instead of run-
ning, that is all."

" Now you are getting gloomy again. As your spiritual
adviser I cannot permit it. You have put a daring thought
into my head, and you are bound to think of me, not your-
self, at present. Will you sing something to me before I
go? You know Lilias' song of triumph ; you taught it to
her. Sing it to me to-night, it will be a good omen."

Valentine hesitated for a moment. Then she went over
to the piano and opened it. Her fingers touched one or
two chords tremblingly. Suddenly she stopped, her ftice
worked. She looked at Carr with a piteous expression.

" I cannot sing the triumph song," she said, " it is not
in me. I should do it no justice. This must take its place.
But it is not for you, remember. Oh, no, I pray God never
fpr you. Listen, don't scold me afterwards. Listen,"

i *

aS4

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

Her fingers ran over the keys, her voice swelled and filled
the room : —

** The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kinc,
Oh, Keith ot Kavclston,
The sorrows ot* thy line I

Ravelston, kavclston,

The merry path that leads
Down the gohlen niorniny hill,

And through the silver meads.

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother's kine^

The song that sang she.

She sang her song, she kept her kine,

She sat beneath the thorn,
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston

Rode through the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk belis ring.

His belted jewels shine —
O, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line I '*

** Now, good-night," said Valentine, springing to her
feet. " Don't question me about the song. I sang it, but
I cannot speak of it. The clock is aboiit lo strike. It is
your hour for farewell. Oh, yes, I wish you all luck — all

luck. The clock is striking ! Oh, what a noise there

is in the street ! "

" What a silence you mean," said Carr, as he took her
hand.

It was true. The thunderous rattle of a heavy waggon,
the discordant notes of a brass band, the din of a hurdy-
gurdy frightfully out of tune, suddenly stopped. It was as
if a wave of sound had been arrested, and in the quiet

\aJ^-

:Iled and filled

1 LIFE FOR A LOVE,

••S

floated up the passionate wail of a soul. There are no
other words to describe what the sound meant. It had a
voice and an interpretation. It was beautiful, but its
beauty was torture. Trembling in every limb, Valentine
sprang away from Carr, flew to one of the French windows,
wrested it open, and stepped on to the balcony. She was
in white, and the people in the street could see her. She
pressed to the front of the balcony and looked eagerly up
and down.

The wailing of the lost soul grew more feeble — more
faint. It stopped. There was a pause of half a minute,
and then the waggon lumbered on, and the hurdy-gurdy
crashed out its discordant notes.

*• I saw notliing," said Carr, who had followed Mrs.
Wyndham on to the ba'cony and now led her back to the
drawing-room. " I saw nothing," he repeated. " I mean,
1 did not see the man who played."

"But you heard?"

" Oh, yes, I heard."

" You could not sec. That was spirit music. My hus-
band played. Don't speak to me ; don't touch me ; you
tried to argue me out of my belief last night, but even^^w
heard to-night. My husband has come back in the spirit,
and he has played for me. Only he knows that air — only
he in all the world. That was * Waves.' Once I told you
the story of * Music waves.' "

She did not faint, she crouched down by the fire; but
no face to be alive could be whiter than hers.

'* What is the matter, Mr. Carr ? " she said suddenly.
" Why cannot my husband's spirit rest ? They say that
those spirits that are hurried out of life before their time
cannot rest. O, teli me what you think. O, tell me what
it means. You heard the music yourself to-night."

" I did. I certainly heard it."

" And at the same hour. When the clock struck."

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s86

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

i^^i.

; 'it * ■ ; ^

" That is a mere coincidence, not worth considering."

" I don't believe in its being a coincidence."

She beat her hands passionately together.

** The thing was planned — he planned it. He will come
again to-morrow night when the clock strikes ten."

Again she beat her hands together ; then she covered her
face with them.

Carr looked at her anxiously. The weird soft wailing
music had affected even his nerves. Of course he did not
believe in the supernatural element, but he was touched by
the distress of the woman who was crouching at his feet.
This mental unrest, this superstitious terror, might have a
disastrous effect. He must do his utmost to check it. If
necessary he must even be cruel to be kind.

" Mrs. Wyndham," he said, " you must go away to-
morrow ; you must go into the country for a few days."

" I will not. I won't stir a step."

*' You ought, your nerves are shaken. There is nothing
for shaken nerves like change of air. Go to Jewsbury-on-
the-Wold, and talk to Lilias. She, too, loved your husband ;
she will sympathize, but she will not lose sight of common-
sense."

** I will not stir from here."

" I think for your child's sake you ought. The child
belongs to your husband as well as you, to your dead
husband. The child is fatherless as far as this world is
concerned. You have no right — it is very, very wicked of
you to do anything to make him motherless."

" What do you mean ? Why do you speak to me in that
tone ? I don't deserve it."

" You do."

*' I think you are cruel."

Valentine's eyes filled 'vith sudden tears.

" What do you mean by saying that I will leave baby
ipotherless ? "

^.X^

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

9.%^

*' I mean that if you encourage llic faiu y which lias now
taken possession of you you arc exticnicly likely to loose
your senses — to become, in short, insane. How can you
train your child if you are insane ? " *

Valentine shuddered.

" But I did hear the music," she said. "The old story
music that he only played. How can I doubt the evidence
of my senses? Last night at ten o'clock I heard ' Waves '
played on the violin, my husband's favorite instrument —
the melody which he made, the harmony and melody with
all the passion and its story, whii-h he made about himself
and mc. No one else could produce those sounds. I
heard them last night at ten o'clock, you were here, but
you heard nothing. To-night there was silence in the
street, and we both heard — we both heard."

" I certainly heard some very melancholy music."

" Played on the violin ? "

" Yes, played on the violin."

** In short, you heard * Waves.' "

" I heard something which I never heard before. I can-
not tell the name."

*' No. What you heard was ' Waves,' in other words
the cry of a soul."

** Mrs. Wyndham, get up. Give me your hand. Look
me in the face. Now, that is better, I am going to talk
common-sense to you. You have been from the first im-
pressed with the idea that foul play was done to your
husband. For a time I own I shared your apprehension.
J. discovered one or two things in connection with his
death which far more than your words inclined me to this
belief. Since I came to London I have thought a great
deal over the matter. Last week a lucky chance brought
me in communication with Captain Jellyby of the Espe-
ranee. Ah, you start. I saw him. I think you would
like me to bring him here some night. He entered into

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J LIFE FOR A LOVE.

^^..

minute particulars of VVyndham's last days. He would
like to tell you the story himself. I can only say that a
fairer story could not be recorded of any man. He was
beloved by eve»y one on board the ship. ' We all loved
him,' said Captain Jellyby. * Emigrants, passengers, sail-
ors, all alike. Sir,' he said, * when Mr. Wyndham was
washed over, there wasn't a dry eye on board. But if ever
a man humbly and cheerfully went forth to meet his Crea-
tor, he was the man, sir. He met his death trying to help
the man at the wheel. Bless his heart, 'ne spent all his life
trying to help other people.* "

Valentine was silently crying.

" You comfort me," she said ; ** you comfort me much.
Go on."

'* That is all, my dear friend, that is all. It set my mind
at rest with regard to your husband. It ought to set yours
at rest also. He is a glorious and happy spirit in heaven
now. Is it likely that he would come back from there to
frighten you for no object or purpose? No, you must
dismiss the idea from your mind."

"But the music — the unearthly music."

** Played by a strolling musician with a talent for the
thing. That was all."

" His air and mine — * Waves.* The air that no one else
knew, that was never written down."

" You imagined the likeness to the air you mention.
Our imaginations play strange tricks with us. The air
played to-night r as of a very minor character, and had
notes in common with the one your husband composed.
Hence a fleeting resemblance. It is more natural and in
accordance with sense to believe this than to suppose that
your husband came back from heaven to torture you. Now,
good night. You are good. You will try and be brave.
I ask you to be brave for the sake of your noble husband's
child."

I -.a-'-

A UFE FOR A LOVE,

2S9

t me much.

CHAPTER XLVI.

As Carr was leaving tlie house he came across Esther,
who, very white, hut with a resolute look on her face, met
him on the stairs.

" How is my misiress, sir ? "

Carr felt nettled at lier :one.

" Why do you ask? " he said shortly ; " when last you
saw her I presume she was well."

''No, sir." ,

''No?"

Carr paused. He j^ave Esther a quick piercing look,
and his manner changed. Her face was strong, it couid be
relied on.

"You are the little boy's nurse, are you not? "

" I am, Mr. Carr."

" And you are attached to your mistress ? "

Esther hesitated.

" I — I am," she said, but her voice trembled.

" Mrs. Wyndham wants some one who can be kind and
sympathetic near her. wSomc one who can be tactful, and
full of common-sense. Her nerves are greatly shaken.
For instance she was much agitated at some music she
heard in the street to-night."

*' I heard it, sir. I was surprised. It wasn't like ordi-
nary music."

" Oh, you thouglit so, did you ? For heaven's sake
don't repeat your thoughts to Mrs. Wyndham. You look
a sensible young woman."

Esther dropped a curtsey.

** I hope I am," she said in a demure voice.

■ I

290

A LIFE I' OR A LOVE.

" Has your mistress a maid — a maid she likes ? "
• " No. I render her what little services are necessary."

" Can you stay in her room to-night? She ouglit not to
be alone.**

** I will sleep on the sofii in my mistress' room."

" 'J'hat is right. Don't allude to the music in the street
If you can help it."

Carr ran downstairs and went away, and Esther, slowly
ind liesitatingly, entered the drawing-room.

Mrs. Wyndham was standing with her two arms clasped
round her husband's violin. The tears were raining from
her eyes. Before she could disengage herself Esther saw
the action, and a queer pang, half of pleasure, half of pain,
shot through her. She saw at a glance that Gerald Wynd-
ham's wife cared for no one but her husband. She stepped
across the room quickly, and without any thought of the
familiarity of the action put her hand through her mistress'
arm, and led her towards the door.

"Come,' she said, "you are tired and weak. Master
baby is in his r.est, and he wants you. Come, I am going
to put you to bed."

Valentine raised no objection. She was trembiing and
cold. The tears were undried on her cheeks ; the look of
infinite pathetic patience in her eyes almost crushed Esther
Helps.

" What a fool I was to suppose she didn't love her hus-
band," she murmured. " As if any woman could Le much
with him and not love him. Ah, lucky Mrs. Wyndham —
notwithstanding all your sorrow you are the woman I envy
iiiost on earth."

Valentine did not object to her maid's attentions. She
felt shaken and worn out, and was glad passively to sub-
mil. When she was in bed she spoke for the first time.

" Esther, get a shawl, and lie here, outside the clothes.
It comforts me to iiave you near."

ij'J

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

291

Esther obeyed without any comment. She wrapped a
thick shawl around her, and lay down near the edge of the
big bed. Valentine took her little rosy boy into her arms.

" Now you must go to sleep, Mrs. Wyndham," said the
maid, and she resoKitely shut her own dark eyes.

For an hour she lay motionless, every nerve keenly
awake, and on tension. For an hour she never lifted her
eyelids. At the end of that time she opened them, and
glanced at her mistress. Valentine was lying as still as if
she were carved in marble. Her eyes were wide open.
They were looking straight before her out into the big
room. She scarcelv seemed to breathe, and never saw
Esther when she glanced at her.

" This won't do," thought the maid. '* Poor little soul,
she has got an awful shock. She will be very ill if I don't
do something to rouse and interest her. I know she
loves her husband — I will speak of him."

Esther moved on purpose somewhat aggressively. Val-
entine's wide-open eyes never flinched or changed their
expression. The maid touched her mistress on the
shoulder.

" This isn't good of you," she said ; " you ought to be
asleep."

Valentine started and shivered violently.

" I thought I was asleep," she said. " At any rate I was
far away."

" When people sleep they shut their eyes," quoth
Esther.

" Were mine open ? I did not know it. I was looking
at a picture — a picture in real life. It was lovely."

" I like beautiful pictures," said Esther. " Tell me what
you saw."

By this time these two women had forgotten the relative
positions they bpre to each other. Valentine observed
no familiarity in Esther's tone. Esther spoke and thought

i I

£ I

} i '

I!' I

292

/* LIFE FOR A LOVE,

as though she were Vcalen tine's social equal. She knew
she was above her mentally just then ; it was necessary
for her to take the lead.

"Tell me what you saw, madam," she said. " Describe
your beautiful picture."

Valentine obeyed with the docility of a child.

" It was a seaside picture." she began. ** The sun was
setting, and there was a path of light across the waters.
Tlie path seemed to go right up inlo the sky, and melt,
and end there. x-Vnd I — I thought of Jacob's ladder, from
earth to heaven, and the angels walking up and down.
On the shore a man and a girl sat. He had his arm round
her waist ; and she was filling her hands with the warm
soft sand and letting it dribble away through her fingers.
She was happy. She felt warm and contented, and pro-
tected against the whole world. Although she did not
know that she loved it so much, it was the arm that
encircled her that gave her that feeling."

Valentine stopped suddenly.

" That was a pretty picture, madam," said Esther. " A
pretty picture, and you described it well. I suppose the
gentleman was the girl's lover or husband."

" Her lover and husband in one. They were married.
They sat like that once during their honeymoon. Presently
he, the husband, took up his violin, which he had beside
him, and began to play."

** Don't go into the music part, please, Mrs. Wyndham,
I want just to keep to the picture alone. I want to guess
something. I am good at guessing. You were the happy
young girl."

** I was ; oh, I was."

•' And the gentleman was your husband ; yes, your
husband, whom you dearly loved."

'* Don't talk of him, he is lost, gone< Esther, I'm ^
miserable, miserable woman,"

II: I

.t LIFE I' OR A JOVE.

She knew
necessary

" Describe

le sun Was
the waters,
and melt,
dderi from
nd down,
arm round
the Warm
er fingers,
and ])ro-
e did not
arm that

her. " A
>pose the

married.
Presently
d beside

yndham,
to guess
le happy

Js, your
, I'm a

Her icy quiet was broken up. Long-drawn sobs escaped
her ; she shivered as she wept.

" It is an awful thing to love too late— to love loo late,"
she moaned.

" Madam, I'm going to give you some sal-volatile and
water : when you have taken it you shall tell me the whole
story from first to last. Ves, you had better ; you have
said too much or too little. I may be able to comfort von
if I know all."

Esther administered the restorative. When tlie distress-
ful sobs were quieted, and Mrs. Wyndham lay back
exhausted on her pillow, she took her hand, and said with
infinite tact and tenderness : —

*'You love him you have lost very deeply. Is that not
so?"

" Beyond words to describe."

" You were young when you were married, Mrs. Wynd-
ham ; you are a very young woman still. Perhaps, as a
young girl, as almost a child-girl, you did not know what
great love meant."

'* I always knew what great love meant. As a little girl
I used to idolize my fiither. I remember when I was very
young, not much older than baby here, lying down on the
floor and kissing the carpet over which his steps had walked.
I used to steal into his study and sit like a mouse ; perfectly
happy while I was walching hin). When I saw his face
that was bliss ; when he took me in his arms I thought
Heaven could give me no more. You are an only child,
Esther Helps. Did you feel like that for your father ? "

" No, madam, I always loved my father after a quiet
fashion ; I love him after a quiet fashion still. That kind
of intense love Tdid not know And you feel it still for
Mr. Paget? I suppose it is natural. He is a handsome
gentleman ; he has a way about him that attracts people.
For instance, my father would do anything for ]»im. It is

. i*

294

A LIFE FOU A LOVE,

still bliss to you, Mrs. Wyndham, to watch yout father's
face."

" Come near to me, Esther ; let me whisper to you.
That love which I thought unquenchable is — dead ! "

" Madam, you astonish me 1 Dead ? "

"It died, Esther Helps, on the morning ray husband
sailed away."
• " Then you only love your husband now ? "

" I love many people. For instance, this little child ;
for instance, my sister Lilias. What I feel for my husband
is high above all these things. I cannot describe it. It
lies here — in my heart — and my heart aches, and aches."

'* It would make Mr. Wyndham very happy to hear
you," said Esther.

Her words were unguarded. Valentine began to sob
feebly.

" He can never hear me," she said. " That is ♦ihe dread-
ful part. I loved him when we were married, but I did
not know it. Then the knowledge came to me, and I was
so happy. One evening I told him so. I said, ' I love
you ! ' I shall never forget his face. Often he was sad,
but his face seemed to shine when I said those words, and
he took me in his arms, and I saw a little way into the
depth of his great heart. Soon after that something hap-
pened — I am not going to tell it, it doesn't matter — please
don't hold my hand, Esther. It is very queer that you
should be with me to-night."

'* Why, dear madam ? Don't you like to have me with
you ? "

" I think I do. I really quite think I do. Still it is
strange that you should be here."

" Your story interests me wonderfully, Mrs. Wyndham.
Will you tell me more ? "

" There is not a great deal to tell. For a time I misun-
derstood my husband, and the love which really filled my

I.J.')-*'

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

295

ouf father^s

>er to you.
;ad ! "

iy husband

^\q child ;
>y husband
ibe it. It
d aches."
y to hear

an to sob

♦:he dread-
but I did
md I was
. * I love
was sad,
ords, and
r into the
»ng hap-
' — please
that you

heart seemed to go back and back and back like the
waves when the tide is going out. Then the time came
for him to go to Sydney. He could nor say good-bye ; he
wrote good-bye. He said a strange thing in the middle of
the letter ; he asked me if I really loved him to join him the
next morning on board the Esperance. Loved him ! Of
course I loved him ! I was so relieved. Everything was
made clear to me. He was first — all others everywhere
were second. My father came in, and I told him what I
meant to do. He was angry, and tried to dissuade me.
When he saw that I would not yield he api)earcd to
consent, and promised go with me the next morning to
Southampton. The Esperance was not to sail until noon.
There seemed lots of time. Still, for the first time, I began
to doubt my father. I determined not to wait for the train
he had arranged to travel by with me, but to go down by
a much earlier one. I went to Southampton with a Ger-
man maid I had at the time. We arrived there at eight in
the morning, we rei^ched the docks soon after nine, the
Esperance was away — she had sailed at eight. Don't ques-
tion me about that day, Esther Helps. It was on that day
my love for my father died."

me with

itiil it is

ndham.

misun-
lied my

;»

996

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

'r:m.

■'.■■ ;f| M-

..■^■:;«i#H

CHAPTER XLVII.

It was nearly morning before Mrs. Wyndham fell asleep.
Before then, Esther had said a good deal.

" I am not surprised at your loving your husband," she
began. *' Men like your husband are worth loving. They
are loyal, true, and noble. They make the world a better
place. Once your husband helped me. I am going to
tell you the story.

" Three years ago, Mrs. Wyndham, I was a very different
girl from the one who now is by your side. I was hand-
some, and vain, and empty-headed. I thought most of
dress and of flirting. I had the silliest form of ambition. I
wanted to be a gentleman's wife. My mother had been a
lady by birth, and I thought it was only due to me to be
the same. My only chance of becoming a lady was by
marrying a gentleman, and I thought surely someone would
be found who would make me his wife for the sake of my
handsome face. I had nothing else to recommend me,
Mrs. Wyndham, for I was empty-headed and untrained, and
I had a shallow, vulgar soul.

" One day I was skating in Regent's Park with some
friends. I fell on the ice and hurt my foot. A gentleman
picked me up. I looked into his face in the bold way I
had, and then all of a sudden I felt ashamed of myself, and
I looked down, and a modest, humble womanly feeling
crept over me. The gentleman was your husband, Mr.
Wyndham ; the expression on his face impressed me, and
I could not forget it. He came to our house that evening
and brought a book to my father, and a present of lowers
from you to me. I felt quite silent and queer when he was

i^i«^

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

897

Tell asleep.

and," she
>g. They
a better
going to

different
k^as hand-
most of
bition. I
d been a
me to be
'' was by
ie would
e of my
end nie,
^ed, and

h some
itleman
I way I
2lf, and
feeh'ng
d, Mr.
le, and
i^ening
lowers
he was

in the room ; I did not talk, but I listened to every word
he said. He was so uncommon. I thought what a clergy-
man he'd make, and how, if he were as eloquent in his
words as in his looks, he might make us all good in spite
of ourselves. He made a great impression on me, and I did
not like to think my low silly thouglits after he had gone.

" Soon .afterwards I made the acquaintance of a Captain
Herriot, in the — th Hussars ; he was a very fine gentleman,
and had very fine words, and although I did not love him a
bit nor a scrap, he turned my head with his flattery. He
did go on about my face — I don't know how I ever was
goose enough to believe him. He managed to get my
secrets out of me though, and when I told him that I meant
to be a gentleman's wife some day, he said that he was the
gentleman, and that I should marry him, and him alone. I
thought that would be fine, and I believed him. He made ,
all arrangements — oh, how I hate to think of what I after-
wards saw was his real meaning.

'* I was not to let out a thing to my father, and on a cer-
tain night wc were to go together to the Gaiety, and he was
to take me home afieiwards, and the next morning we were
to go to church and be married. He showed me the
license and the ring, and I believed everything, and thought
it would be fine to be the wife of Captain Herriot.

" 1 ke])t my secret from my father, but Cherry, a cousin
who lives with us, got some of it out of me, for I was mad
with vain triumph, and it was indirectly through her that
I came to be delivered. The in'ght arrived, and I went
away from my home thinking how proudly I'd come back
to show myself in a day or two; and how Cherry would
open her eyes when I told her I was the wife of Captain
Herriot, of the — th Hussars. I reached the th -atre, and
Captain Herriot gave me his arm, and led me into the house,
and we took our places in the stalls. People turned and
looked at me, and Captain Herriot said it was no wonder,

■i

398

A LIFi FOR A LOVE,

for I was the most beautiful woman in the Gaiety that
night.

" Then the curtain rose, the house was darkened, and
some one took the empty stall at my other side. I turned
my head, Mr. Wyndham was sitting near mc. He said a
courteous word or two. I bowed my head ; I could not
speak. Madam, I did not see that play ; I was there,
looking on, but I saw nothing. Captain Herriot whispered
in my ear ; I pushed away from him. Suddenly he was
horrible to me. I felt like a girl who was placed between
an angel and a devil. Instantly the mask fell from my
eyes. Captain Herriot meant to ruin me, never to marry
me. Mr. Wyndham scarcely said a word to me till the
play was over, then he spoke,

" * Your father wants you,' he said. * Here is a cab,
get into it. I will take you to your father.'

*• He spoke out, quite loud and clear. I thought Cap-
tain Herriot would have fought him. Not a bit of it. His
face turned an ugly color. He took off his hat to me, and
slunk away through tlie crowd. That was the last straw.
He had not even spirit to fight for the girl who thought
she was about to become his wife.

" Mr. Wyndliam got on the box of the cab, and took
me to Mr. Paget's offices. My old father came out, and
helped me out of the cab, and put his arms round me.
He wrung Mr. Wyndham's hand, and said * God bless you,
sir ; ' and then he led me inside, and told me how Cherry
had betrayed me, and how he (my father) had taken that
stall ticket intending to sit beside me that night, and give
Captain Herriot a blow in his face afterwards, as he was
known to be one of the greatest scoundrels going. Press-
ing business kept my father at the office that night, and
Mr. Wyndham promised to go in his place.

** * There isn't another young gentleman who would do
it,' said my father. * No not another.'

.-•il>=

»ety that

"ed, and
I turned
Ic said a
ould not
IS there,
hispered
y he was

between
roin my

o marry
till the

a cab,

ht Cap-
it. His
*ie, and
'■ straw,
bought

A LlPk FOR A LOVE.

'* After that, madam, 1 was changed ; yes, a good bit.
1 thought I'd live more worthy. Mr. Wyiidham's face
tised to come between me and frivolous ways and \ain
sins. It seemed as if liis were the iiand to lead me up.
You don't mind, do you, madam, that he siiould iuive
rescued one poor girl from the pit of destruction, and
that she should love him— ycs| love him for what he has
done ? ••

" Oh, Esther, do I mind ? Come here, Esther, come
here. Let me put my arms round you. Kiss me. You
have lifted something from my heart — iiow much you can
never know. Esther, / was at the Gaiety that night, and
I saw my husband with you, and I — I doubted him."

" Madam — you f" Esther sprang away — her whole face
became crimson.

** I did, Esther ; and that was when my love went away

like the tide going out ; but now — now Esther, lie

down. Let me hold your hand. I am sleepy. I can
sleep sweetly now.'*

J took
it, and
id me.

f you,
'berry
1 that
I give
e was
*ress-
and

ddo

ii:

ym^"

iOO

M LIFE I'VK A LOVE.

CHAPTER XLVIIL

When the wandering minstrel, witli his violin under his
arm, left the neighborhood of Park-lane, he walked with a
somewliat feeble and faltering step through Grosvenor-
square and into Bond-street. A few people looked at him
as he passed, and a hungry-looking girl who was leaning
against a wall suddenly asked him to play for her. He
stopped at the sound of her voice and said a word or Iw(j.

*' I am sorry my violin only knows one air, and 1 have
])layed it."

"Can you not play it again? "

•' It is not meant for you, poor girl. Good-night."

"Good-night, kind sir. I'll say a prayer for you if you
like ; you l(»ok miserable enough."

The minstrel removed his soft hat, made a gesture of
thanks, and hurried on. He was going to Queen's Gate.
The walk was long, and he was very feeble. He had a few
coins in his pocket from the change of Esther's sovereigns ;
he determined to ride, and mounted on the roof of a Ham-
mersmith omnibus in Piccadilly.

By-and-byc he reached his destination, and found him-
self in familiar ground. He walked slowly now, hesitating
— sometimes inclined to turn back. Presently he reached
a house ; he went up the steps, and took shelter for a
moment from the biting east winds under the portico. It
was late, but the lights were still shining in the great man-
sion.

He was glad of this ; he could not have done what he
meant to do except under strong excitement, and sheltered
by the friendly gas light. He turned and gave the visitor's

W Ltlli i'OR .1 lOl'i:,

lot

bell a full peal. The door was opened almost instantly by
a liveried footman.

" Is Mr. Paget within ? "

The man stared. The voice was not only refined, but to
a certain extent familiar. The voice, oii, yes ; but then
the figure, the thin, long reed-like hgurc, slouching forward
with weakness, buttoned up light in iKc seedy frock coat
whose better days must have been a matter of the very
distant past. •

"Is Mr. Paget within?"

The tone was so assured and even peremptory that the
servant, in spite of himself, was overawed.

*' I believe so, sir," he said.

"Ask if I can see him.'*

" Mr. Paget is not very well, sir, and it is late."

'' Ask if I can see him."

The footman turned a little surly.

" I'll inquire," he said ; " he's sure to say no, but I'll
inquire. Your name, if you please. My master will
require to kno'v your name."

" I am known as Brother Jerome. Tell your master
that my business is urgent. Go ; I am in a hurry."

" Rum party, that," murmured the servant. *• Don't
understand him ; don't like him. All the same, I can't
shut the door in his face. He's the sort of party as has
seen better days ; *ope as the umbrellas is safe."

Then he walked across the hall and entered his master's
study.

The room, with its old oak and painted glass, and elec-
tric light, looked the perfection of comfort. The tall,
white-headed man who sat crushed up in the big arm-chair
was the envied of many.

" If you please, sir," said the servant.

" Yes ; don't leave the door open. Who were you chat-
ting to in the hall ? "

(I !

$(!

302

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

** A man Who has called, and wants to see you very par^
ticular, sir."

" I can't see him."

*' He says his name is Brother Jerome."

" I can't see him. Go away, and shut the door."

** I knew it would be no use," muttered the footman.
*' Only he seems a*sort of a gentleman, sir, and in trouble
like."

" I can*t see him. Shut the cfoor and go away 1 *'

" Yes, you can see me," said a voice.

The minstrel walked into the room.

" Good heavens ! "

. <;•. V, I'^if

V'-mi

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

303

CHAPTER XLIX.

At the sound of his voice the footman fell back as white
as a sheet. Mr. Paget rose, walked over to him, took him
by the shoulders, and pushed him out of the room. He
locked the door behind him. Then he turned, and back-
ing step by step almost as far as the window, raised his
hands, and looked at his forbidden visitor with a frozen
expression of horror.

Wyndham took his hat off and laid it on the table. Mr.
Paget raised his heinds, covered his face with them, and
groaned.

" Spirit ! " he said. '* Spirit, why have you come to tor-
ment me before the time ? "

'* I am no spirit," replied Wyndham, " I am a living man
— a defrauded and injured man — but as much alive as you

are.

" It is false — don't touch me — don't come a step nearer
— you are dead — you have been dead for the last three
years. On the 25th April, 18 — , you committed suicide by
jumping into the sea ; you did it on purpose to revenge
yourself, and since then you have haunted me, and made
my life as hell. I always said, Wyndham, you would make
an awful ghost — you do, you do."

" I am not a ghost," said Wyndham. " Touch me, and
you will see. This wrist and hand are thin enough, but
they are alive. I fell into the sea, but I was rescued. I
came to you to-night — I troubled you to-night because you

have broken our contract, because What is the

matter ? Touch me, you will see I am no ghost."

Wyndham came nearer ; Mr. Paget uttered a piercing
shriek.

'8 I'l

•n

, • r*.

304

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

** Don't — don't ! " he implored. " You are a lying
spirit ; you have often lied — often — to me. You want to
take me with you ; you know if you tou':h me I shall have
to go. Don't — oh, I beseech of you, leave me the lit'le time
longer that I've got to live. Don't torment me before the
time."

He dropped on his knees ; his streaming while hair fell
behind him, his hands were raised in supplication.

" Don't," said Wyndham, terribly distressed. " You
have wronged me bitterly, but I, too, am a sinner ; I would
not willingly hurt mortal on this earth. Get up, don't de-
grade yourself. I am a living man like yourself. I have
come to speak to you of my wife — of Valentine."

** Don't breathe her name. I lost her through you. No,
you are dead — I have murdered you — ^your blcod is on my
soul — ^but I won't go with you yet, not yet. Ha ! ha ! I'll
outwit you. Don't touch me ! "

He gave another scream, an awful scream, half of
triumph, half of despair, sprang to the door, unlocked it
and vanished.

Wyndham took up his violin and left the house.

'* Mad, poor fellow ! " he muttered to himself. *' Who'd
have thought it ? Even from a worldly point of view what
fools people are to sin ! What luck does it ever bring
them? He made me his accomplice, his victim, in order
to keep his daughter's love, in order to escape dishonor
and penal servitude. He told me the whole story of that
trust money — to be his if tliere was no cliiid — to be
kept for a child if there was. He was a good fellow
before he get the trust money I have no doubt. The friend
died, and soon afterwards Paget learned tlat he had left a
son behind him. Mr. Paget told mc — how well I remem-
ber his face when he told me how he felt about liie son,
who was then only an infant, but to v/hom he must deliver
the tiMst money when he canfje of a^je. * \ wanted that

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

305

money badly,' he said, * and I resolved to suppress the
trust papers and use the money. I thought the chances
were that the child would never know.*"

The chances, however, were against Mr. Paget. The
friend who had left him tlie money in trust had not so ab-
solutely believed in him as he supposed. He had left du-
plicate papers, and these papers were in the boy's posses-
sion. One day Mr. Paget learned this fact. When he
knew this he knew also that when his friend's son came of
age he should have to repay the trust with interest; in
short, he would have to give the young man the enormous
sum of eighty thousand pounds or be branded as a thief
and a criminal.

" I remember the night he told me this story," concluded
Wyndham with a sigh.

He was walking slowly now in the direction of the Em-
bankment.

" So the plot was made up," he continued. " The insur-
ance on my life was to pay back the trust. Valentine
would never know her father's dishonor. She would con-
tinue to love him best of all men, and he would escape
shame, ruin — penal servitude. How have matters turned
out ? For the love of a woman I performed my part : for
the love of a woman and self combined, he performed his*
How has he fared ? The woman ceases to love him, and
he is mad. I — how have matters fared with me ? How ?
The wages of sin are hard. I saw a sight to-night which
might well Uirn a stronger brain than mine. I saw my wife,
and the man who may soon be her husband. I must not
dwell on that, I dare not."

Wyndham walked on, a burning fever gave him false
strength. He reached the Embankment and presently sat
down near a girl who looked even poorer and more miser-
able than himself. There were several men and girls occu-
pying the same bench. It was a bitter cold, frosty night j

3o6

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

all the seats along the Embankment were full, some poor
creatures even lay about on the pavement. Wyndham
turned to look at the slight young creature by his side.
She was -very young, rather fair in appearance, and very
poorly clad.

" You are shivering," said Wyndham, in the voice which
still could be one of the kindest in the world.

The poor worn young face turned to look at him in sur-
prise and even confidence.

" Yes," said the girl. " I'm bitter cold, and numb, and
starved. It's a cruel world, and I hate God Almighty for
having made me."

" Hush, don't say that. It does no good to speak
against the one who loves you. Lean against me. Let
me put my arm round you. Think of me as a brother for
the next hour or two. I would not harm a hair of your
head."

*' I believe you," said the girl, beginning to sob.

With a touching movement of absolute confidence she
laid her faded face against his shoulder.

" That is bette? , is it not ? " said Wyndham.

"Yes, thank you, sir. I'm desperate sleepy, and I
shan't slip oft the bench now. I was afraid to go to sleep
before, for if I slipped off somebody else would get my
seat, and I know I'd be dead if I lay on the p;»vement till
morning."

" Well, go to sleep, now. I shan't let you slip off."

"Sir, how badly you are coughing."

" I am sorry if my cough disturbs you. I cannot help
giving way to it now and then."

"Oh, sir, it is not that; you seem like a good angel to
me. I even love the sound of your cough, for it is kind.
But have vou not a home, sir ? "

" I certainly have a shelter for the night. Not a home
in the true sense of the word."

iome poor
Wyndliam
his side.
, and very

Dice which

lim in sur-

iiumb, and
mighty for

to speak

me. Let

rother for

ir of your

dence she

P7, and I
JO to sleep
Id get my
k^ement till

p off."

mnot help

1 angel to
it is kind.

ot a home

A LIPE FOk A LOVtL,

101

" Ought you not to go to your shelter, sir ? "

" No, I shall stay here with you until you have had a
good sleep. Now shut your eyes.''

The girl tried to obey. For about ten minutes she sat
quiet, and Wyndham held her close, trying to impart some
of the warmth from his own body to her frozen frame.
Suddenly the girl raised her eyes, looked him in the face,
and smiled.

" Sir, you are an angel."

" You make a great mistake. On the contrary I have
sinned more deeply than most."

i^Sir?"

" It is true."

" I don't want you to preach to me, sir ; but I know
from your face howeve' you have sinned you have been
forgiven."

*' You make another mistake ; my sin is unabsolved."

''Sir?"

The girl's astonishment showed itself in her tone.

" Don't talk about me," continued Wyndham. " It is a
curious fact that I love God, although it is impossible for
Him to forgive ine until I do something which I find im-
possible to do. I go unforgiven through life, still I love
God. I delight in His justice, 1 glory in the love He has
even for me, and still more for those who like you can re-
pent and come to Him, and |^e really forgiven."

He paused, he saw that he was talking over the girl's
head. Presently he resumed in a very gentle pleading
voice : —
, " I don't want to hear your story, but "

The girl interrupted him with a sort of cry.

" It is the usual story, sir. There is nothing to conceal.
Once I was innocent, now I am what men and women
call lost. Lost and fallen. That's what they say of giris
like me."

3o8

.•/ t.Il'E I'Ok .1 LOrE,

"God can say some iliing (|Liiio different to you. He
can say found and restored. Listen. No ones loves you
like God. Loving He forgives. All tilings are possible to
love."

"Yes, sir; when ) on speak like that you make me
weep."

" Crying will do you good. Poor little girl, we arc
never likely to meet* again in this world. I want you to
promise me that you won't turn against God Almighty.
He is your best friend."

'' Sir ! And He leaves me to starve. To starve, and

sin

** He wants you not to sin. The starving, even if it mUst
come, is only a small matter, for there is the whole of eternity
to make up for it. Now I won't say another word, except
to assure you from the lips of a dying man, for I know I
am dying, that God is yo"r best friend, and that He loves
you. Go to sleep."

The girl smiled again, and])resently dropped off into an
uneasy slumber with her head on Wyndham's shoulder.

By-and-bye a stout woman, with a basket on her arm,
came up. She looked curiously at Wyndham. He saw at
a glance that she must have walked, from a long distance,
and would like his seat. He beckoned her over.

" You are tired. Shall I give you my seat ? "

'' Eh, sir, you are kind, ^have come a long way and
am fair spent."

''You shall sit here, if you will let this tired girl lay her
head on your breast."

" Eh, but she don't look as good as she might be ! **

" Never mind. Jesus Christ would have let her put her
head on His breast. Thank you, I knew you were a kind-
hearted woman. She will be much better near you than
near me. Here is a shilling. Give it her when she
wakes. Good-night."

you. He
loves you
)ossibIe to

,/ LIFE FOR A LOVE.

309

make me

1» we arc-
It you to
Almighty.

arve, and

if it must
>f eternity
d, except
I know I
He loves

>ff into an
3ulder.
her arm,
fie saw at
distance,

way and

1 lay her

)e ! "
r put her
J a kind-
ou than
lien she

CHAPTER L.

Esther longed to go to Acacia Villas during the week.
She often felt on the i)oint of asking Mrs. Wyndluim l«j i^ivt^
her leave, but then again she felt afraid to raise suspicions ;
and besides her mistress was ill, and clung to her.
Although Esther listened with a kind of terror on the fol-
lowing evening, the sound of tlie viulin was not again
heard.

Sunday came at hist, and slie could claim her privilege
of going home. She arrived at Acacia Villas with her
heart in a tumuli. How much she would have to tell
Wyndham ! It was in her power to make him happy, to
relieve his heart of its worst load.

Cherry alone was in the kitchen when she arrived, and
Cherry was in a very snappish humor.

" No, Esther, I don't know where uncle is. He's not
often at home now. I hear say that Mr. Paget is very bad
— gone in the head you know. They'll have to put him
into an asylum, and that'll be a good thing for poor uncle.
Take off your bonnet and cloak, Esther, and have a cup of
tea cosy-like. I'm learning one of Macauhiy's Lays now
for a recitation. Maybe you'd hear me a few of the stan-
zas when you're drinking your tea."

" Yes, Cherry, dear, but I want to go up to Brother
Jerome first. I can .see him while you're gettnig the kettle
to boil. I've a little parcel here which [want him to take
down to Sister Josephine to the Mission House to-morrow,"

Cherry laughed in a half-startled way.

** Don't you know ? " she said,

^* PoiVi i know what ? "

:? ii

3>o

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

" Why Brother Jerome ain't here \ he went out on Tues-
day evening and never came home. I tliought, for sure,
uncle would have gone and told you."

" Never came home since Tuesday ? No, 1 didn't hear."

Esther sat down and put her hand to her heart. Her
face was ghastly.

" I knew it," murmured Cherry under her breath. "She
have gone and fallen in love with a chap from one of them
slums."

Aloud she said in a brisk tone : —

" Yes, he's gone. T don't suppose there's much in it.
He were tired of the attic, that's all. I sleep easy of nights
now. No more pacing the boards overhead, nor hack, hack,
hack coughing fit to wake the seven sleepers. What's the
matter, Esther ? "

" You are the most heartless girl I ever met," said Esther.
" No, I don't want your tea."

She tied her bonnet strings and left the house without
glancing at her crestfallen cousin.

That very same afternoon, as Mrs. Wyndham was sitting
in her bedroom, trying to amuse baby, who was in a slightly
refractory humor, there came a sudden message for he".
One of the maids came into the room with the information
that Helps was downstairs and wanted to speak to her
directly.

Mrs. Wyndham had not left her room since Tuesday
evening. There was nothing apparently the matter with
her, and yet all through the week her pulse had beat too
quickly, and a hectic color came and went on her cheeks.
She ate very little, she slept badly, and the watchful
expression in her eyes took from their beauty and gave
them a strained appeara.ce. She did not know herself
why she was watchful, or what she was waiting for, but she
\vas consciously nervous and ill at ^ase.

iv.w^

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

^tt

t on Tiies-
for sure,

in'thear."
art. Her

ath. "She
le of them

nich in it.

of nights

ack, hack,

Vhat's the

lid Esther.

>e without

vas sitting
I a sh'ghtly
I for lie'-,
formation
ik to her

Tuesday
atter with

beat too
r cheeks.

watchful
md gave
w herself
', but she

When the maid brought llic information lluit Helps was
downstairs, her mistress instantly started to her feet, almost
pushing the astonished and indigiumt baby aside.

**Take care of Master Gerry," she said to the girl. ** I
will go and speak to Mr. HcIjjs ; where is he?"

" I showed him into the study, ma'am."

Valentine ran downstairs ; her eagerness and impatience
and growing presentiment that sometl.ing was at hand
increased with eacli step she took. She entered the study,
and said in a brusque voice, and willi a bright color in her
cheeks : — ■

" Well ? "

*' Mr. Paget has sent me to you, Mrs. Wyndham," said
Helps, in his uniformly weak tones. " Mr. Paget is ill, and
he wants to see you at once."

Valentine stepped back a pace.

" My father ! " she said. " But he knows I do not care
to go to the house."

"He knows that fact very well, Mrs. Wyndham."

1' Still he sent for me ? "

*' He did, madam."

" Is my father worse than usual ? "

" In some ways he is worse— in some better," replied
Helps in a dubious sort of voice. •• If I were you I'd come,
Miss Valentine — Mrs. Wyndham, I mean."

" Yes, Helps, I'll come ; I'll come instantly. Will you
fetch a cab for me ? "

" Tliere*s one waiting at the door, ma'am."

" Very well. I won't even go upstairs. Fetch me my
cloak from the stand in the hall, will you? Now I am

ready."

The two got into the cab and drove away. No one in
the house even knew that they had gone.

When they arrived at Queen's Gate, Helps still took the

lead.

I \

i ^1

4.*iw'

31a

/I LIFE FO/^ A LOVE.

" Is my father in the library? " asked the daughter.

" No, Mrs. Wyndham. Mr. Paget has been in his room
for the last day or two. I'll take you to him, if you please,
at once."

** Thank you, Helps."

Valentine left her cloak in the hall, and followed the old
servant upstairs.

'* Here's Mrs. Wyndham," said Helps, opening the door
of the sick man's room, and then shutting il and going
away himself.

" Here's Valentine," said Mrs. Wyndham, coming for-
ward. *' I did not know you were so ill,- father."

He was dressed, and sitting in a chair. She went up to
him and laid her hand gravqly on his arm.

^' You have come, Valentine, you have come. Kneel
down by me. Let me look at you. Valentine, you have
come."

^* I have come."

Never did hungrier eyes look into hers.

" Kiss me."

She bent forward at once, and pressed a light kiss on his
cheek.

" Don't do it again," he .said.

He put up his hand and rubbed the place that her lips
had touched.

" There's no love in a kiss like that. Don't give me such
another."

*' You are ill, father ; I did not know you were so very
ill," replied his daughter in the quiet voice in which she
would soothe a little child.

" I am ill in mind, Valentine, and sometimes my mind
affects my body. It did for the last few days. This after-
noon I'm better — I mean I am better in mind, and I sent
for you that I might get the thing over."

*' What thing, father ? "

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

3'3

ighter.
|in his room
you please,

[ved the old

fig tlie door
and going

, M

oniing for-

went up to

lie. Kneel
J, you have

kiss on his

lat her lips

i^e me such

jre so very
which she

1 my mind
This after-
and I sent

** Never mind for a moment or two. You used to be so
fond of me, little Val."

** I used— truly I used ! "

The tears hi led her eyes.

" I thought you'd give me one of the old kisses."

" I can't. Don't ask it."

" Is your love dead, child, quite dead ? "

'* Don't ask."

" My God," said the sick man ; " her love is dead before
she knows — even before she knows. What a punishment
is here ? "

A queer light filled his eyes ; Valentine remembered that
whispers had reached her with regard to her father's sanity.
She tried again to soothe him.

•' Let us talk common-places ; it does not do every
moment to gauge one's feelings. Shall I tell you about
baby ? "

" No, no ; don't drag the child's name into the conver-
sation of this hour. Valentine, one of two things is about
to happen to me. I am either going to die or to become
quite hopelessly mad. Before either thing happens I have
a confession to make."

** Confession ? Father ! "

Her face grew very white.

*' Yes. I want to confess to you. It won't pain me so
much as it would have done had any of your love for me
survived. It is right you should know. I have not the
least doubt when you do know you will see justice done.
Of late you have not troubled yourself much about my
affairs. Perhaps you do not know that I have practically
retired from my business, and that I have taken steps to
vest the whole concern absolutely in your hands. When
you know all you will probably sell it ; but that is your
affiiir. 1 shall either be in my grave or a madhouse, so it
won't concern me. If any fragment of money survives

nil

i'4

A LlfE IV K A LOVE,

afterwards — I mean after you have done what you absolutely
consider just — you must hold it in trust for your son. Now
I am ready to begin. What is the matter, Valentine ? "

*• Only that you frighten me very much. I have not been
quite — quite well lately. Do you mind my fetching a
chair ? "

" I did not know you were ill, child. Yes, take that
chair. Oh, Valentine, for you my love was true."

" Father, don't let us go back to that subject. Now I
am ready. I wiU listen. What have you got to say ? "

" In the first place, I am perfectly sane at this moment."

*' I am sure of that."

" Now listen. Look away from me, Valentine, while I
speak. That is all I ask."

Valentine slightly turned her chair ; her trembling and
excitement had grown and grown."

" I am ready. Don't make the story longer than you
can help," she said in a choked voice.

" Years and years ago, child, before you were born, I
was a happy man. I was honorable then and good ; I was
the sort of man I pretended to be afterwards. 1 married
your mother, who died at your birth. I had loved your
mother very dearly. After i.u. death you filled her place.
Soon you did more than fill it ; you were every thing to me ;
you gave early promise of being a more spirited and bril-
liant woman than your mother. I lived for you ; you were
my whole and entire world.

" Before your birth, Valentine, a friend, a great friend of
mine, left me a large sum of money. He was dying at the
time he made his will ; his wife vvas in New Zealand ; he
thought it possible that she might soon give birth to a child.
If the child lived, the money was to be kept in trust for it
until its majority. If it died it was to be mine absolutely.
I may as wel! tell you that my friend's wife was a very
worthless woman, and he was determined she should have

/f LIFE FOR A LOVE.

3iS

absolutely
son. Now
mine? "
^e not been
fetching a

take that

:t. Now I
say ? "
moment."

le, while I

nbling and

r than you

ere born, I
ood ; I was

I married
loved your

her place,
ling to me ;
d and bril-
; you were

It friend of
^'ing at the
aland ; he
to a child,
trust for it
ibsolutely.
IS a very
ould have

nothing to say to the money. He died— I took possession
—a son was born. I knew this fact, but I was hard
pressed at the time, and I stole the money.

'• My belief was that neither the child nor the mother
could ever trace the money. Soon I was disappointtd. I
received a I'jttcr from tlic boy's mother which sliuwed me
that slu' knew all, and although not a farthing could be
claimed until the lad came of age, then I must deliver to
him the entire sum with interest.

" From that moment my punishment began. TIic trust
fund, with interest, would amount to eighty thousand
pounds. Even if I made myself a beggar I could not re-
store the whole of this great sum. If I did not restore it
at the coming of age of this young man, I should be
doomed to a felon's cell, and penal servitude. I looked
into your face ; you loved me then ; you worshipped me.
I idolized you. I resolved that disgrace and ruin should
not touch you.

" Helps and I between us concocted a diabolical plot.
Helps was like wax in my hands ; he had helped me to
appropriate the money ; he knew my secrets right through.
We made the plot, and waited for results. I took you into
society, I wanted you to marry. My object was that you
should marry a man whom you did not love. Wyndham
came on the scene ; he seemed a weak sort of fellow —
weak, pliable — passionately in love with you — cursedly
poor. Did you speak, Valentine ? "

*' No ; you must make this story brief, if you please."

" It can be told in a few more words. I thought I could
make Wyndham my tool. I saw that his passion for you
blinded him to almost everything. Otherwise, he was the
most selfless person I ever met. I saw that his unselfish-
ness would make him strong to endure. His overpowering
love for you would induce him to sacrifice everything for
present bjiss, Such a combination of strength and weakness

fts

Uff,

$16

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

was what I had been looVing for. I told Helps that I had
found my man. Helps did not like it ; he had taken an
insane fancy for the fellow. What is the matter, Valentine ?
How you fidget."

" You had better be brief. My patience is nearly ex-
hausted."

" I am very brief. I spoke to Wyndham. I made my
bargain ; he was to marry you. Before marriage, with the
plausible excuse that the insurance was to be effected by
way of settlement, I paid premiums for insurap'^es on the
young man's life for eighty thousand i)ounds. I insured
his life in four offices. You were married. He knew
what he had undertaken, and everything went well, except
for one cursed fnct — you learned to love the fellow. I nearly
went mad when I saw the love for him growing into your
eyes. He was to sail on board the Esperance. He knew,
and I knew that he was never coming back. He was to
feign death. Our plans were made carefully. I was to
receive a proper certificate, and with that in my hand I
could claim the insurance money. Thus he was to save
you and me from dishonor, which is worse than death.

'* All our plans were laid. I waited for news. Val-
entine, you make me strangely nervous. What is the
matter with you, child ? Are you going to faint ? "

" No — no — no ! Go on — go on ! Don't speak to me —

don't address me again by my name. Just go on, or I

Oh, God, I am a desperate woman ! Go on, I must hear
the end."

As Valentine grew excited her father became cool and
quiet : he waited until she had done speaking, then
dropping his head he continued his narrative in a dreary
monotone.

** I waited for news — it was long in coming. At last it
arrived on the day my grandson was born. Wyndham had
putwitted me. He could not bear the load of a living death.

jat I had
taken an
ilentine ?

early ex-

nade my
with the

ected by

es on the
insured

^e knew

II, except

I nearly

into your

He knew,
Ic was to

I was to
y hand I
s to save
death,
ws. Val-
lat is the
?"
c to me —

or I

nust hear

cool and

ing, then

a dreary

At last it
dham had
ng death.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

317

Shame on him. He could take his bliss, but not his punish-
ment. He leaped overboard the Esperance — he committed
suicide."

" What ? No, never. Don't dare to say such words."
" I must say them, although they are cruel. He com-
mitted suicide, and then he came to haunt me; he knew
. that his blood would rest on my soul ; he. knew how best
to torture me for what I had done to him."

" One question. Was the insurance money paid? "
" Was it ? Yes. I believe so. That part seemed all of
minor importance afterwards. But I believe it was paid.
I think Helps saw to it."

" You believe that my husband committed suicide, and
yet you allowed the insurance offices to pay."

" What of that ? No one else knew my thoughts."
" As you Lay, what of that ? Is your story finished?"
" Nearly. I lost your love, and for the last three years
I liave been haunted by Wyndham. I see his shadow
everywhere. Once I met him in the street. A few nights
ago he came into the library and confronted me ; he spoke
to me and tried to touch me ; he pretended he was not
dead."

*' What night was that ? "

Valentine's voice had changed; there was a new ring in-
it. Her father roused himself from his lethargic attitude to
look into her face. *' What night did my husband come to
you ? "

" I forget — no, I remember. It was Tuesday night."
*' Did he carry a violin ? Speak — did he ? "
" He carried something. It may have been a violin.
Do they use such instruments in the other world ? He was
a spirit, you know, child. How queer, how very queer you
look ! "

" I feel queer."

" He wanted me to touch him, child, but I wouldn't. I
was too knowing for that. If you touch a spirit you must

I ■

318

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

go with him. No, no, I knew a thing worth two of that.

telli

went on teJimg me ne was alive. But I knew better,
he couldn't take me in. Valentine, everything seems so
faraway. Valentine, I am faint, faint. Ah, there, he is
again by the door. Look ! No, he must not touch me —
he must not I "

Valentine glanced round. There was no one present.
Then she rang the bell. It was answered by the old house-
keeper.

" Mrs. Marsh, my father is ill. Will you give him some
restorative at once ? And send for the doctor, if necessary.
I must go, but I'll come back if possible to-night."

She left the room without glancing at the sick man, who
followed her to the door with his dim eyes. She went
downstairs, put on her cloak and left the house.

She had to walk a little distance before she met a han-
som, and one or two people stared at the tall, slim figure,
which was still young and girlish, but which bore on its
proud face such a hard expression, such a burning defiant
Jight in the eyes. Valentine soon reached home. Every-
thing was in a whirl in her brain. Esther Helps was stand-
ing on the steps. She flew to Esther, clasped her hands
in a grasp of iron, and said in a husky choked voice : —

" Esther, my husband is alive ! "

" He is, dear madam, he is, and I have come to take
you to him 1 "

" Oh, Esther, thank God ! "

" Come indoors, madam, you have not a moment to lose.
We will keep that cab, if you please. I have only just
come back. I was going to seek you. Stay one moment,
Mrs. Wyndham. You are in black ; will you put on your
white dress — the one you wore on Tuesday night.'*

" Oh, what does it matter ? Let me go to him."

" Little things sometimes matter a great deal ; he saw
you last in your white dress.*'

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

319

'o of that,
ew better,
seems so
here, he is
inch me —

e present,
old house-

him some
necessary,
t."

man, who
She went

met a han-
ilim figure,
)ore on its
ing defiant
e. Every-
was stand-
her hands
/oice : —

ne to take

" He wa£ really there on Tuesday night ? "

" He was there. Come, I will fly for the dress and put
it on you."

She did so. Valentine put her cloak over it, and the
two drove away in the hansom. Valentine had no ears for
the direction given to the cabman.

**Iam in heaven," she said once, under her breath.
" He lives. Now I can forgive my father 1 "

** Madam, your husband is very ill."

Valentine turned her great shining eyes towards Esther.

" All the better. I can nurse him," she said, with a smile,
and then she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head
and did not speak another word.

The cab drew up at one of the entrances to St. Thomas'
Hospital.

I'
I

ent to lose.

! only just

le moment,

)\xi on your

ht."

1."

al; he saw

330

A LIFE F0J2 A LOVE,

CHAPTER LI.

** What place is this? " asked the wife.

She was unacquainted with hospitals and sickness.

*'This is a place where they cure the sick, and succour
the dying, dear Mrs. Wyndham," gently remarked Esther
Helps.

** They cure the sick here, do they ? But I will cure
my husband myself. I know the way." She smiled.
" Take me to him, Esther. How slow you are. Beloved
Esther — I don't thank you — I have no words to say thank
you — but my heart is so happy I think it will burst."

The porter came forward, then a nurse. Several cere-
monies had to be gone through, several remarks made,
several questions asked. Valentine heard and saw nothing.
Esther helped Valentine to take off her cloak ; and she
stood in her simple long plain white dress, with her bright
hair like a glory round her happy face.

The nurse who finally conducted them to the ward where
Wyndham lay looked at her in a sort of bewilderment.
Esther and the nurse went first, and Valentine slowly fol-
lowed between the long rows of beds ; some of the men
said afterwards that an angel had gone through the ward
on the night that the strolling minstrel, poor fellow, died.
The sister who had charge of the ward turned and whis-
pered a word to Esther, then she pushed aside a screen
v/hich surrounded one of the beds.

" Your husband is very ill," she said, looking with a world
of pity into Valentine's bright eyes. "You ought to be
prepared ; he is very ill."

" Thank you, I am quite prepared. I have come to cure
him."

A LIFE I'VK A LOVE.

321

e to cure

Then she went inside the screen, and Esther and the
nurse remained without.

Wyndham was lying with his eyes closed ; his sunken
cheeks, his deathly pallor, his quick and hurried breath
might have prepared the young wife for the worst. They
did not. She stood for a moment at the foot of the bed,
her hands clasped in ecstasy, her eyes shining, a wonderful
smile bringing back the beauty to her lii)s. Then she
came forward and lay gently down by the side of tlie dying
man. She flipped her hand under his head and laid her
cheek to his.

"At last, Gerald," she said, "at last you have come
back ! You didn't die. You are changed, greatly changed ;
but you didn't die, Gerald."

He opened his eyes and looked her full in the face.

" Valentine I ''

" Hush, you are too weak to talk. Stay quiet, I am with
you. I will nurse you back to strength. Oh, my darling,
you didn't die."

"Your darling, Valentine? Did you call me your dar-
ling ? "

" I said it. I say it. You are all the world to me ; without
you the world is empty. Oh, how I love you — how I have
loved you for years."

" Then it was good I didn't die," said Wyndham, he
raised his eyes, looked up and smiled. His smile was one
of ecstasy.

** Of course it was good that you didn't die, and now
you are going to get well. Lie still. Do you like my
hand under your head ? "

<' Like it?"

" Yes ; you need not tell me. Let me talk to you ;
don't answer me. Gerald, my father told me. He told
me what he had done ; he told me what you had done.
He wants me to forgive him, but I'm not going to forgive

322

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

S< XI

liim. I'll never forgive him, Gerald. I have ceased to
love him, and I'll never forgive him ; all my love is for
you."

" Not all, wife — not quite all. Give him back a little,
and — forgive."

'* How weak you are, Gerald, and your voice sounds
miles away."

" Forgive him, Valentine."

** Yes, if you wish it. Lie still, darling."

*' Valentine — that money."

" I know about it — that blood-money. The price of your
precious life. It shall be paid back at once."

" Then God will forgive me. I thank Him, unspeakably."

" Gerald, you are very weak. I can scarcely hear your
words. Does it tire you dreadfully to talk ? See, I will
hold your hand ; when you are too tired to speak your fin-
gers can press mine. Gerald, you vere outside our house
on Tuesday night. Yes, I feel the pressure of yaur hand ;
you were there. Gerald, you were very unhappy that
night."

" But not now, darling," replied Wyndham. He had
found his voice ; his words came out with a sudden strength
and joy. " I made a mistake that night, wife. I won't
tell it to you. I made a mistake."

" And you are really quite, quite happy now."

" Happy ! Sorrow is put behind me — the former things
are done away."

" You will be happier still when you come home to baby
and me."

"You'll come to me, Val ; you and the boy."

" What do you say ? I can't hear you."

*' You'll come to me."

" I am with you."

*' You'll come — up — tome."

Then she began to understand.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

323

Half-an-hour later the nurse and Esther drew the screen
aside and canre in. Valentine's face was nearly as white
as Wyndham's. She did not see the two as they came in.
Her eyes were fixed on her husband's, her hand still held
his.

" He wants a stimulant," said the nurse.

She poured something out of a bottle and put it between
the dying man's lips. He opened his eyes when she did
this, and looked at Valentine.

" Are you still there ? Hold my hand."

" Do you think I would let it go ? I have been wanting
this hand to clasp mine for so long, oh, for so long."

The nurse again put some stimulant between Gerald's
lips.

" You must not tire his strength, madam," she said.
'* Even emotion, even joyful emotion is more than he can
bear just now."

*' Is it, nurse ? Then I will sit quiet, and not speak. I
don't mind how long I sta^, nor how quiet I keep, if only
I can save him. Nurse, I know he is very ill, but, but

Her lips quivered, and her eyes, dry and bright* and hun-
gry, were fixed on the nurse. Wyndham, too, was looking
at the nurse with a question written on his face. She bent
down low, and caught his faint whisper.

'* Your husband bids you hope," she said then, turning
to Valentine. '' He bids you take courage ; he bids you
to have me best hope of all — the hope eternal. Madam,
when you clasp hands up there you need not part."

" Did you tell her to say that to me, Gerald ? " asked
the wife. " Oh, no, you couldn't have told her to say
those words. Oh, no, you love me too well to go away."

" God loves you, Valentine," suddenly said Gerald.
■*' God loves you, and He loves me, and His eternal love
will surround us. I up there, you here. In that love we
shall be one."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

Only the nurse knew with what difficulty Wyndham
uttered these words, but Valentine saw the light in his
eyes. Slie bowed her head on his thin hand, her lips kissed
it — slie did not speak.

To the surprise of the sister who had cha-ge of the ward,
Wyndham lingered on for hours — during the greater part
of the night. Valentine and Esther never left him. Esther
sat a little in the shadow where her pale face could scarcely
be seen. If she felt personal grief she kept it under. The
chief actors in the tragedy, the cruelly-wronged husband
and wife, absorbed all her thoughts. No, she had no time,
no room, to think of herself.

Wyndliam was going — Brother Jerome would no longer
be known in tiie streets of East London ; the poor, the
sorrowful, would grieve at not seeing his face again. The
touch of his hand could no longer comfort — the light in his
eyes could no longer bless. The Mission would have to do
without Brother Jerome — this missioner was about to
render up his account to the Judge of all.

The little attic in Acacia Villas would also be empty ;
the tired man would not need the few comforts that Esther
had colleq^ed round him — the tiresome cough, the weary
restless step would cease to disturb Cherry's rest, and
Esther's chief object in life would be withdrawn.

He who for so long was supposed to be dead would be
dead in earnest. Valentine would be a real widow, little
Gerald truly an orphan.

All these thoughts thronged through Esther's mind as
she sat in the shadow behind the screen and listened to
the chimes outside as they j) reclaimed the passing time,
and the passing away also of a life.

Every mv^ment lives of men go away — souls enter the
unknown country. Some go with regret, some with re-
joicing. In some cases there are many left behind to
sorrow — in other cases no one mourns.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

325

Wyndliam had sinned, he had yielded to temptation ; he
had been weak — a victim it is true — still a victim w..o with
his eyes open had done a great wrong. Yet Esther felt
that for some at least it was a .-^id thing that Wyndham
was born.

" I, for one, thank God that I knew him," slie murmured.
" He has caused me suffering, but he has raised me. I
thank God that I was permitted to know such a ma.j. The
world would, I suppose, speak of him as a sinner, but to
my way of thinking, if ever there was a saint he is one." .

So the night passed on, and Valentine remained motion-
less by the dying mui's bed. What her thoughts were,
none might read.

At last, towards the break of day, the time when so many
souls go away, Wyndham stirred faintly and opened his
eyes. Valentine moved forward with an eager gesture. He
looked at her, butthere was no comprehension in his glance.

** What is the matter?" said Valentine lo the nurse. " I
scarcely know liim — his face has altered."

" It looks young, madam. Dying faces often do so.
Hark, he is saying something."

" Lilias," said Wyndham. '' Lilly — mother calls us — we
are to sing our evening hymn.

* Blight in the happy laud 1 '

Lilias, do you hear mother ; she is calling ? Kneel down —
our evening prayers — by mother — we always say our
prayers by mother's knee. Knee', Lilias, see, my hands are

folded—' Our Father ' "

There was a long pause after the last words, a pause
followed by one more breath of infinite content, and then
the nurse closed the dead man's eyes.

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

CHAPTER LII.

TWO YEARS AFTKR.

Augusta Wyndham was pacing up and down the broad
gravel walk which ran down the centre of the rectory garden
in a state of great excitement. She was walking quickly,
her hands clasped loosely before her, her tall and rather
angular figure drawn up to its full height, her bright black
eyes alert and watchful in their expression.

" Now, if only they are not interrupted," she said, " if
only I can keep people from going near the rose-walk, he'll
doit — I know he'll do it — I saw it in his eyes when he
came up and asked me where Lijias was. He hasn't been
here for six months, and I had given up all hope ; but hope
has revived to-day — hope springs eternal in the human
breast. Tra la, la — la, la. Now, Gerry, boy, what do you
want ? "

A. sturdy little fellow in a sailor suit stood for a moment
in the porch of the old rectory, then ran with a gleeful
shout down the gravel walk towards Augusta. She held
out her arms to detain him.

" Well caught, Gerry," she said.

** It isn't well caught," he replied with an angry flush. " I
don't want to stay with you. Auntie Gussie ; I want to go
to my — my own auntie. Let me pass, please."

" You saucy boy, auntie's busy ; you shall stay with me."

" I won't. I'll beat you — I won't stay."

** If I whisper something to you, Gerry — something about
Auntie \a\. Now be quiet, mannikin, and let me say ray
4>ay. You love Auntie Lil, don't you ? "

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

327

broad
garden
uickly,

rather
t black

id, 'Mf
Ik, he'll
hen he
I't been
ut hope
human
do you

lonient
gleeful
le held

sh. "I
: to go

h me."

about
ay my

" You know that ; you do talk nonsense sometimes. I
love father in heaven, and mother, and Auntie Lil."

''And me, you little wretch."

" Sometimes. Let me go to Auntie Lil now."

•* I want to whisper something to you, Gerry. Auntie
Lil is talking to someone she loves much better than you
or me or anyone else in the world, and it would be very
unkind to interrupt her."

Gerry was sitting on Augusta's shoulder. From this
elevated position he could catch a glimpse of a certain
grey dress, and a quick flash of chestnut hair, as the ^un
shone jn it — that dress and that hair belonged to Auntie
Lil. It was no matter at all to Gerry that someone else
walked by her side, that someone was bending his dark
head somewhat close to hers, and that as she listened her
steps faltered and grew slow.

Gerry's whole soul was wounded by Augusta's words.
His Aunt Lilias did not love anyone better than him. It
was his bounden duty, his first duty in life, to have such
an erroneous statement put right at once.

He put forth all his strength, struggled down from Au-
gusta's shoulders, and before she was aware of it was speed-
ing like an arrow from a bow to his target, Lilias.

** There, now, I give it up," said Augusta. "• Awful child,
what mischief may he not make ? Don't I hear his shrill
voice even here 1 Oh, I give it up now ; I shall go into
the house. The full heat of the sun in July does not suit
me, and if in addition to all other troubles LiHas is to have
a broken heart, 1 may as well keep in sufficient health to
nurse her."

Meanwhile Gerry was having a very comfortable time
on Carr's shoulder ; his dark eyes were looking at his
Aunt Lilias, and his little fat, hot hand was clasped in hers.

" Well," he said suddenly, " which is it ? "

"• Which is what, Gerry ? I don't understand.'"

338

// IJFE FOR A LOVE,

" I think you arc stoopid, Auntie Lill. Is it him or
me?"

Then he laid Iiis other fat hand on Carr's forehead.

** Is it him or uk* ? " said Gerry, " that you love the
most of all tiie peoples in tiie world?"

"It's me, Gerry, it's mc," suddenly said Adrian Carr ;
" but you come next, dear little man. Kiss him, Lilias, and
tell him tliat he comes next."

"Gerald's dear little boy," said Lilias. She took him in
her arms and i)rcssecl her head against his chubby neck.

" Dear, dear little boy," she said. ** I think you'll always
come second."

She looked so solemn when she spoke, and so beautiful
was the light in her eyes when she raised her face to look
at Gerry, that even he, most despotic of little mortals,
could not but feel satisfied.

He ran away presently to announce to all and everyone
within reach that Mr. Carr had kissed Auntie Lill like any-
thing, and the newly-betrothed pair were left alone.

" At last, Lilias," said Carr.

She looked shyly into his face.

" I thought I should never win you," he continued. ** I
have loved you for years, and I never had courage to tell
you so until to-day."

" And I have loved you for yeiirs," replied Lilias Wynd-
ham.

" But not best, Lily. Oh, I have read you like a book,
I never came before Gerald in your heart."

" No," she said letting go his hand, and moving a step
or two away, so that she should face him. ** I love you
well, beyond all living men, but Gerald stands alone. His
place can never be filled."

The tears sprang into her eyes and rolled down her
cheeks.

" And I love you better for loving him so, my darling,"

j4 life for a love.

329

answered her lover. He put his arms round her, and she
laid her head on his breast.

Far a long time they paced up and down the Rose-walk.
They had much to say, much to feel, much to he silent
over. The air was balmy overhead, and the rose-leaves
were tossed by the light summer breeze against Lilias'grey
dress.

Presently she began to talk of the past. Carr asked
tenderly for Valentine.

" Valentine is so noble," replied her sister-in-law. ''You
don't know what she has been to me since that day when
she and I looked trgethcr at Gerald's dead face. Oh, that
day, that dreadful day ! "

" It is past, Lilias. Think of the future, the bright
future, and he is in that brightness now."

" I know."

She wipeet the tears again from her eyes. Then she con-
tinued in a changed voice : —

" I will try and forget that day, which, as you say, is
behind Gerald and me. At the time I could scarcely think
of myself. I was so overcome with the wonderful brave
way in which Valentine acted. You know her father died
a month afterwards, and she was so sweet to him. She
nursed him day and night, and did all that woman could
do to comfort and forgive him. His brain was dreadfully
clouded, however, and he died at last in a state of uncon-
sciousness. Then Valentine came out in a new light. She
went to the insurance offices and told the whole story of
the fraud that had been practised on them, and of her
husband's part in it. She told the story in such a way that
hard business men, as most of these men were, wept.
Then she sold her father's great shipping business, which
had all been left absolutely to her, and paid back every
penny of the money.

" Since then, as you knoW; she and Gerry live here. She
is really the idol of my old father's life ; he and she are

330

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

scarcely ever parted. Yes, she is a noble woman. Wlien I
look at her I say to myself, Gerald, at least, did not love
unworthily."

" Then she is poor now? "

" As the world speaks of poverty she is poor. Do you
think Valentine minds that ? Oh, how little her father un-
derstood her when he thought that riches were essential to
her happiness. No one has simpler tastes than Valentine.
Do you know that she housekeeps now at the rectory, and
we are really much better off than we used to be. Alack
and alas ! Adrian, you ought to know in time, I am such
a bad housekeeper."

Lilias laughed quite merrily as she spoke, and Carr's dark
face glowed.

" It is a bargain," he said, ** that I take yon wi \ your
faults and don't reproach you with them. And what has
become of that fine creature, Esther Helps ? " he asked
presently.

" She works in East London, and comes here for her
holidays. Sometimes 1 think Valentine loves Esther Helps
better than anyone in the world after Gerry."

" That is scarcely to be wondered at, is it ? "

Just then their conversation was interrupted by some
gleeful shouts, and the four little girls, no longer so very
small, came flying round the corner in hot pursuit of
Gerry.

" Here they is ! " exclaimed the small tyrant, gazing
round at his devoted subjects, and pointing with a lofty and
condescending air to Adrian and Lilias. " Here they is ! "
he said, ^'' and I 'spose they'll do it again if we ask them."

*' Do what again ? " asked Lilias innocently.

" Why, kiss one another," replied Gerry. " I saw you
do it, so don't tell stories. Joan and Betty they wouldn't
believe me. Please do it again, please do. Mr. Carr,
please kiss Auntie Lil again."

A LIFE FOR A LOVE.

33 »

"Oh, fie, Gerry," replied Lilias. She tried to turn away,
but Carr went up to her gravely, and he kissed her brow.

" There's nothing in it," he continued, looking round at
the astonished little girls. " We are going to be husband
and wife in a week or two, and husbands and wives always
kiss one another."

" Then I was right," said Betty. *' Joan and Rosie
wouldn't believe me, but I was right after all. I am glad
of that."

" I believed you, Betty. I always believed you," said
Violet.

*' Well, perhaps you did. The others didn't. I'm glad
I was right."

" How were you right, Betty? " asked Carr.

" Oh, don't ask her, Adrian. Let us come into the
house," interrupted Lilias.

" Yes, we'll come into the house, of course. But I should
like to know how Betty was right."

" Why you wanted to kiss her years ago. I knew it, and
I said it. Didn't you, now ? "

" Speak the trufe," suddenly commanded Gerry.

" Yes, I did," replied Carr.

When Adrian Carr left the rectory that evening he had
to walk down the dusty road which led straight past the
church and the little village school-house to the railway
station. This road was full of associations to him, and he
walked slowly, thinking of past scenes, thanking God for
his present blessings.

" It was here, by the turnstile, I first saw Lilias," he
said to himself. " She and Marjory were standing together,
and she came forward and looked at me, and asked me in
that sweet voice of hers if I were not Mr. Carr. She
reminded me of her brother, whom I just barely knew It
was a fleeting likeness, seen more at first than after-
wards.

332

A LIFE FOR A LOVE,

** Here, by this little old school-house the villagers stood
and rejoiced the last day Gerald came home. Poor Wyndham
— most blessed and most miserable of men. Well, he is
at rest now, and even here I see the cross which throws a
shadow over his grave ! "

Carr looked at his watch. There was time. He entered
the little cluirch-yard. A green mound, a white cross,
several wreaths of flowers, marked the spot where one who
had been much loved in life lay until the resurrection. The
cross was so placed as to bend slightly over the grave as
though to protect it. It bore a very brief inscription ;—

In Peace.

GERALD WYNDHAM.

Aged 27.

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16. The Haute Nobltsse, by George Mauvill« Fenn ^ 30

15. Kit Wyndham ; or, Feitered tor Life, by Frank Barrett 30

14, The Tree of Knowledge, by C, M. Robins .30

13. Comedy of a Country House, by Julian Sturgis .30

12. A Life Sentence, by Adeline Sergeant 30

11. An I. D. B. in South Africa, bv Louise Vescelius Sheldon 30

10. The Curse of Carne's Hold, by G. A, Henty 30

9 That Other Woman, by Annie Thomas 30

8. Jezebel's Friends, by Dora Rus.sell 30

7, Sophy Carmine, by John Strange Winter .30

5. The Luck of the House, by Adeline Sergeant 30

4. The Search for Basil Lyndhurst, by Rosa Nouchette Carey... .30

2. The Fatal Phryne, by F. C. Philips 30

1. The Wing of Azrae^^ by Moua Caird 30

JOHN LOVf.LL &' SON'S PUlJLICATtONS.

i'nt with
•rill Id can

:ii»

... . .y,o

-M

:m)

.50

;;o

bow. .30

3(t

Of IS. .30

.30

;y... .30

Jt P0matt*0 f)mvt

By Mrs. Alexander.

An exciting and dramatically written story, full of woman's
tenderness and compassion under the most tryinjj circumstances.
A captivating romance that is as interesting as it is elevating in
tone. Prick 30 cents.

Jl errite f rieiiJi,

By Adeline Sergeant.

The portrayal not the exaggeration of a noble character, from
whom the reader can draw healthy inspiration. Price 30 cents.

Jt Smii00lcv*o Scfvpt.

By Frank Barrett.

An exciting story of the Cornish Coast, full of adventure.
; well put together and of a pure tone. Price 30 cents,

i?rt>g (Brygt Ittiit Street jtttietevt). By Adeline Sergeant.

The author is as usual true to life and true to her own noble
instincts. Added to a feminine perception. Miss Sergeant has a
dispassionateness and a sense of humor quite rare in her sex.

Price 30 cents.

^i^t ptomettt Jlfter.

By Robert Buchanan.

A thrilling story, giving the experience in the hereafter of a
man who was hanged. It is weird but not revolting.

Price 25 cents.

@r^e pottHmmt.

By Hall Caine.

It is vigorous and faithful, portrays with the intimacy of
entire acquaintanceship, not only the physical features of island
life in the Northern Seas, but the insular habits of thought of the
dwellers on those secluded haunts of the old Sea Kings or Vikings
of the past. Price 30 ceiitt.

JOHN LOVELL &> SON, PUBLISHERS, MO?^TREAI-.

SECOND BDITIOH.

"A Daughter of St. Petfr's"

By Janet C. Conger.

(Mrs. Wm. Cox Allen.)
Tn Paper Cover, 80 Ceuts.

" Cloth

Loveirs Canadian Authors' Series, No, 60.

Tlie authoress is a Canadian, and her story is remarkably well told.
— Adveftiscr, London.

Inrthlo work a new asphant for literaiy honors in the field of fiction
makes her first appearance before the public. The story which she tells
is neither lengthy nor involved. It is a .Mmple, prettily told story of
love at first sight, with a happy ending, and little to divert llie mind of
the reader from the hero and heroine. Mrs, Conger's literary style U
pleasing, and her pruduction evidences a well cultured mind and a
tolerable appreciation of character. Her book will l>e found very
pleasant reading . — *' Intelligence r^''^ Lelleville.

The plot is ingeniously constructed, and its working out furnishesthe
opportunity for some dramatic situations. The heroine, of whose early
lifethe title gives us a hint, is acreature all grace and tenderness, a true
offspring of the sunny south. The hero is an American, a man of
wealth, and an artist in posse. The oihex dramatis fersona^ who play
their parts around these central figures, are mostly Italians or Americans.
The great question to be solved is : Who is Merlina ? In supplying the
solution, the author takes occasion to introduce us to an obscure but
interesting class of people. The denouement of ''A Daughter of St.
Peter's " is somewhat startling, but we must not impair the reader's
pleasure by anticipation. We see from the advanced sheets that it is
dedicated to the Canadian public, to whom we cordially commend it.
— The Gazette, Montreal.

For a first effort, which the authoress in her preface modestly says
the novel is, "A Daughter of St. Peter's " must be pronounced a very
promising achievement. The plot is well constructed and the story
entertaining and well told. The style is light and agreeable, and with
a little more experience and facility in novel-writing we may expect
Mrs. Conger, if she essays a second trial, to produce a book that will
surpass the decided merits of " A Daughter of St. Peter's." — Free Press ,
London.

CASTOR - FLUID.

A delightfully refreshing and cooling preparation for the
Hair. It absolutely prevents tluulruff, promotes llic
growth, keeps the hair from falling, and does not darken it.
It should be used daily, ^ter the morning bath.

Price 25c. For Sale at jill Chemists.

Dcnrj R. Gniy, Clicraist, 122 St Lawrence, lloiitreal, Uh Miiiiiifaclorer.

WHITE ROSE LANOLIN CREAM.

(Patent applied for.)

Much superior to " Cold Cream " as a soothing and
softening unguent for the skin. It will cure chapped
hands, and will render rough and dry skin as smooth and
as soft as velvet.

In Pots, 25 cents.

Henrj R. Gray, Clieraist, 122 St. Lawrence, Monlreal, Sole Manufacturer.

em wmcEoiiJ oentifbicl

Antiseptic. Cleansing. Beautifying.

Keeps the teeth free from tartar, deodorizes the breath,
and destroys bacteria.

25 CENTS.

Henrj R, Gray, Clicinist, 122 St. Lawrence, Montreal, Sole Manufaclurer.

iv; :.

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