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 (Single ThreaJ 
 
 BLIND FATE 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. ALEXANDER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 " A LIFE INTEREST," " A CROOKED PATH," " A FALSE 
 SCENT," " MONA'S CHOICE," ETC., ETC. 
 
 feir)<2'f 
 
 ■ICE, 
 
 t West 
 
 TORONTO, i: 
 
 TORONTO : 
 THE NATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 
I 
 
 ¥1 
 
 Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada m the OflRw 
 of the Minister of Agriculture by the National Publishing Company. 
 Toronto, iu the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety. 
 
 I) 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 By MRS. ALEXANDER. 
 
 AUTHOR OP ''THE WOOING O'T," "A LIFE INTEREST,' 
 
 "MONA'S CHOICE," " BY WOMAN's WIT," "A 
 
 FALSE SCENT," (fcc, &C. 
 
 the Office 
 
 ZJOMPAVT, 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BREAKING COVER. 
 
 The last notes of an air from the " Trovatore " were 
 dying out over the shining sea. The crowd which had 
 gathered on the pier to listen to the band began to move 
 and disperse, the music being over for that afternoon, a fine 
 glowing August afternoon, tempered by the fresh, soft air 
 breathing across the bay, crisping the water here and there 
 and bringing a delightful saltness from the rippling waters. 
 
 The scene is Fordsea, a flourishing South-coast bathing 
 place, not altogether dependant for its prosperity on sum- 
 mer nomads. Its attractions are of a more permanent 
 charac er. Being in the close neighborhood of the naval 
 and military station of Eastport, the officers of both ser- 
 vices are glad to establish their families in the villas, ter- 
 races, crescents which border the grassy common interven- 
 ing between them and the beach. 
 
 At the end of this pleasant common, furthest from the 
 old gray fortifications which encircle the town, a pretty 
 t wo-storied villa stood on an abrupt rising ground, from 
 which it commanded a view over the wide bay to the 
 towers guarding the entrance to the port, to the steeples 
 and the tall masts over-topping the gray walls. A veruu- 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 dah, its supports overi^rowii with roses and honeysuckle, 
 ran along the side facing the sea, and a deep area, witli 
 sloping grassy sides, surrounded it, giving light and air to 
 the basement. This verandah was evidently used as a 
 morning-room, comfortable lounging chairs, a work-table 
 laden with books, bright-colored silks and wools, a doll and 
 a cup and ball la^ about. 
 
 The carefully-kept garden was rich in flowers for the 
 time of year, and opened by a rustic gate upon the com- 
 mon, here narrowed into a mere strip of green intervening 
 between it and the sea. 
 
 On the beach in front of this dainty mansion a young 
 lady was sitting on a ridge of shingle, bleached by sea and 
 sea- water to perfect cleanliness, which afforded a comfort- 
 able resting-place. The young lady seemed much at her 
 ease. Her skirt of blue serge was turned up over a second 
 skirt of white and blue, and caught up at the back in what 
 used to be called "fish-wife" fashion — the bodice fitting her 
 sight supple figure easily, perfectly; a little foot in a dark- 
 blue stocking, and an incomparable shoe peeped forth as 
 she supported an open book on one knee, and a wide- 
 brimmed sailor hat almost hid her face as she bent over the 
 page. 
 
 A big brown boat drawn up beside her made a shelter 
 from the level rays of the sinking sun. Altogether she pre- 
 sented a pretty picture of quiet enjoyment. 
 
 As the last strains of the band died away a gentleman in 
 boating attire strolled slowly across the grass, paused, 
 looked around as if searching for something, and then 
 came straight over the shingle towards lier. 
 
 She heard his step and looked at her book with renewed 
 attention, nor did she move till he stood beside her. Then 
 she raised her face, an interesting, rather ihan a pretty face, 
 somewhat brunette in complexion, and pale, with a warm 
 paleness — a small, oval face, with a delicate chin and avery 
 slight downward curve at the corners of the soft red mouth, 
 that gave a pathetic expression to her countenance when in 
 repose. Her eyes, too, which were her best feature — large 
 eyes, with long, dark lashes, had a wistful, far-away look, 
 more suited to a saint than to their piquante owner. 
 
 The man who paused beside her was tall and slender, 
 with a grace of movement not usual in an Englishman. He 
 was darker, too, than ordinary Anglo-Saxons, who rarely 
 possess such blue-black hair and flashing dark eyes as his. 
 
 I 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 8 
 
 i',klp, 
 witli 
 ,ir to 
 3ks a 
 table 
 L and 
 
 r the 
 com- 
 Bniii^ 
 
 rounjjc 
 a and 
 nfort- 
 t her 
 lecond 
 
 what 
 ttg her 
 
 dark- 
 ctli as 
 
 wide- 
 ^er the 
 
 3helter 
 he pre- 
 
 man in 
 )aused, 
 d then 
 
 mewed 
 Then 
 
 y face, 
 warm 
 a very 
 
 mouth, 
 
 rhen in 
 large 
 
 y look, 
 
 ilender, 
 
 an. He 
 
 rarely 
 
 as his. 
 
 I 
 
 His well-cut, refined, but determined mouth was unshaded 
 by moustaches, though a stronj.,- growth of black beard 
 showed through his clear olive brown skin. He smiled a 
 soft, caressing smile as he threw himself on the sand at her 
 feet, sayintf : " I thought you had gone on the pier with 
 Callander?" 
 
 "No ; he has gone to the station to meet Mr. Standish, 
 and Mabel has had the honor of a command from the 
 Grand Duchess to drive with her." 
 
 The saintly-pathetic expression entirely disappeared, as 
 she spoke with a swift, arch smile, and a flash of scorn 
 from her "holy eyes." 
 
 "Ah," iie reLurned, in an amused tone, "why did you not 
 go to meet your beloved guardian?" 
 
 " I never meant to go. I came out of the way to listen to 
 the band here. Music is so charming as it comes fitfully 
 on the breeze, and I enjoy it most alone." 
 
 " Well, it is over now, so I may vf.nture to stay?" 
 
 "Oh yes, if you like! But I am tired of sitting here. I 
 want to match some silks. Do you mind, Mr. Egerton?" 
 
 ♦' Not at all. As Madame de Stael says, 'etre avec ceux 
 qu'on aime ' " 
 
 "It sounds just as well in English," she interrupted, 
 laughing. "-To be with those we love is all-sufficient, 
 etc., etc., etc' — yes, it is a pretty sentiment." 
 
 " You are not in an amiable mood to-day. Miss Wynn. 
 What book is tiiis? Let me carry it for you. Ah, 'The 
 Great Lone Land.' " 
 
 " Yes, it is charming — thank you," giving it to him. 
 
 " Don't you think it would be cruel to waste this lovely 
 evening matching silks in a stuffy shop? Let us go along 
 the common towards the pier. We may meet some of your 
 party returning." 
 
 " Yes, let us go along by the sea." She turned as sue 
 spoke and directed her steps to a low grassy embankment 
 which protected the common on the shore side. 
 
 They walked awhile in silence, Egerton's expression 
 hardening as though his thoughts were not pleasant. 
 Presently he began to speak on indifferent topics, and sud- 
 denly, after a pause. Miss Wynn asked : "Do you really 
 think Colonel Callandar seems bettor?" 
 
 " Yes, I do. I fancy the riunstroko which knocked him 
 down was not severe. Good as an excuse to come home 
 to his wife, perhaps, and here she is," he exclaimed, in- 
 
nir 
 
 4 BLIND FATE. 
 
 terrupting himself as a smart victoria and pair came up at 
 a brisk pace and stopped beside them. 
 
 "I thought we might meet you," said the elder of the 
 t wo ladies who occupied the carriage, a stately-looking 
 woman of perhaps sixty or more, with iron-gray hair, a 
 thin-lipped, close-shut mouth, and eyes too light for her 
 complexion. Her companion was a beatiful young woman, 
 exquisitely fair, with soft blue eyes and light golden- 
 brown hair. Except on her lips she had scarce a trace of 
 c< lor, and her delicate face expressed pensive weariness ai? 
 she lay back in the carriage. 
 
 " I thought we should meet you," repeated the elder lady, 
 who was the Dowager Mrs. Callandar. ''Now Mabel can 
 walk home with you, for I must return to receive my 
 niece, Henrietta Oakley. You ought to have come with us, 
 Dorothy, but no doubt you were better engaged " 
 
 Egerton bowed, and raised his hat as if he had received 
 a high compliment. Dorothy smiled and gave a saucy 
 little toss of her head as her sister alighted from the 
 carriage. 
 
 " I hope you shall all dine with me to-morrow, to meet 
 Miss Oakley," continued the Dowager. " May I have the 
 pleasure of seeing you too, Mr. Egerton ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; I shall be delighted." 
 
 Mrs. Callandar opened and upreared a grand white, 
 much-beflounced parasol, bowed graciously, and was 
 whirled away to her hotel. 
 
 " You do not look much the better of your drive, Mabel!" 
 said her sister, looking earnestly at her. 
 
 '• I assure you Mrs. Callandar was unusually amiable. I 
 don't think she stabbed me more than once or twice." She 
 slipped her arm through Dorothy's and, turning towards 
 home, walked on slowly between her sister and Egerton. 
 
 Mabel and Dorothy Wynn were the daughters of a mil- 
 itary officer, who, in the days of purchase, never had money 
 enough to buy the next step beyond that of captain. 
 
 When both girls were babies, Captain Wynn lost his 
 wife, and then in consideration of his junior officers' wishes 
 expressed inL. S. D., retired. He did not long survive the 
 combined loss of wife and career. His daughters remained 
 at the school where he liad placed them, in order to acquire 
 the means of adding to their diminutive income. 
 
 They had apparently no relation save their guardiai»^ 
 
» up at 
 
 of the 
 joking 
 lair, a 
 or her 
 roman, 
 jolden- 
 •ace of 
 Less air! 
 
 ir lady, 
 lel can 
 ire my 
 ith us, 
 
 Bceived 
 
 saucy 
 
 >m the 
 
 to meet 
 BLve the 
 
 white, 
 d was 
 
 IVIabel!" 
 
 able. I 
 " She 
 towards 
 rton. 
 
 f a mil- 
 i money 
 1. 
 
 lost his 
 wishes 
 vive the 
 emained 
 > acquire 
 
 Liardiau 
 
 BLIND FATE. • 
 
 Paul Standish. He was a distant cousin of the late Cap- 
 tain Wynn, and his nearest friend — he was also executor to 
 his kinsman's will, as well as guardian to his children ; 
 and very faithfully did he fulfill the duties he had under- 
 taken. The young orphans soon learned to look upon him 
 as an elder brother, indeed to Dorothy, who was five years 
 younger than her sister, he seemed in their childish days 
 quite elderly. 
 
 One afternoon he brought a married sister to see them. 
 This lady invited the two girls to dine, and go to the 
 theatre. A supreme joy in itself, and productive of im- 
 portant consequences. 
 
 At dinner they met Colonel, then Major Callandar, a 
 grave, sedate man, who had rnn the gauntlet of many gar- 
 risons without any serious affairs of the heart ; and now, 
 in the most unexpected manner, he fell utterly and abso- 
 lutely fathoms deep in love with the defunct captain's lovely 
 daughter Mabel. 
 
 This he soon confessed to her guardian, who, though 
 pleased at the fair prospect opening before a girl eminently 
 unfitted to take care of herself, recommended caution in 
 carrying out so suddenly conceived a project, especially as 
 it met with the most furious opposition of Callendar's 
 mother. 
 
 Mrs. Callandar senior was a woman of large fortune, who 
 had chosen her husband from among various comj, Dtitors ; 
 first, because he pleased her fancy, and was of a yielding 
 nature ; secondly, because he was of an old county family. 
 
 Herbert Callander was her only child, and she adored 
 him with a narrow selfish love, more bent on its own 
 gratification than the happiness of its object. Her son, 
 however, provtd not to be of the stuff women can tie to 
 their apron strings. He had a distinct will of his own, 
 and having inherited a moderate independence from his 
 father, he went his own way immovably, though always 
 treating his mother with courtesy and affectionate respect, 
 for he was really fona of her. 
 
 When the purse-proud woman, who had all a parvenu's 
 avidity for rank and distinction, found that her son, her 
 only son, was going to throw himself away on a penniless 
 nobody, worse than nobody (for Mrs. Callander had fer- 
 reted out some painful ante-nuptial story, respecting the 
 late Mrs. Wynn), her rage aad mortification knew no 
 bounds. 
 
6 
 
 BLIND FATE 
 
 Colonel Callander, however, carried out his project, and 
 Mabel, won by his quiet kindness, and pleased at the pros- 
 pect of a home which he assured her she should share with 
 her sister, when that wilful little personage was old enough 
 to leave school, consented with sweet frank readiness, and 
 in about six months after their first meeting, Mabel Wynn 
 became Mabel Callander, the object of her grave husband's 
 profound devotion, of her overbearing mother-in-law's 
 deepest dislike. 
 
 This event wrought a considerable change in the life of 
 Mabel's sister. The first grief of parting (which was keen 
 and deep) over, Dorothy found that many pleasures and ad- 
 vantages had come into her hitherto rather meagre exist- 
 ence. She had prettier frocks, more abundant bonnets, and 
 more frequent expeditions to concert and panorama with 
 those better-off elder girls whose superior lot she had hith- 
 erto envied. 
 
 The Christmas and Midsummer holidays, spent with 
 Major and Mrs. Callander wherever they happened to be 
 quartered, were glorious periods of fun and frolic, and 
 when, nearly two years after the fortunate marriage, a 
 little baby niece was presented to her, her joy and exulta- 
 tion knew no bounds. Towards her brother-in-law she felt 
 the warmest regard, not untinged with awe, and her high- 
 est reward, when she did resist her natural t^endency to 
 idleness, and attained any school distinction, was Callan- 
 der's grave approbation. This halcyon period came to a 
 close when the baby girl was a few months old, and the 
 regiment being ordered to India, the commanding officer 
 retired and Callander got his step. 
 
 But a warm climate did not suit his fair wife, who was 
 never very strong. After the birth of a boy she was or- 
 dered home. 
 
 Dorothy, now close on the serious age of 18, by Callan- 
 der's wish, left school to reside with her sister. The only 
 drawbacks to this blissful arrangement were the neighbor- 
 hood and supervision of Mrs. Callander, the delicacy and 
 depression of Mabel. This, howevor, seemed likely to pass 
 away, as, in a month or two, Dorothy gladly recognised an 
 improvement in health and spirits. 
 
 The winter was a pleasant one, for Paul Standish proved 
 himself the best "guide, philosopher, and friend" they 
 could have had. 
 
 The gaioty of their lives was considerably increased to- 
 
 I 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 wards Christmas by the arrival in London of Egerton, who 
 had known Colonel and Mrs. Callander in India, whero he 
 had gone for sport and travel. He had left shortly before 
 she did, returning by the Persian Gulf and the Euphrates, 
 in order to visit tlie ruined cities on the old caravan route. 
 
 He loaded the sisters with flowers, stalls at the theatres, 
 small presents, endless attentions, managing at the same 
 time to stand well wnth the Dowager, who respected his 
 wealth and position. 
 
 In the spring Mabel cauglit a severe cold, and was rec- 
 commended to try the South Coast for change of air. Stand- 
 ish found and secured for her the pretty villa called " The 
 Knoll," at Fordsea, where, as in a quiet pool, the current of 
 this true tale at present seems scarcely to move. 
 
 Here their faithful squires came to and fro, and brought 
 them the echoes of the world. 
 
 Mrs. Callander, senior, did not leave them long undis- 
 turbed, for she followed before the season was over, and 
 established herself, her maidservants and her menservants, 
 her horses and her carriage, at the Pier Hotel. She was, 
 however, unusually indulgent to tho>e sinners, Mabel and 
 her sister, for it began to dawn upon her that Mr. Egerton 
 of Netherleigh, was absolutely paying attention to that 
 plain, insignificant Dorothy. 
 
 The peaceful tenor of this tranquil period was rudely 
 broken by the news of Colonel Callander's illness. He had 
 received a sunstroke while on some military expedition, 
 and though hi made a fairly quick recovery, he was order- 
 ed home, and had arrived about three weeks before the 
 opening of this history. 
 
 But this long digression has out-lasted the 
 march of the trio we left strolling towards the 
 the gate leading into the grounds on the land 
 found a group, consisting of Colonel Callander, another 
 gentleman, the nurse, and children. Callander was a man 
 about Egerton's height, and more massively built. He was 
 dark and sunburnt, with a plain strong face, and grave 
 earnest eyes. But his was the darkness of an Englishman; 
 Egerton's of a foreigner. He was holding his little girl's 
 doll, while that young person attempted to " climb up" the 
 leg of the other man, who was their expected visitor, Stand- 
 ish, a fair and exceedingly Saxon -looking individual, with 
 light reddisli-l)rown mustaches and well-uimnicd hair of 
 the same hue. He was shorter than either of the others. 
 
 homeward 
 
 Knoll. At 
 
 side they 
 
8 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 S^! 
 
 IS' 
 
 'I. 
 
 r 
 
 1.1 
 
 ! 
 
 %'^ 
 
 im 
 
 but well set up and distinguished-looking. Thongh by no 
 means handsome, he h"d a pleasant sensible face, with u 
 1 ather large jaw and well-shaped eyes of no particular eolor, 
 but brightand keen. The nurse stood by, holding Maatei'* 
 -Baby in her arms, while he struggled and kicked vigoc- 
 ously as soon as he saw his mother. 
 
 'Don't hold that boy, he is too heavy for you, exclaimedl 
 Standish, as soon as tliey had exchanged greetings, for Mrs:. 
 Callander had yielded to her son's loudly-expressed clainr.i 
 for notice — he tried to take him as he spoke. 
 
 "Give him to his nurse," said the Colonel quickly. "How 
 long you have been ? You must be tired." 
 
 "Well, D»:yrot!i3^ you are blooming as usual, but- the sun. 
 has been a trifle too loving, eh?" said Standish. ' 
 
 "Oh, I know 1 am sunburnt, and so is little Doll, though; 
 we do our best to k*^ep her sun ha^ on. Just look," andi 
 lifting the child's sunny curls, she showed the difference 
 of the covered and uncovered portions of her brow. 
 
 "Fair little puss, slie is the imago of her mother," and 
 Standish lifted the child to kiss her affectionately. 
 
 "I think it is almost time to dress for dinner," remarked 
 Callander, who had been talking with Egerton while Ma 
 wife and Dorothy had Oe voted themselves to Standish,. 
 
 ''It is indeed, and I have to go back to the hotel.?" 
 Raising his hat, Egerton walked briskly away towards the; 
 pier, while the others entered the house. 
 
 * * 4f * Jie jjc )|c I 
 
 Mre. Caliandfr's little dinner was a greater success in her- 
 own estimation than perhaps in that of her guests. She; 
 had what she connidoied a distinguished party, which in- 
 cluded an Honorable Major St. John, whose pretentions toi 
 exclusiveness and superiority were upheld by masterly 
 taciturnity, her niece, a much-travelled and experienced 
 young lady of good fortune, and beyond the twenties, to 
 whom the Dowager once thought of marrying her son, and. 
 who was nothing loth, an eloquent Low Church divine,, 
 the Rev. Septimus Cole, who was her spiritual director,, 
 Egerton, sundry nonentities, naval and military, of good 
 position, and her son \» ith liis wife, who looked provo- 
 kingly elegant. Dorothy had been unceremoniously put 
 off to make room for St, John, who was especially asked 
 for Miss Oakley's beneht, and as Egerton, who was, Mrs. 
 Callander thouglit, the greatest man there, was more 
 silent than usual, and looked ^lightly bored, she begaii^ 
 
I 
 
 f 
 
 * 
 
 BLIND FATE. ' t* 
 
 to fear before dinner was over that she liad made a mistake 
 in dispensing with that conceited, insignificent chit 
 Dorothy, for really Mr. Egerton seemed to miss something 
 and that something might be Dorothy. 
 
 The rest of the company, with the exception of Miss 
 Oakley, "made" conversation more or less stiffly. She 
 rattled away on all possible subjects to St. John and 
 Egerton, between whom she sat, being divided between 
 the desire to make an impression on the latter and animate 
 the former. Colonel and Mrs. Callander, remained to the 
 last, as he acted host, and when the family party were 
 left alone, Miss Oakley took a low ohair beside her cousin's 
 wife. "I have not had the chance of a word with you," 
 she exclaimed, "and it must be more than two years since 
 we met. I protest you are prettier than ever, but paler 
 and graver." 
 
 "Thank you, Henrietta. Please remember I have two 
 babies to think of now." 
 
 "Horrid little brats ! 1 hate children." 
 
 "Heretic, they are sweet things, but certainly trouble- 
 some. How do you think Herbert looks ? 
 
 "Oh, very well. I would not trouble about him. Tell 
 me, how do you come to be such friends with Randal 
 Egerton? Ho is the most exclusive of men, and never 
 allows himself to be bored." 
 
 ' 'Then 1 suppose we do not bore him. He was hurt 
 when out tiger-hunting, and carried into our bungalow, 
 where we nursed him. He fancied we saved his life. 
 Herbert is very fond of him." 
 
 "And Dorothy? I fancy shi* has grown pretty. May I 
 come to luncheon to-morrow? 1 promise not to murder the 
 children if you show them to me. And so Mr. Stand ish is 
 with you. Why in the world didn't my aunt ask him to 
 dinner ? He is so agreeable and so popular." 
 
 While Miss Oakley chatted on, Mrs. Callander was 
 pouring a few grievences into his son's ear. 
 
 "I am sorry Mabel was so bored at dinner to-day, but I 
 am quite aware of the reason. 
 
 "Indeed ! Well, I did not observe her being bored, nor 
 do I know why she should be." 
 
 "Oh, I am the offender, I did not ask Mr. Standish tu 
 
 join \\^. He is, I confess, a man I neither like or approve." 
 
 is no accounting for taste. He is a good fellow 
 
 i 
 

 10 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 'I 
 
 li 
 
 IV'y 
 
 "A mere worldling. 1 fear h s want of faith has had an 
 evil influence on Mabel and Dorothy." 
 
 "Oh, come! If there are no worse women in the world 
 than my wife and little Dorothy, it would not be a bad 
 place — Mabel, it will be late before we reach home." 
 
 The Dowager (as she liked to fee called, it somehow 
 smacked of ducal rank) bade them a glacial good-night, 
 but Henrietta ran down stairs to see them off. "You will 
 be at Mr. Egerton's pic-nic on Tuesday, will you not? 
 He has asked me and Aunt Callander. Just fancy her 
 yachting ! She will bore and be bored. Mind you are at 
 home to luncheon, Herbert, I am coming." 
 
 "Certainly, as to the pic-nic, nearly everyone is going, 
 ourselves among the number. Good-night." 
 
 "I think Herbert looks rather glum," said Miss Oakley, 
 when she returned to her aunt, who was sitting very 
 straight up, with a frown on her cold face. 
 
 "You observe it too? and 1 am not surprised. Mabel is 
 so greatly attached to her guardian that his word is law. 
 Heaven knows I am the last to think evil, but I cannot 
 forget that her mother married the late Captain Wynn 
 during the lifetime of her first husband." 
 
 " Why, auntie !" cried Miss Oakley in atone of delighted 
 excitement, ''you do not mean to say that she committed 
 bigamy ?" 
 
 " No, Henrietta, but what was as bad she left her hus- 
 band for ano*^her man." 
 
 " Well, perluips number one was a brute ; to be sure I am 
 not a strictly itligious high-toned woman. I should scent 
 out more wickedness if I were." 
 
 Meanwhile Colonel and Mrs. Callander drove home in 
 silence, and found that Dorothy had gone to bed, but the 
 lamp was still alight in the pretty drawing-room. Two or 
 tluee letters, which at come by the last post, lay upon the 
 tabie. Caliandar stood reading them beside the light. 
 Mable threw aside the white Indian shawl in which she 
 had been wrapped, and watched him while he read. He 
 had aged certainly — there was a heaviness about his brow 
 that used not to be there. Would he ever be quite thesame 
 as he was before that unfortunate sunstroke? 
 
 Presently he laid down his letters with a sigh. 
 
 ' I'here is nothing unpleasant in them, dear? " asked his 
 wile, coming timidly to him, and, slipping her arm through 
 his, pressed her fair young head against his shoulder. 
 
 i 
 
 ri 
 
I 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 a 
 
 " Nothing whatever, they are of no importance." He 
 stood quite still, and Mabel still pressing against him said : 
 
 "Does anything disturb or worry you, Herbert ? 1 can- 
 not help fancying " she stopped abruptly. He looked 
 
 down into the sweet face uplifted to his so gravely, that 
 she could not continue — and yet he made no movement to 
 return her caress. 
 
 " What is there to make me unhappy ? " he asked in a 
 cold, composed voice. " I am with those I love — and who, 
 I believe, love me. I have dear children, and a sweet 
 wife. Oh, how sweet and fair," he exclaimed, with a sud- 
 den change of tone, and clasping her in his arms, he gazed 
 into her eyes as if he would draw out the secrets of her 
 soul. ''Whom I love too well — too well ! " She felt the 
 strong beating of his heart as he strained her to him, and 
 his lips clung to hers in a long passionate kiss. 
 
 Suddenly he released her. "Are you cold, that you shiv- 
 ered so ?" he asked quickly. 
 
 " No, not at all — but — but you make me a little uneasy. 
 Do not thrust me away as if I were a naughty child, Her- 
 bert. You know I love you ! '* She took his arm and put it 
 round her. 
 
 " If I did not believe it, chaos would indeed be come 
 again," cried Callander, gathering her to him in a close 
 embrace. Do not mind my variability of mood, Mabel ! 
 Whatever I may seem, never doubt that you are all the 
 world to me." 
 
 Paul Standish was a capital aide-de-camp in organising a 
 pic-nic, and Egerton benefitted by his assistance. Stand- 
 ish was a man of good family, very well known and pop- 
 ular in certain London circles. Though generally considered 
 a shrewd worldling, there was a kindly core to his heart, 
 and he deeply enjoyed his quiet visit to the Knoll. His 
 work (he was in the Foreign Office) had taken him much 
 abroad, and he liked the repose and refinement of Mabel's 
 home. Though no longer young, he had still all vigor and 
 elasticity of youth, and was not yet chilled by the effects 
 of a tolerably wide experience. 
 
 The day before that fixed for Egerton's yachting party, 
 not finding Dorothy in the house or garden, Standish start- 
 ed in search of her, and knowing-; her haunts, was not long 
 in discovering his ward. She was kneeling on the short, 
 partially-bleached herbage which covered a low rising 
 

 m 'i 
 
 1 
 
 12 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 u 
 
 ground at some little distance eastward fvva. the Knoll; 
 behind it the sun had already sunk, leaving the waters of 
 I lie bay somewhat dull and mournful. 
 
 '* I looked for you in vain," began Standish, when 
 Dorothy, her hands full of the long grasses she had been 
 -Atliering, started to her feet with a low cry, a startled, 
 pathetic expression on her mobile face. I have frightened 
 you," said Standish smiling. "Why, where are your 
 thoughts, Dorothy ''? 
 
 "Not very far, Paul," beginning to tie her grasses to- 
 gether. " They are never very far from me at present." 
 
 ' ' Hum ! That might be accounted for in two ways." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " They may be occupied by Mabel. They may possibly 
 dwell on our fascinating friend, Egerton." 
 
 "Fascinating! Do you think him fascinating?" 
 
 " Well, I am scarcely a judge ; but he is a handsome, 
 accomplished fellow." 
 
 " Yes, he is, and you are right. I was thinking of him." 
 She uttered these words with the utmost composure. 
 
 Standish looked at her with steady scrutiny, but she did 
 not perceive it. " I am waiting for further confessions,** 
 he said at length. 
 
 " I have nothing to confess, Paul ; at least not at pre- 
 sent." She paused, and then went on, "Mrs. Egerton's 
 mother was a Spaniard, was she not?" 
 
 " Yes, I believe so. He looks like a Spaniard himself," 
 
 '* He does, and I think he cculd be very revengeful. I 
 feel afraid of him sometimes." 
 
 " What, do you think he will plunge a stiletto in your 
 heart — because, oh, say because you walked with me." 
 
 A faint color rose in Dorothy's cheek, but she laughed 
 low and exclaimed: — 
 
 " That would be too illogical. You are my guardian, 
 and I have a sort of right to you." 
 
 '* A right I shall never question, Dorothy." His voice 
 grew soft as he spoke. 
 
 " Thank you," she said, gently. Then she made a sudden 
 movement, "Let us go back," she exclaimed, " that dreary- 
 looking sea makes me sad." 
 
 '*My dear Dorothy, you cannot be yourself, or you would 
 not have these sickly fancies. You have everything in the 
 world to make you happy, so pray call up your common 
 sense, of which you have plenty." 
 
 i 
 
 ■■S 
 
 t 
 
 \ 
 
f 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 Knoll ; 
 iters of 
 
 when 
 
 •d been 
 
 tartled, 
 
 htened 
 
 e your 
 
 ses to- 
 
 t." 
 
 s." 
 
 osaibly 
 
 idsome, 
 
 f him." 
 
 she did 
 isions,** 
 
 at pre- 
 jerton's 
 
 )lf," 
 >ful. I 
 
 Q your 
 
 e." 
 
 bughed 
 
 Etrdian, 
 
 voice 
 
 sudden 
 Ireary- 
 
 would 
 
 in the 
 
 >mmon 
 
 13 
 
 US 
 
 f 
 
 " I will, Paul," said Dorothy, laughing. '*Come, let 
 walk back, and we shall be in time for tea." 
 
 An hour later Colonel Callander and his mother were 
 taking a final turn upon the pier. 
 
 Their conversation had not been pleasant or exhilarating. 
 Mrs. Callander looked more than usually severe, and her 
 mouth was rigidly closed save when she opened it to 
 speak. 
 
 Callander's face was white and set — there "W as a dull 
 burning glow in his eyes. 
 
 " You may turn a deaf ear to me if you will," said the 
 dowager — as they approached the gate which led to the 
 Esplanade, intending to return to the Hotel — "but I am 
 right, I know I am ! " 
 
 He made no answer — and they advanced slowly — till, 
 catching sight of a group on the Common below, Mrs. Cal- 
 lander ipaused and pointed to it. The group consisted of 
 Mabel, Standish, and little Dolly — as they looked Mabel 
 took her ex-guardian's arm, and slackening her pace, seemed 
 to be conversing with profound interest. " You see," said 
 Mrs. Callander, " they are never long apart. Be warned in 
 time, Herbert ! You know what blood she has in her veins 
 — you know her mother's history ! " 
 
 " Be silent !" he interrupted in a strange half-choked 
 yoice. " You do not know what you are saying ! My wife 
 is spotless — will be spotless so long as she lives! Never 
 dare to touch upon this topic again. Trust my honor to 
 myself, I know how to keep it clean." 
 
 To the imperious woman's surprise, he turned, a,\ weav- 
 ing her to make her way as she best could alone ^o her 
 temporary abode, walked rapidly forward to overtake his 
 wife. 
 
 The morning of the day which Egerton had fixed for his 
 party was bright and clear, with a little more breeze than 
 some of his guests approved. The object of the voyage 
 was to visit the remains of an old Norman castle, which 
 crowned some picturesque clifE><, about eight or nine miles 
 east of Fordsea — also to inspect a curious rocky islet not 
 far from it, on which a modern lighthouse replaced the bea- 
 con of a hermit, who in former days devoted himself to 
 keep it alive, and, according to the legend, built himself a 
 chapel without any human aid. The ruins of this remark- 
 able edifice were still visible from the sea. 
 
1 
 
 , ^ * 
 
 
 14 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 a 
 
 At breakfast a slight change of plans took place as Ma- 
 bel suggested that she feared she was too indifferent 
 a sailor to enjoy the excursion by sea, and with a pretty 
 coaxing air asked Callander to drive her to Bavenstone, 
 which vas nearer by land than by water. He consented 
 very readily, and Standish undertook to escort Dorothy. 
 
 The party was not very large, but bright and sociable, 
 though Mrs, Callander, senior, who honored it with her 
 presence, was somewhat snappish. '* It was so thought- 
 less of Mabel to expose her husband to the glare and sun on 
 that unsheltered road ! " she said, " and for a mere whim!" 
 Egerton, too, was rather silent, and cynical when he did 
 speak. 
 
 There was enough breeze to give life and motion, the 
 rippling waters glittered in the sun, and the music of a 
 band stationed amidships, made a delightful undercurrent 
 of harmony. Yet Dorothy looked thoughtful and pre-occu- 
 pied. 
 
 ' 'Mrs. Callander has found it more convenient to go be- 
 low," said Standish, placing his camp-stool beside Dorothy 
 as she sat in the stern, watching the shadows of the swift 
 sailing clouds as they flitted over the water. "Miss Oak- 
 ley seems to consider it her duty to rouse St. John's dor- 
 mant mental energies, and the rest of the ladies are neglect- 
 ing their cavaliers, to amuse and interest our fascinating 
 host. So I beg you will devote yourself to me, Dorothy ! " 
 
 " With pleasure ! " she returned, smiling. 
 
 " Are you still in the dolefuls?" asked Standish, look- 
 ing keenly at her. 
 
 ^' No — yet I am uneasy ! I was so glad Mabel decided to 
 drive with Herbert to Ravenstone, but I went into her 
 room just before I came away, and found Nurse giving her 
 sal-volatile — she had almost fainted ! She seems to me to 
 lose strength instead of gaining it." 
 
 " That must be your fancy, Dorothy ! " 
 
 " I do not believe it is ! 1 told her she ought to make 
 Herbert take her quite away from everyone for a few weeks 
 to Scotland or Switzerland, or Sweden and Norway. It 
 would do them both so much good ! " 
 
 "You are a wise little woman. I believe, too, it would 
 be a complete cure." 
 
 " Mabel seemed to like the idea, and said she would men- 
 tion " 
 
 "Standish!" said their host, interrupting her — "Miss 
 
 ■'I' 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 10 
 
 9 as Mh- 
 
 fferent a 
 i pretty 
 venstone, 
 consented 
 rothy. 
 sociable, 
 v^ith her 
 thought- 
 id sun on 
 whim!" 
 he did 
 
 ion, the 
 lie of a 
 Drcurrent 
 pre-occu- 
 
 go be- 
 Dorothy 
 he swift 
 ss Oak- 
 in's dor- 
 ) neglect- 
 5cinating 
 >rothy ! " 
 
 b, look- 
 
 «ided to 
 into her 
 ving her 
 o me to 
 
 make 
 w weeks 
 ^ay. It 
 
 1 would 
 lid men- 
 -" Miss 
 
 i 
 
 
 Oakley is asking for you ; she says you know the Legend 
 of the Island Hermit ! 1 think she is getting a little tired 
 of her benevolent effort ! " 
 
 Standish rose somewhat reluctantly, and Egerton took 
 his place, which he kept for some considerable time. 
 
 When the voyage was accomplished, and the yacht 
 glided into the small rock-enclosed creek at the foot of 
 which nestled a few fishermen's cabins, and the inevitable 
 tavern, they found Colonel Callander and Mabel waiting on 
 the rude little jetty — alongside which the yacht found 
 ample depth of water. It being luncheon time, Egerton 
 proposed having that meal served on deck, before they at- 
 tempted the steep ascent. His suggestion was adopted 
 unanimously, and a gay repast ensued. 
 
 Mrs. Callander sat on her host's right, apparently not 
 much the worse of her voyage, and supported on the other 
 side by the Rev. S. Cole, with whom she exchanged from 
 time to time a few words disapprovig the fun and laughter 
 going on around her. Ultimately she preferred a comfort- 
 able seat on deck, an early cup of tea, and the society of her 
 favorite divine to a long fatiguing walk to inspect relics of 
 the past which did not interest her. 
 
 The rest set forth to make iheir way upwards to the old 
 towers which frowned above at so formidable a height. 
 
 Egerton took charge of Dorothy so decidedly, that they 
 were pretty well left to themselves. 
 
 "What a strong place this was once," said the latter, 
 looking round when they reached the gi ass-grown space 
 which had once been the court yard. "Its owner must have 
 been a king in his way. After all, a Norman baron had 
 rather a good time of it, at least he was lord of those 
 around him, his word was law." 
 
 " Perhaps so ! but what a dreadfully bad time his peo- 
 ple — his dependants must have had! " 
 
 " I dare say they got quite as much good out of life as 
 the people do now ! They had fewer wants, and greater 
 respect for their rightful lord." 
 
 "And they were a trifle nearer the brute ! which of course 
 was of no consequence so long as it made matters easier 
 for their masters." 
 
 " What ! are you a raging democrat ? " exclaimed Eger- 
 ton with a smile. " I had no idea that Callander harbored, 
 uch a dangerous character." 
 
l6 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 ! 
 
 hi''! 
 
 "Of course yoxi think me an idiot ; perhaps I am, but J 
 can't help having some ideas about history." 
 
 "An idiot!" repeated Egertou, with a look full of ad- 
 miration. "I wish I dare tell you what I think ! " 
 
 " He is uncommonly handsome, and has a nice voice,'' 
 thought Dorothy, but she only laughed and shook her head. 
 
 *' It is a terribly ruined ruin," remarked Egerton, 
 when they had finished their explorations, " come 
 let us make our way down. There is a pretty nook 
 I want to show you — you have, 1 know, an artist's eye for 
 beauty." 
 
 Dorothy found then that they had lingered to the last. 
 and that Mabel had taken her husband's arm, and was walk- 
 ing away between him and Standish. 
 
 Dorothy was a little vexed that her guardian had scarce- 
 ly spoken to her since Egerton had interrupted their con- 
 versation in the morning ; she was consequently more dis- 
 posed to be friendly with her host. 
 
 About half-way between the ruins and the pier, a faintly 
 marked footpath turned to the left, leading apparently 
 across the face of the cliff — '' Let me show you the way," 
 said Egerton, passing her. 
 
 " Is there a footing ? " asked Dorothy. 
 
 "Trust me!" he returned, and following him she soon 
 found herself on a small projecting platform, in front of 
 which some gorse bushes and several moss-grown stones 
 formed a natural parapet, while a fragment of rock served 
 for a seat — the outlook over the sea, to the lighthouse and 
 chapel on the islet before mentioned made a delightfully 
 tranquil, picturesque scene. 
 
 " This is charming," cried Dorothy. "How sweet and 
 peaceful ! " 
 
 "Yes, it is sweet! do sit down for a few minutes, and 
 forgive me, if 1 am abrupt, but I seldom have a chance of 
 speaking to you alone. I cannot lose this precious mo- 
 ment. Will you listen to me? I want to tell you what I 
 think of you." 
 
 * ' Don't be too complimentary," said Dorothy, with a 
 little uneasy laugh. 
 
 " No, I shall speak the truth. Well, then, 1 think you 
 are the brightest, sauciest, most womanly girl that ever 
 charmed a man's heart — and the desire of mine is to call 
 you my wife, sweet Dorothy ! " He tried to take her hand; 
 she drew it hastily away, with a startled look. 
 
 d 
 
 y 
 
 c 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
I, but J 
 of ad- 
 voice,'' 
 r head. 
 Igerton, 
 come 
 ^ nook 
 Qye for 
 
 le last, 
 s walk- 
 
 scarce- 
 ir con- 
 )re dis- 
 
 faintly 
 
 arently 
 
 way," 
 
 13 soon 
 'ont of 
 stones 
 served 
 ise and 
 htfully 
 
 iet and 
 
 s, and 
 mce of 
 us mo- 
 ivhat I 
 
 7ith. 
 
 a 
 
 k you 
 t ever 
 to call 
 ' hand; 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 17 
 
 "Will you not speak to mo? " he continued. 
 
 " I do not know how to spoak to you, Mr. Egerton," in a 
 distressed voice. " I do not — I do not seem able to believe 
 you! — to buliave that you love me, I mean, when I do not 
 love you, for, indeed, I do not." 
 
 " I know that only too well! But let me try to teach youV 
 If you love no one else, I may succeed. Do you love any- 
 one, Dorothy ? " 
 
 "No! indeed, I do not! but somehow, Mr. Egerton, I do 
 not think I should ever love you, nor do I feel that I am the 
 sort of i^irl you ought to marry '' She broke off ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 " I am quite old enough to know my own mind," said 
 Egerton, abruptly. " If your heart is free, I will not accent 
 your present ' no' as tinal. I am desperately petsevering 
 when my heart is set on anything, as it is now, Dorothy." 
 
 '* Still, Mr. Ej^erton, do not think me unkind, but— but I 
 do not think 1 shall ever change." 
 
 " We shall see. Now you are looking uneasy. I do not 
 want to keep you here against your will. Remember, 
 though, I do not accept your refusal, give me a little grace." 
 He caught and kissed her hand, holding it for a minute in 
 his own. 
 
 "Do not keep me, Mr. Egerton," said Dorothy, who was 
 greatly distressed ; " I am more sorry that I can say 
 to vex you, and — and — I want to overtake Miss Oakley." 
 
 CHAPTEIi II. 
 
 " DUNCAN gray's COME HERB TO WOO." 
 
 Egerton's words took Doro hy so completely by surprise 
 tliat for some time fcho was vuiable to think clearly. 
 
 Even the next morning, when she opened her eyes, her 
 first feeling was painful confu^non. 
 
 She has been wonderfully still and silent all the way 
 back, nestling close to Paul Standish, who, after once ask- 
 ing, " Are you all right, Dorothy ?" had left her to herself. 
 Egerton showed her much quiet attention, and walked with 
 her to theKnoU, giving her hand a tender, signilicant pressure 
 at parting. After a little talk with Mabel, to which 
 Colonel Callander listened in his usual silent way, she 
 went to her room, and tired with the long day out of doors, 
 and the emotion of its latter half, she was soon heavily 
 asleep. 
 
''% 
 
 18 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 Egerton's avowal affected her curiously — there was an 
 odd element of fear in the mixed feeling which impelled 
 iier to reject him. 
 
 When he first appeared as a friend of her sister, she 
 liked and admired him, but gradually a sense of distrust 
 grew up in her heart — how and why she never dreamt of 
 analysing. The distrust, however, was very dim and in- 
 stinctive. He was still a pleasant companion. It was only 
 when he began to pay her marked attention, and seek op- 
 [jortunities of being alone with her, that it took anything 
 of a tangible form. For some occult reason she had taken 
 it into her iioad that he was amusing himself at her expense, 
 which roused her keen, sensitive pride, and kept her on the 
 qui vive to notice the fascinating Egerton's proceedings. 
 That he sljould have absolutely asked her to be his wife 
 left no doubt of his sincerity. Still her heart was in no 
 way softened to him — rather a subtle terror crept into it. 
 What was his motive? Could it be really true love, when 
 she felt so hard and distrustful towards him ? Surely she 
 wuold have loved him had he really loved her — would she 
 indeed ? 
 
 This question she did not answer save by a deep blush, 
 even though alone brushing out her long Imir before de- 
 scending to breakfast. She longed to heai what Mabel 
 thought of tlie v;ciiderful event — she must tell Mabel ; Mr. 
 Egerton would not mind that ; but to every one else she 
 would be mute — no one should know of Lis rejection. 
 
 But Egerton was by no means anxious to conceal the 
 fact that lie had offered himself — his old name, his fine es- 
 tate, his large investments — to this young, insignificant 
 girl — "a mere nobody " — as the dowager Mrs. Callarder 
 was wont to remark. 
 
 He did not present himself as early as usual at "The 
 Knoll " the next day, but meeting Standish, w^ho had been 
 strolling on tlie pier at an hour wlien it was chiefly in the 
 possession of ancient mariners, he passed his arm through 
 that of Standish with unusual familiarity, saying, " 1 was 
 on my way to have a little talk witli Callander. Will you 
 come with me ?" 
 
 " Yes, if you like ; you'll be rather clever if you get him 
 to talk." 
 
 He is ceitai'ily very taciturn, but he always was — more 
 or less. He liasn't quite thrown off his late attack, and 
 has had a touch of ague lately, which is very depressing. 
 
 B 
 n 
 
 t( 
 
 a 
 i 
 o 
 
 s 
 fa 
 
 n 
 r 
 
 ii 
 
■t 
 
 BLIND FATK. 
 
 10 
 
 was ail 
 impelled 
 
 ter, she 
 distrust 
 •eamt of 
 
 and in- 
 v&s only 
 
 eek op- 
 aything 
 d taken 
 
 xpense, 
 
 on the 
 sedings. 
 lis wife 
 s in no 
 
 into it. 
 e, when 
 rely she 
 >uld she 
 
 blush, 
 fore de- 
 Mabel 
 el; Mr. 
 else she 
 
 L. 
 
 3al the 
 fine es- 
 lificant 
 Harder 
 
 . "The 
 A been 
 in the 
 irouj>;h 
 ' 1 was 
 ill you 
 
 Bt him 
 
 -more 
 
 f, and 
 )ssing. 
 
 But show him you want his iielp or advice, and he is at. 
 much alive, as soundly sensible as ever. I am just going 
 to ask his counsel in a matter which will interest you." 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 " Yes, 1 am sure it will. Look ! There goes the Ari- 
 adne," pointing to a smart little giinboat which was steam- 
 ing out of the harbor. " Fortesque did not think he'd be 
 o£E so soon. This afternoon, he said, would be their earliest 
 start. I suppose he found fresh orders awaitinjr liim when 
 he got on board last night." Talking on various topics, 
 with many a break — for Standish did not feel quite at ease 
 — they approached the Knoll, at the gate of which they 
 met Colonel Callandar. He greeted them with more ani- 
 mation than usual. 
 
 " Where are you off to V asked Egerton. 
 
 " I was going to have a swim. I have not felt up to 
 one before, but to-day I think I may venture; bathing is 
 a favorite pastime of mine." 
 
 "I don't think you are fit for it by any means," said 
 Standish, i' Take my advice ; give it up for this season." 
 
 " And I want your advice in a matter very vital to me. 
 Come down on the l)each, where wo are safe from listeners, 
 and I'll unburden my lieart," said Egerton, with a pleasant 
 smile. 
 
 " Very well. 1 don't fancy it is a matter of life and 
 death," returned Callander, looking at him kindly, and 
 they went leisurely across the strip of common and sat 
 down on one of the ridges of the shingle in front of the 
 villa. 
 
 *' Give me your ears," began Egerton, " and your best 
 help, for you can help me if you choose. I have just been 
 rejected by the girl 1 love! 1 want your inllueuc>e to in- 
 duce her to reconsider her decision, for my fate is in the 
 hands of Mis-i Dorothy Wynn." 
 
 " Dorothy !" repeated Callander, " I am not quite taken 
 by suprise. I see a good deal of what is going on about 
 me. Well, Egerton, you have my best wishes, but as to 
 influence, 1 do not think I have much." Standish was 
 silent." 
 
 " What do you say ?" added Egerton, turning to him. "I 
 trust you, as her guardian, will not also reject me." 
 
 " Gret her consent and you shall have mine," said Stan- 
 dish. 
 
 "Pray what reason did she allege for rejecting you'?" 
 
1(1. 
 
 fl 
 
 '■l ■ 
 
 i!r 
 
 
 20 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 asked Callander, with interest. " I should have thought 
 you rather an acceptable sort of fellow to a girl." 
 
 " She just simply said she did not like me, and she never 
 would. She put it rather more politely, you know, but that 
 was the gist of it, and awfully sweet she looked when she 
 said so." 
 
 '• Tnere is a certain degree of obstinancy in her," remarked 
 Colonel Callander, as he lit a cigar. " but she is an honest- 
 hearted little girl, and I should be very pleased to see her 
 married to you." 
 
 " I am afraid I was rather abrupt with her, but T have 
 been watching for an opportunity to speak to her for a long 
 time. I found it yesterday, and was not sufficiently cauti- 
 ous. A man cannot always be master of himself." 
 
 Standish muttered something the others did not catch. 
 
 " Eh ! what is it ?" asked Egerton. 
 
 '* Nothing, But Dorothy is rather young, don't you 
 think so, Callander ?" 
 
 Perhaps. Mabel was eighteen when we married, he re- 
 turned, with a queer far away look in his eyes. " But she 
 was softer, less individual than Dorothy ; she needed sup- 
 port and protection." 
 
 " If my ward accepts you," said Standish somewhat 
 coldly, "I could not possibly object to you either person- 
 ally or as regards your position. You are an excellent 
 match for any woman, however high born, but Dorothy 
 must have ample time ; she must not be pressed !" 
 
 " Heaven knows !" cried Egerton, with feeling, " I think 
 your charming ward a great deal too good for me. 1 am 
 quite willing to wait her pleasure, but 1 want you both — 
 one as her guardian, the other as lier nearest friend — to 
 understand my hopes — my intentions — to give me what 
 chances you can of being with her; of urging my suit upon 
 her, that is to say, if you approve it!" 
 
 " For my part I heartily wish you success," said Cal- 
 lander, warmly. "It is a marriage that would give me 
 pleasure. I feel my own health rather uncertain — and 
 
 " He paused abruptly, gazing away out to soa with 
 
 the far-away look in his eyes which touched and struck 
 Standish. 
 
 " My dear fellow, don't croak !" cried Egerton. " I hope 
 you will dance merrily at my wedding before many months 
 are over. And you, too, Standish." 
 
 " As for me!" said that gentlemen, " I can only repeat 
 
 i 
 
 4* 
 
 % 
 
BLIND PATE. 
 
 21 
 
 thought 
 
 she never 
 , but that 
 when she 
 
 remarked 
 
 u honest- 
 
 o see her 
 
 at I have 
 or a long 
 
 tly cauti- 
 
 > 
 
 catch. 
 
 ion't you 
 
 id, he re- 
 " But she 
 eded sup- 
 
 omewhat 
 >r person- 
 excellent 
 Dorothy 
 
 " I think 
 le. 1 am 
 Li both — • 
 •lend — to 
 ae what 
 5uit upon 
 
 aid Cal- 
 give me 
 ain — and 
 soa with 
 id struck 
 
 " I hope 
 '■ months 
 
 y repeat 
 
 that when you wjn Doi'othy's consent — mine is at your 
 service I" 
 
 " Thank you," returned Egerton. 
 1 " However, do not be too sure of her." 
 
 4 " I assure you I feel very properly uncertain." 
 
 " And you may rely on our silence respecting your hopes 
 
 and wishes until " 
 
 " I am by no means anxious that they should be kept 
 such a profound secret," replied Egerton. " I think my 
 taste does me credit." 
 
 " The only person to whom I feel inclined to confide so 
 
 important a piece of intelligence," said the colonel thought- 
 
 1 fully, " is to my mother. It is right she should know, es- 
 
 § pecially as it is probable we shall leave Dorothy under her 
 
 f care when we go away." 
 
 ( I 
 
 Go away ! Who is 
 
 goinfe 
 
 away ?" cried Egerton 
 
 sharply, with a keen glance like a stab. 
 
 " Don't suppose I am eoing to do anything desperate," 
 said Callander, with a grave smile. " Mrs. Callander and 
 I are talking of going abroad for a month or two. I want 
 to have a look at the battle fields on the French frontier, 
 and to go on into Switzerland. Of course Dorothy will 
 stay here." 
 
 '• It will do you a great deal of good," sai 1 Standish, 
 
 " I am not quite sure of that," added Egerton hastily. 
 *' The cooking at these out-of-the-way places is execrable, 
 and may upset you. Nothing like the comforts of home 
 when you are in a convalescent state. I would not decide 
 on this journtiy rashly." 
 
 '* I shall be very careful, but I intend taking the trip. 
 Besides, Mrs. Callander seems to like the idea of it." 
 
 " Does she?" returned Egerton, with an indefinable touch 
 of surprise in his tone. "I trust you may both be the 
 better." 
 
 " You'll come in to luncheon, Egerton?" 
 
 " Thank you, no ! I fancy Miss Wynn would rather not 
 mtet me so soon. She has not yet perhaps forgiven my 
 abruptness. I'll keep out of sight to-day, but will you both 
 put in a word for me ? Assure her of my earnestness — my 
 desire to wait her time, and in no way press her." 
 
 " That is quite the line you ought to take," said Callan- 
 der. " Well, let us see you to-morrow, and you'll find Do- 
 rothy reasonable, I am sure. Both she and Mrs. Calhn let- 
 kept their rooms this morning. I have not seen them yt^t. 
 
■ '-ny?^- "g ) 
 
 
 iiiiiii! 
 
 II I" 'i 
 
 V- 
 
 22 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 Now I am going to call on my mother," added the colonel, 
 rising, " for I don't think there is anything more to be said 
 or done as regards my sister-in-law at present." 
 
 " Let me come with you," said Egerton, throwing away 
 the end of his cigar. " I don't knov/ exactly what to do 
 with myself." 
 
 " Come then," was Callander's reply. 
 
 " And I am going to walk to the point," said Standish. 
 
 The trio dispersed, Standish proceeding along the beach 
 to a long, low spit which stretched far into the waters. 
 
 He moved slowly, with little of his usual firm alertness, 
 nor did his quick, observant eye roam as usual in search 
 of the curious or beautiful. 
 
 Egerton's proposal for his ward had disturbed him in no 
 common degree. Of course it was a sort of thing he must 
 expect as the guardian of an attractive girl, and there was 
 nothing to find fiiult with in Egerton's straightforward 
 honesty ; yet there was something cut and dried in his 
 tone — an absence of the glow and rapture, the eagerness 
 and self-doubt tl.at naturally betray themselves in a lover, 
 ardent enough to risk confessing failure, in order, if pos- 
 sible, to secure co-operation. 
 
 " It will be a splendid match," he said to himself, " and 
 I never heard anything against Egerton, yet I have a sort 
 of idea that his amusements have not been of the most in- 
 nocent description. I must try and find out more of his 
 history. What, in Heaven's name, has kept the child from 
 falling in love with him? He is quite a girl's ideal hero, 
 and of late he has evidently sought her. Does she love 
 someone else? That is the only shield I know for so young 
 and inexperienced a girl. I wish she would speak openly 
 to me. She is not as confidirg as she used to be. But 
 Mabel will tell me. Dorothy opens her heart to Mabel. 
 Miss Oakley will be delighted at this fulfilment of her 
 prophecies. She has always been declaring that Egerton is 
 in love with Dorothy. Well, I suppose he is." 
 
 Meanwhile Callander and Egerton walked slowly towards 
 the hotel where the Dowager had established herself. Here 
 Egerton left him. 
 
 There had been little intercourse between Mrs. Callandar 
 and her son, since she ventured to express her suspicions of 
 Standish so plainly; she had been secretly anxious to make 
 matters smooth once more, but it was not easy to approach 
 l\\m. He was so silent and self-contained tnat unless she 
 
 •^ 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 23 
 
 colonel, 
 3 be said 
 
 ng away 
 lat to do 
 
 mdish. 
 he beach 
 ters. 
 lertness, 
 H search 
 
 im in no 
 he must 
 lere was 
 ;forward 
 in his 
 agerness 
 i a lover, 
 r, if pos- 
 
 ilf, " and 
 ve a sort 
 most in- 
 e of his 
 lild from 
 Bal hero, 
 she love 
 JO young 
 k: openly 
 be. But 
 ) Mabel, 
 t of her 
 jerton is 
 
 towards 
 f- Here 
 
 illandar 
 cions of 
 to make 
 pproach 
 iless she 
 
 
 ■rif 
 
 i 
 
 beg:an the subject, and that as she well knew by retracting 
 all that she had insinuated, there was small chance of get- 
 ting him beyond the merest commonplace. To retract wsrS 
 impossible to her. Towards her daughter-in-law she had a 
 quiet but immovable aversion. She was a living memento 
 of defeat, and Mrs. Callander was perpetually on the look- 
 out for faults which she felt certain existed. Herthecry 
 was, that Mabel's soft, tranquil manner masked an iron 
 will, profound dissimulation, aikd unscrupulous plotting. 
 Without the lares of a fascinating siren, her son would 
 never have been drawn from the allegiance due to a mother 
 — without an amount of designing self-control Mabel could 
 never have succeeded in avoiding a quarrel with her 
 mother-in-law. Mrs. Callander's dearest wisi was to have 
 some legitimate cause of complaint against her son's wife, 
 and finding it impossible to irritate her into incivility, she 
 established severe disapprobation of her affectionate fami- 
 liarity with her guardian instead. 
 
 Not that Mrs. Callander, in her heart, for a moment sus- 
 pected real evil - she merely seized the only peg available 
 on which to hang a grievance. Had her remonstrances 
 and insinuations roused her son's wrath and jealousy, she 
 would have been satisfied, but to see him unmoved roused 
 her to exaggeration both of thought and word. When at 
 last she succeeded in stirring him to speech, it was to 
 speech of a very different kind from what she desired. In 
 all this distortion of judgment and cruelty of heart, Sihe 
 never doubted her own righteousness — her own clearsight- 
 edness and sincere desire to do kindly and justly both \)y 
 her son and her daughter-in-law, nor abated by a breath 
 the ardor of her prayers and thanksgivings, especially foi 
 not being quite as other women are. 
 
 But though she firmly believal that her feelings towards 
 Mabel partook more of sorrow than of anger, she did not 
 hide from herself the unmitigated dislike — nay hatred — 
 with which she regarded Standibh. 
 
 He was poor, yet perfectly independent. Coming of an 
 ancient race and admitted into the best society, he yet had 
 no sounding title which might be flourished in the face of 
 tlie world, and for all Mrs. Callander's social circle knew, 
 he might be a stockbroker, or a retired draper, or anything 
 t^lse bourgeois and obscure, without that gilding of wealth 
 which makes any bread pill acceptable ; and this nobody, 
 « mere clerk in tne Foreign Office, had a sort of ineffable 
 
* * 
 
 ll'li 
 
 
 i! 
 
 hm 
 
 24 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 •luperiority that she could not away with. He was per- 
 'jctly polite and well-bred — in the simplest manner — yet 
 she felt herself — she, Mrs. Bruce Callander, with all her 
 wealth, and church influence, and admiring evangelical 
 friends, dwarfed into insignificance when face to face with 
 this easy-going, good-humored man, who seemed to say 
 everything that came uppermost, yet never made a mistake, 
 and in whose presence she felt hQj* own elaborate dignity 
 and careful speech, her heavy { oliteness and covert allu- 
 sions to her grand acquaintance, and her all-sufficing 
 wealth so much unmanagaable dead weight, more likely to 
 sink the vessel than to steady its progress. 
 
 Then the doctrines held by Standish on many points 
 were utterly damnable. In politics an advanced Liberal — 
 in religion a Freethinker — she even darkly doubted that he 
 ever went to church t Yet he dared to argue with the 
 Reverend Horace Babblington, a man whom Lord Beacons- 
 field came more than once to hear and invited to dinner, 
 and was not a bit convinced by that eminent divine's as- 
 sertions and inferences. In short he was a malignant of 
 the worst type — a malignant she was afraid to tackloi 
 Then the cool way in which he seemed to take Mabel's ex- 
 traordinary good fortune as regarded her marriage — such a 
 marriage fcr her — was a deadly offence. Indeed, as Mrs. 
 Callander observed to her much enduring companion, whose 
 lips were supposed to be hermetically sealed by the aristo- 
 cratic will of her mistress^ " it is impossible to trust a man 
 whose ideas are so strange, whose views are so extremely 
 vague ! Mr. Standish is a person of no fixed principle, and 
 perfectly without religion. It makes me shudder to think 
 of his roaming about my poor son's house, unchecked and 
 undetected. 1 earnestly pray that no serious harm may 
 come of it." 
 
 When Colonel Callander was ushered into his mother's 
 sitting-room he found her as usual richly and elaborately 
 dressed, and knitting a huge coverlet, while Miss Boothby 
 read aloud The Times. 
 
 She gave a cold, straight unresponsive hand to her son. 
 
 " I hope you are all right after your long day in the open 
 air ?" he said, as he drew a chair near her work-table. 
 
 " Thank you. I am as usual. I get little sleep. My mind 
 is too anxious to permit of repose !" 
 
 " That's bad," said Colonel Callander, vaguely 
 
 "You need not stay. Miss Boothby," said the dowager, 
 
 I 
 1 
 
 m 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 25 
 
 was per- 
 iner — yet 
 all her 
 'angelical 
 face with 
 '. to say- 
 mistake, 
 e dignity 
 vert allu- 
 sufficing 
 likely to 
 
 ny points 
 Liberal — 
 d that he 
 with the 
 Beacons^ 
 
 dinner, 
 vine's as- 
 ignant of 
 
 io tackloi 
 [abel's ex- 
 e — such a 
 1, as Mrs. 
 on, whose 
 he aristo- 
 ist a man 
 extremely 
 ciple, and 
 • to think 
 Bcked and 
 larm may 
 
 mother's 
 aborately 
 
 1 Boothby 
 
 o her son. 
 L the open 
 kbie. 
 My mind 
 
 dowager, 
 
 f 
 
 •f 
 
 4 
 
 " I wish to converse witli my sou." The meek companion 
 rose with a small smile and disa|)peared. 
 
 " I came to ask if you have any commands, as I think of 
 going up town to-morrow. I want to arrange one or two 
 matters before goin«^ north." 
 
 " North ! why, where are you going to now V" she asked, 
 querulously. 
 
 " Mabel and I think of taking a trip through the High- 
 lands, or to Switzerland. I think she wants a change as 
 much as I do." 
 
 " There I agree with you," observed Mrs. Callander, sig- 
 nificantly. " She has had a worn, distressed look ever since 
 — I mean, for a considerable time." 
 
 " You think so ?" said her son, with a quick, fiery, 
 wrathful flash from his dark eyes — a warning signal that 
 even his mother dar«d not disregard. " I trust she has 
 no cause for distress or anxiety — at all events she seems 
 to consider tlie panacea for her ills is a quiet journey 
 with ma" 
 
 " 1 am sincerely glad to hear it," with pointed emphasis 
 — " pray when do start ?" 
 
 ** Early next week. May I ask what your plans are?" 
 
 '•If you are going away there is no particular object in 
 my remaining 1 don't suppose even when you return! shall 
 see much of you." 
 
 "There is no reason why we should not be as much together 
 as you like," returned the Colonel dryly. "However, if 
 you are comfortable here, and don't mind staying, I should 
 begladif you would, because," he stopped and seemed to 
 have lost the thread of his discourse — his eyes wandering 
 to the window, and evidently preoccUi.ied with some dis- 
 tant object visible to the inner sense. 
 
 " Well!" said his mother at last, looking up from her 
 knitting with some surprise, ''why do you wish me to 
 
 ..tay?" 
 
 Her son looked at her with a bewildered aspect, and then 
 passing his hand over his brow, exclaimed, " I beg your 
 pardon ! I fotgot what I was saying ! I wished you to 
 stay. Oh! yes, I wished you to stay, because Mabel and I 
 intend to be away about six weeks or so, and Dorothy will 
 be here alone — that would be of no consequence, but Eger- 
 ton has just proposed to me for her. It seems that Dorothy 
 x'efused him, but he very wisely will not take a girl's first 
 
rrsrr^ 
 
 1^ 
 
 \W' 
 
 mm 
 
 26 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 no. So he begs to be allowed opportunities of pressing his 
 suit — and — " 
 
 " Refused him!" said Mrs. Callander in a high key. 
 " She must be out of her mind. He is a match for an Earl's 
 daughter. Why, it will be quite a distinguished connec- 
 tion. Of course she will accept him ! she must. Dorothy 
 has her tempers, and is altogether wanting in a knowledge 
 of what she owes to us, but I always thought there was 
 some moral worth in her." 
 
 " Ultimately she will do as she likes, but Egerton ought 
 to have a fair chance. Now if you are here he can see her 
 with you, under your chapronage, and Henrietta will pro- 
 bably also stay — otherwise " he paused. 
 
 " I never hesitate to sacrifice myself on the altar of 
 duty," said Mrs. Callander, in a lofty tone, " or for the 
 good of others, for I cannot say I owe any duty to your 
 sister-in-law, but if it be an accommodation to you, my 
 dear son, I will remain till you return." 
 
 "You see there are no relations or friends to whom we 
 can send Dorothy." 
 
 " I am quite aware of that," put in his mother, sharply. 
 Callander did not heed her. 
 
 " And," he continued, " even if Standish could stay on 
 here, he c ° uld not be the source of protection you can be." 
 
 " Nor do I suppose it likely he wili remain while you are 
 away." remarked Mrs. Callander, sweetly. 
 
 " Mother !" he cried, *' do you know how cruel you are ? 
 Do you know that my life is bound up in Mabel's ! in 
 Mabel's love and truth. Nothing you say touches my faith 
 in her — yet — yet — you torment mc. She is — she always 
 wili be spotless— in the eyes of all men." 
 
 He sprang up and paced to and fro rapidly, with occa- 
 sional fierce gestures. 
 
 " Spotless! my dear Herbert! I should hope so!" return- 
 ed Mrs. Callander, with the obtnseneys of a hard unsympa- 
 thetic woman. " Do you think i meant anything beyond 
 the necessity of attending to appearances '? When a man 
 like Mr. Standish — a man of the world in the worst sense 
 — is seen morning, noon and night with a young woman 
 whom some people consider handsome. Why " 
 
 " Be silent !" he exclaimed, harshly, turning to face her, 
 with such wrath in his eyes that even the unimaginative 
 old woman cowered for a moment. " Understand me ! un- 
 less you cease to insult me by harping on these hideous 
 
 i! 
 
3ssmg his 
 
 bigh key. 
 an Earl's 
 i connec- 
 Dorothy 
 nowledge 
 there was 
 
 ton ought 
 in see her 
 I will pro- 
 
 ) altar of 
 or for the 
 ;y to your 
 ) you, my 
 
 whom we 
 
 , sharply. 
 
 i stay on 
 u can be." 
 e you are 
 
 you are ? 
 abel's ! in 
 
 my faith 
 le always 
 
 v^ith occa- 
 
 !" return - 
 unsympa- 
 ig beyond 
 n a man 
 or St sense 
 Lg woman 
 
 I 
 
 face her, 
 aginative 
 i me ! un- 
 
 hideous 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 27 
 
 possibilities I will ifcever see your face again ! 1 should 
 have broken with you before, but tiiat I dreaded Mabel 
 should be outraged by the kuowlodge of the reason why I 
 dropped all intercourse with my mother. God ! could you 
 think that sweet simple soul could ever be drawn from her 
 children — from me? Is such a possibility comprenensible 
 to youV" There was keen pain as well as burning indigna- 
 tion in his tone. 
 
 " The wickedness of the unregenerate heart is unfathom- 
 able," said his mother severely, '* and I greatly fear Mabel 
 does not knovv^ where to look for strength. It's impossible 
 to say where unguarded beginnings may lead poor, weak 
 creatures, and your wife, though an amiable w(nnan, is no 
 doubt easily intlaenced, in short, not what you would call 
 a person of strong character." 
 
 " No— thank God, she is not! How should I have got 
 on with a woman of strong character ? I say, mother — 
 enough of this. I feel my kead dizzy. If we are to be 
 fr.ends " 
 
 " I will never speak to you on this subject again," said 
 his mother, with an injured and dignified air. " I have 
 done my duty, my conscience is clear. I have not left you 
 in ignorance! Now as regards Dorothy ?" 
 
 Callander was again pacing to and fro — his head bent 
 down, lips moving slightly — as it forming unuttered words. 
 Then, with an effort, he repeated as he paused opposite her 
 — " Dorothy ! — Ay ! We must not forget Dorothy. Will 
 you stay here and let Egerton come to and fro, and see her 
 under your auspices ?" 
 
 " I shall be happy to further an alliance calculated to re- 
 iiect credit on yo" and yours, Herbert." 
 
 " I don't want any reflected credit," he returned impa- 
 tiently. •♦ I am obliged to you, however, and I will bid you 
 good-bye for the present. I am going to ride with Egerton 
 this afternoon, and dine at mess with Tolhurst, of the 
 175th, this evening. So I shall not see you till I return 
 from town. Good-bye, and remember I" He took her hand 
 coldly enough for a moment, and left the room — almost 
 running against the Rev. Thomas Gilmore, who was com- 
 ing upstairs, as he often did about lunch hour. 
 
 But the recontre did not suggest his own luncheon to 
 Callander. He wandered away past the pier, to an old, 
 disused landing-place, a relic of times when Fordsea was 
 in a very primitive condition. Here he sat down, and witli 
 
28 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 I V 
 
 
 iil^ 
 
 1 tr'' 
 
 tixedeyes, which saw nothing round him, he reviewed tht; 
 past — or rather, the past came uncalled — and unrolled its 
 pictures — vivid pictures! — glowing in the warm light of 
 intense thought thrown back upon the past. 
 
 Those first exquisite days of marriedSlife — when he had 
 to win his young wife from the slight fear which 
 gratified even wuile it troubled liim. Her growing confi- 
 dence, her timidity — the sw 3t peace of their lives — thi-- 
 tender anxiety for her, when the languor and depression of 
 delicate health grew upon her ; the occasional dread lest he 
 were not quite young and blithe enough for her ; the agony 
 of parting ; iiis mother's letters, full of hints and inuendoes 
 which he scarcely understood ; the delight of returning 
 after his illness ; the gnawing, undefined fear that a year's 
 absence had, in some degree, undone the work of the Past ; 
 that a filmy something — he knew not what — had come be- 
 tween them — that she turned with more confidence and 
 familiarity to her guardian than to himself ; that her old 
 timidity had come back to her ! If — if it were possible that 
 the smallest chill had breathed on her love — how was he 
 to endure it ! He dared not dwell on such a thought — he 
 trembled at the shadow of possible agony which fell on 
 him at the suggestion. No ! There were moments when 
 Mabel was her old self, even more frankly loving. And 
 this projected tour! — they would enjoy a heavenly 
 tete-a-tete. He would again be all and all to her — he 
 would try to resist these fits of irritation, which must 
 terrify so timid a soul, even though she herself was sacred 
 to him. His future complete recovery depended upon him- 
 self; and for the sake of those dear to him, he must regain 
 the self-mastery once so strong. " Grod only knows how 
 hard the struggle is, and will be," he muttered. " When 
 we are alone 1 will tell Mabel all— all the curious strain 
 and burning anger that beset me at times. She will be 
 touched with heavenly pity— she will help me. Love will 
 give her courage— for she loves me. Yes. I can believe 
 nothing, save that she loves me well. 
 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 "TAKING SWEET COUNSEL." 
 
 Colonel Callander had not looked so well since he re- 
 turned from India as the morning he started for London. 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 29 
 
 viewed tht) 
 inroUed its 
 m light of 
 
 len. he had 
 ear which 
 iving confi- 
 
 lives — th^i 
 pression of 
 -ead lest he 
 
 the agouy 
 1 inuendoes 
 f returning 
 lat a year's 
 f the Past ; 
 id come be- 
 fidence and 
 hat her old 
 ossible that 
 low was he 
 lought — he 
 hich fell on 
 nents when 
 ving. And 
 heavenly 
 to her — he 
 bvhich must 
 was sacred 
 i upon him- 
 cnust regain 
 inows how 
 id. " When 
 :ious strain 
 She will be 
 
 Love will 
 can believe 
 
 f 
 
 ince he re- 
 lor London. 
 
 he undertook various commissions for his sister-in-law, 
 but his wife had said she wanted nothing. 
 
 *'I have everything I want, and more than I deserve," 
 she added, as she kissed her husband tenderly at parting. 
 
 "I do not think so ! Now rest and gather strength to 
 enjoy our ramble together, for you look pale and feeble. 
 He was inclined to pour out words of passionate endear- 
 ment, but repressed them, as a first effort of the self-control 
 he felt it so important to regain. 
 
 Dorothy had begun to forget tho disturbing effect of 
 Egerton's avowal ; and as he did not appear for two whole 
 days, hoped he would not renew the subject. 
 
 Standish had gone to dine and sleep at a country house 
 
 at some distance to meet Lord R , his chief, so the 
 
 sisters had a very tranquil day, its only disturbance being 
 a visit from the Dowager, who came in unwonted good- 
 humor. In the evening, a little to Dorothy's dismay, 
 Miss Oakley walked in just before dinner, to have a little 
 talk, she said, accompanied by Egerton and Major St. 
 John, who was, Miss Oakley thought, immensely struck 
 with her, whereas St. John was equally sure he had made 
 a profound impression on Miss Oakley, and was, in con- 
 sideration of her endowments, disposed to encourage her 
 attentions. 
 
 The sisters were sitting together in sympathetic silence 
 at that most watching hour ' 'the gloaming." 
 
 Dorothy had of course told Mabel of the declaration with 
 which Egerton had startled her, and was somewhat sur- 
 prised at the manner in which Mabel had received her con- 
 fidence. She was not amazed, she murmured something 
 about his being nice and interesting and a good match, 
 then she added, ''are you quite sure you could not like him, 
 dear?" 
 
 "Yes, quite sure," was Dorothy's prompt reply. "I 
 used to like him ever so much better before. I cannot 
 think wluit put it into his head to imagine he wjnts to 
 marry me ?" 
 
 '4 don't think it is so extraordinary," said Mabel, and 
 dropped the subject. 
 
 ' 'Dear me ! What a pair of forsaken ones !" cried Miss 
 Oakley, when she made out the two figures sitting in the 
 recess of the window. "To see you watching the waning 
 light without your accustomed attendants is quite effecting. 
 
30 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 "I knew Herbert went off this morning, bnt whftt has 
 become of Mr. Stand ish ?" Mabel explained. 
 
 "Well, 1 am surprised at his quitting his post in that 
 fashion," resumed Miss Oakley. "As your guardian, he 
 ought to stay when Herbert goes." 
 
 "Considering the state of civilisation in which we live, 
 we may possibly be able to take care of ourselves," said 
 Dorothy, dryly. 
 
 "Oh, it is odious not to have someone to take care of 
 \ ou, it makes one feel so selfish," exclaimed Miss Oakley 
 II a sentimental tone. "I don't like to be obliged to think 
 about myself." 
 
 ' ' That is rather weak, is it not ?" said Major St. John. 
 " Self-preservation is the fir3t law of — of Nature.' ' 
 
 " A law that is rarely broken," put in Egerton, carelessly ; 
 " but, Miss Oakley, you are forgetting your benevolent er- 
 rand." 
 
 ' ' No, indeed I am not. Dorothy, I am going to get np a 
 concert in aid of the Sailor's Home, and the schools attach- 
 ed to it. We'll have it in the large reading-room, and per- 
 suade Colonel Trj^on to send us some of the bandsmen. 
 Now, Dorethy, I want you to sing a duet with me, and take 
 part in a trio. Mr. Standish has a good voice — a baritone, 
 hasn't he ?" 
 
 " Sing in a concert ! Oh, I don't think I am equal to 
 that ! " 
 
 " Yes you are ! You shall take the secon.' ! Your yoice 
 is contralto ! " 
 
 " Let me think about it." 
 
 " Think ! nonsense ! Come and practise with me to-mor- 
 row morning, at any rate ; it will help me in my part, even 
 if I have to find another second." 
 
 " I am quite willing to help you so far*" 
 " I knew you would be ! Then you play nicely — you 
 could accompany some of them; everyone must help. I 
 don't know what you can do ?" turning to St. John, and 
 contemplating him with a puzzled look. 
 
 " Beat the big drum," he retu.rned, with an ineffable air. 
 
 " That requires a certain amount of genius," said Dor- 
 othy. 
 
 " Sell programmes at the door at sixpence a-piece," sug- 
 gested E>.':erton. 
 
 "No, I'll be your special aid-de-camp. Miss Oakley, or 
 orderly iind do what I am bid." 
 
 M 
 
 **: 
 
 '^ 
 
 ^ 
 
it whflit has 
 
 )Ost in that 
 uardian, he 
 
 lich we live, 
 ;elves," said 
 
 take care of 
 Miss Oakley 
 ed to think 
 
 St. John. 
 e." 
 
 I, carelessly ; 
 levolent er- 
 
 ' to get up a 
 cols attach- 
 nn, and per- 
 I baYidsmen. 
 ne, and take 
 -a baritone, 
 
 eqnal to 
 
 Your voice 
 
 me to-mor- 
 y part, even 
 
 icely — you 
 3t help. I 
 John, and 
 
 effable air. 
 said Dor- 
 
 lece," sug- 
 
 Oakley, or 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 81 
 
 *'Hot a bad way to make yourself useful," she letuniol, 
 with aHmall, approving nod. "Now, Mabel, what can you 
 contribute ?" 
 
 "Some very humble work, Henrietta. 1 thiuk all I can 
 promise is to act secretary, or under-secretary." 
 
 " Very well ! do ring for lights and I will show you a 
 rough sketch of our manifesto." 
 
 While Miss Oakley held forth with animation, and Ma- 
 jor St. John put in a word at intervals, Egerton moved 
 across the room to where Dorothy was sitting, and said in 
 a low tone, "I ought not perhaps to trespass upon you, but 
 I want to ask pardon for my precipitancy. AVill you for- 
 get my ill-judged haste, and let me come ;.i,d ^o, on the old 
 terms? I will not offend ag.?in, not, at leaSt, till I fancy I 
 may do so with less chance oi rebuke. I may never reach 
 that happy conviction, but let me try." 
 
 " I have no right to interfere with you coming or going,' 
 said Dorothy, softly, "but I do not like to give you any an- 
 noyance, and 1 do not think 1 shall change." 
 
 Here both were called to share the consultatios, which 
 was rather noisy, and ended in an appointment for Dor- 
 othy to practise with Miss Oakley at noon the following 
 day. Then she declared she would be late for dinner, a 
 crime her aunt would never forgive- 
 
 " There is a very amusing article on the '-Esthetics of 
 Dress' in the ' Quarterly Review, " said Ej^erton. " I for- 
 get it, but if you will let me bring it over this evening, I'll 
 read it to you" — he stood with his back to Dorothy, speak- 
 ing to her sister. 
 
 " Oh! yes, certainly — thank you! " she returned, with a 
 little nervous catch in her voice — raising her eyes to his 
 and then dropping them quickly. 
 
 "Till we meet, then! " He bowed and followed Miss 
 Oakley. 
 
 " Oh ! Mabel dear ! Why did you let him come ?" cried 
 Dorothy, as soon as the door was closcid. " I should have 
 enjoyed a nice, quiet evening, and above all I don't want 
 him." 
 
 " How could I refuse ?" asked Mabel, pressing her hands 
 together. "He had asked Herbert and Paul to let him come 
 and try his chance, and Herbert told me." 
 
 "What? Did Paul agree to this?" cried Dorothy— a 
 kind of sharp cry—" I thought he knew me better!" 
 
32 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 ii! 
 
 ^1 
 
 " Well, dearest you know you are not obliged to marry 
 
 him." 
 
 "I am quite aware of that," said Dorothy with decision, 
 "but I object to be teased." 
 
 Mabel did not answer immediately, when she spoke it 
 was to say: "I thought Herbert looked more like himself 
 than usual this morning." 
 
 "Yes, he did, and you will both be all the better for 
 your tete-a-tete tour. I see your head is bad to-day." 
 
 "It is. I [ feel as if one of my old neuralgic headaches 
 were coming on a gain, but a cup of tea will do me good" 
 
 Egerton did not fail to keep his promise. He was more 
 than usually agreeable, keeping under the strain of 
 cynicism that often tinged his talk. He read aloud well, 
 and his comments on ihe paper when he had finished it 
 were amusing, the reminiscences it evoked of the various 
 fine ladies, mistresses of the art of dress, interesting ; fto 
 addressed most of his conversation to Mabel, who said 
 little, lying back among her sofa cushions as if weary, 
 while Dorothy worked diligently at a highly ornamental 
 pinafore for her little niece, whicli was a blessed occupa- 
 tion for her eyes. At length, after a short pause, Eger- 
 ton exclaimed in an altered voice : 
 
 ' 'I am afraid I am boring you, Mrs. Callander. You are 
 looking awfully ill." 
 
 "It is that horrid neuralgia," cried Dorothy, laying 
 down her work and going to her sister. ''She has been 
 suffering all day. Would you like to go to bed Mabel ?" 
 
 "Let me try mesmerism," urged Egortou. "You re- 
 member the relief I was able to give last spring iri town. 
 Let me try." 
 
 "Would you like to try, Mabel?" 
 
 "I would rather go to my room," said Mabel, faintly. 
 
 "She'll have aa awfully bad night, Miys Wynu. I'll 
 make a fev passes. You'll see how soon the look of pain 
 •will leave her." 
 
 "I don't half like it," said Dorothy, doubtfully. 
 
 Egerton came and stood beside the sofa, his eyes fixed 
 on Mabel, who did not make the slightest resistance. 
 Slowly passing his hand over her face in the fashion usual 
 with i.iesmerisers, the tired eyes gradually closed, the 
 pained contracted expression passed from her face, and she 
 alept the peaceful sleep of an infant. 
 
 f 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■a 
 
 
 'il 
 
FATE. 
 
 33 
 
 i to marry 
 
 itli decision, 
 
 she spoke it 
 like himself 
 
 be better for 
 3-day." 
 ic headaches 
 do me good" 
 Se was more 
 e strain of 
 . aloud well, 
 d finished it 
 •f the various 
 fceresting ; fte 
 el, who said 
 as if weary, 
 Y ornamental 
 sed occupa- 
 Dause, Eger- 
 
 er. You are 
 
 othy, laying 
 She has been 
 Mabel?" 
 . "You re- 
 ng ill town. 
 
 faintly. 
 
 Wynn. I'll 
 ook of pain 
 
 iiy. 
 
 eyes fixed 
 resistance, 
 ishion usual 
 closed, the 
 ace, and she 
 
 
 •iS 
 
 ^ 
 
 f 
 
 "It is wonderful," whispered Dorothy, who felt an in- 
 describable impulse of pity and tenderness towards the 
 gentle loving sister, who seemed so mysteriously oppressed 
 — -the tears were in her eyes, and her voice faltered as she 
 added, '*I wish you could give me this power, that I might 
 enable her to rest ! She seems so helpless." 
 
 "She is," returned Egerton in a deep tone full of feeling. 
 "But unless you have the power I could not give it to 
 you. I did not know I possessed it till that strange, 
 mystic Bohemian Grafin I told you about, whom I knew 
 some years ago at Prague, assured me I had it and made 
 me experiment on some of her people. I am halt ashamed 
 of it. I would never use my power save to give physical 
 relief. There is a prejudice against it too. Perhiips it 
 would be as wtil not to inform Mrs. Callander, for instance 
 that I was able to give your sister some repose." 
 
 "Oh, certainly not," cried Dorothy. "The less said the 
 bettei, people are so ill-natured. I ho pe my dear sister 
 will not want your aid any more. I shall sit and watch 
 her till she wakes, and so I must say good-night now." 
 
 She held out her hand as she dismissed him. 
 
 " Yes ! it will be best to let her rest till she \*ises of her 
 own accord. I will call early to-morrow to inquire,'* and 
 in a cold absent way, as if scarcely conscious to whom she 
 was speaking, Egerton took her hand and went noiselessly 
 away. 
 
 Amid all hor anxiety about her sister Dorothy looked 
 after him in surprise. All trace of the lover had vanished 
 from look and manner. 
 
 " I wish I could understand him," she thought. " I won- 
 der what Paul really thinks. Is it possible he wishes me 
 to marry him for the sake of money and position? It is 
 true that he is a man of the world, but I though' he had a 
 heart too." 
 
 She drew a chair and sat looking at her sleeping sister, 
 her heart swelling with tender memories. How gentle and 
 forbearing she had been to Dorotliy's wayward childhood. 
 How untiring in }ier patient attempts to help her in hor 
 lessons, to muud and make for her and to keep her out of 
 scrapes, and yet she, Dorothy, in her forwardness, used to 
 despisu her a little for the .iwe she was m of Miss Birch, 
 tlieir rather rigid " Dumina." Dorothy could not under- 
 stand such dread of any mere human creature like herself. 
 
 
 
Ill 
 
 34 
 
 BLIND FATS. 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 ( 
 
 
 ii 
 
 Her stronger spirit could not understand the reverent, 
 timid, self-sacrificing nature of her sister. But how deeply 
 she loved her ! How ardently she longed to be able to help 
 her. She was at once a mother to be respected, a sweet, 
 simple child to be guarded by her younger sister. ' 
 
 The big tears rose in Dorothy's eyes as she thought, and 
 then flashes of summer lightning-like wrath struck through 
 her as she thought of that refrigerated, funereal dowager, 
 worrying and oppressing so delicate a soul, and she plan- 
 ned various retorts to be used when occasion offered. 
 
 Htir meditations were interrupted by the quiet entry of 
 
 Nurse. 
 
 " If you please 'm," she was beginning, when Dorothy's 
 " Hush " stopped her. 
 
 Pointing to her sleeping sister, she said in a T7hisper, 
 " Sh« is in such a nice sleep. I think it must do her good. 
 She was in terrible pain, but Mr. Egertou sent her to sleep 
 with mesmeric passes." 
 
 " I only wanted to ask about the sort of tucks the missis 
 w^uld like in Miss Dolly's new frock, an inch or inch and a 
 half, but it's no matter ! Dear, dear, she do sleep peace- 
 ful," advancing very softly to look at her. '* 1 hope she'll 
 be the better of it. Mark my words, Miss Dorothy, Mrs. 
 Callander wants a deal more doctoring than the Colonel, 
 she is weaker by a good bit tha,n when we first came home. 
 Many's the time I find her crying on the quiet in her own 
 room ! Now that's weakness, for a young lady like her has 
 nothing to cry for. Hasn't she all the world can give 
 her?'' 
 
 She paused and lo( ked with kindly compassionate eyes 
 at the young creatuiw who lay all unconscious of her scru- 
 tiny 
 
 " She is sound," resumed Nurse in a whisper, " still, I 
 don't hold with this feort of thing- mesmerism as it's 
 called. It ain't natural, it's a sort of witchcraft, and for 
 all Mr. Egerton is kind and nice and a real gentleman and 
 makes her sleep like a baby, he never does her any good." 
 
 ' 'Well, j''^^'' mvist remember he never tried but once before 
 and that in fun, when we defied him. Mabel's neuralgia 
 was not really bad then." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Dorothy, Mr. Egerton has put her to sleep 
 oftener, twice to my cer'^ain knowledge since the Colonel 
 come home, for lie called mo once to bring a pillow for her 
 head, and to stay by her till she woke, and another time 
 
 
 ^ 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 35 
 
 li« reverent, 
 b how deeply 
 able to help 
 I, a sweet, 
 er. 
 
 hought, and 
 ruck through 
 3al dowager, 
 d she plan- 
 Sered. 
 Let entry of 
 
 5n Dorothy's 
 
 a whisper, 
 do her good, 
 her to sleep 
 
 jks the missis 
 or inch and a 
 
 sleep peace- 
 l hope she'll 
 •orothy, Mrs. 
 
 the Colonel, 
 
 t came home. 
 
 in her own 
 
 like her has 
 
 orld can give 
 
 ^sionate eyes 
 of her scru- 
 
 " still, I 
 as it's 
 
 fper, 
 :ism 
 
 ift, and for 
 jntleman and 
 any good." 
 
 it once before 
 I's neuralgia 
 
 It her to sleep 
 te the Colonel 
 )illow for her 
 I another time 
 
 to fetch a shawl. 1 never said a word to nobody I didn't, 
 it's a queer sort ot thing to talk about. But, Miss Dorothy, 
 I don't think it does her any kind of good. You just ask 
 Mr. Egerton not to try that kind of cure any more, for if 
 you'll excuse rie saying it, Miss, from all I can make out, 
 he'll not refuse aaything you ask him." 
 
 "Yes, I shall certainly ask him, indeed forbid him,** said 
 Dorothy very low, while an extraordinary thrill of horror 
 shivered through her at the idea of her sister being thus 
 reduced to helplessness by anyone — even by her husband. 
 The idea that Egerton had exercised this power increased 
 her aversion — ht>r innatethough unacknowledged aversion 
 to him. "Go, dea^ nurse, bring me some wrap to throw 
 over her, she must sleep her sleep out, and I shall watch 
 by her, she shall never have another sleep of the same sort 
 if I can prevent it." 
 
 It was more than two hours before Mrs. Callander 
 awoke. How tLey passed Dorothy could not tell. A dull, 
 impalpable sense of fear, of danger, seemed to hedge her 
 lound and hide the future from her. The future which up 
 to the last few weeks had smiled so brightly upon her. 
 She longed to open her heart to someone wiser than her- 
 self. Yet what had she to tell ? That her sister suffered 
 from neuralgia, and that she was vexed and uneasy that 
 Egertou, who posed as her lover, had soothed the pain by 
 mesmeric influence ? No, she could not, and would not 
 speak of this to mortal, she felt instinctively that Colonel 
 Callander would bb irritated if he heard of it. Then she 
 reproached herself for being so fanciful, so ready to think, 
 not exactly evil but in the possibility of evil. And Paul ! 
 could it be that Paul was ready and willing to give her 
 to this man ? Paul who had always seemed to understand 
 and sympathise with her ? He had been a hero in her 
 eyes for many a day, and when he returned from a long 
 
 absence when Lord 11 , his chief, had sent him on some 
 
 private diplomatic mission, how susprised she had been 
 to find him so young, so full of animation. She had always 
 tliought of him before as being ever so much older than 
 herself, now when she ran into the room ready to embrace 
 liim an indefinable something held her back, seeing which 
 Standish had laughed good-humouredly and said : "I see 
 you have developed into a full-fledged demoiselle, who 
 must be treated with proper respect," then he laughed 
 again and kissed her hand. Colonel Callander and Mabel 
 
I! 
 
 I 
 
 If! 
 
 t ! 
 
 ; 
 
 i ' 
 
 i|J! 
 
 II 
 
 36 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 had lau^•hed too at her sudded dignity. But it was not 
 di8;nity, it was— she could not tell what, some inner instinci 
 which even now brought the color to her cheeks. How 
 happy they all were then. From that day, however, Stan- 
 dish had never offered her a kiss in his old elder -brotherly 
 way, and she had to exercise a good deal of self-control to 
 keep up the cool, unembarrassed friendliness of manner 
 which any unexpected encounter with him always disturbed. 
 "But if Herbert and Mabel go away, Mr. Egerton can- 
 not come here, and I suppose Paul's holiday is nearly 
 over. How dull it will be. However life ought not to be 
 all pleasure and self-indulgence. I can find plenty to do, 
 and when we all meet again things will go on in their 
 old happy way. Mr. Egerton will be tired of his whim of 
 marrying me, and probably we shall see no more of him," 
 were her final reflections. Then Mabel stirred, shivered, 
 and opened her eyes with a look of fear in them which 
 changed to one of relief as they fell on Dorothy. She 
 stretched out her hand to her, murmuring her name. 
 Dorothy stooped over and kissed her tenderly. 
 
 " Is he gone ? " whispered Mabel. 
 
 "Yes, dear, Mr. Egerton is gone. You are safe with me. 
 Are you better ? " 
 
 "Yes, much better," and she burst into a fit of hysterical 
 weeping which almost frightened Dorothy. With some 
 difficulty she pesuaded her to go to bed, and then called 
 nurse to arrange a sofa for her own accommodation, as she 
 determined not to leave her sister alone at night so long as 
 Colonel Callander was absent. 
 
 He )K >|( >K m 41 4e 
 
 Nrxt morning, however, the &an was shinittg. Mabel de- 
 clared herself better, but consented to breakfast in her own 
 room. 
 
 A pleasant letter from one of her former school-fellows, 
 inviting her to spent October in a large, pleasant country 
 house, where a goodly company was to be gathered for the 
 pheasant-shooting, awaited Dorothy at Dreakfast, and the 
 buoyancy of youth suggested that much of her melancholy 
 musing of the previous evening was attributable to nerv- 
 ousness and nightfall. 
 
 As Mabel seemed more cheerful, and promised to drive 
 with Paul Standish when he came as usual after breakfast, 
 Dorothy set off to keep her appointment with Miss Oakley, 
 
 '1 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 37 
 
 it it was uot 
 inner instinct 
 heeks. How 
 >wever, Stan- 
 ier -brotherly 
 elf -control to 
 s of manner 
 .ys disturbed. 
 
 Egerton can- 
 lay is nearly 
 ght not to be 
 plenty to do, 
 > on in their 
 his whim of 
 lore of him," 
 red, shivered, 
 them which 
 •orothy. She 
 ng her name. 
 
 jafe with me. 
 
 of hysterical 
 With some 
 then called 
 ation, as she 
 ht so long as 
 
 Mabel de- 
 it in her own 
 
 hool-fellows, 
 sant country 
 hered for the 
 ast, and the 
 melancholy 
 ,ble to nerv- 
 
 sed to drive 
 :er breakfast, 
 Miss Oakley, 
 
 >3' 
 
 
 m 
 
 and, their- diligent practice over, sevwal idlers dropped in 
 to lunch, among them Major St. John and Standish. 
 
 Lunch finished, Dorothy refused a pressing invitation to 
 drive with Miss Oakley. 
 
 " Well, if you will not come, pray take this programme 
 to your sister, and the advertisement. I have just put down 
 what I want to say. She must polish them up ; I have no 
 turn for grammar. There," straining her neck to look out 
 of the window (she had secured a suite of rooms on the 
 ground floor looking to the sea), " there goes Aunt Callan- 
 der in state. Lady-in-waiting, lapdog and all ! I know 
 she is going to inquire for Mabel, and inspect her proceed- 
 ings ! Where is Mr. Egerton to-day ? I have seen nothing 
 of him smce, oh ! since yesterday ! " 
 
 ' *■ Well, you warned us all off the premises, as you want- 
 ed an uninterrupted morning. I was afraid to show my- 
 self, even at one o'clock, until Standish gave me a lead," 
 returned St. John. 
 
 " Well, I must run away now ! I am going to drive over 
 to Beech Hall. I want to persuade Lady Geraldine to play 
 the violin at my concert, she would be a great catch. Will 
 you come with me ? Do — do — Dorothy !" 
 
 "I am very sorry, but I cannot, Miss Oakley. I must 
 go back and support Mabel," 
 
 " What a formal little thing you are, Dorothy ! I think I 
 might be 'Henrietta' by this time. Shall you dine at home 
 to-day ?" 
 
 ''Yes. That is we have dined. While Herbert is away 
 we dine witli the children." 
 
 ** This indifference to the sacredness of the dinner hour 
 is a fatal flaw in female character. Women will never be 
 in it as they ougl l until they take a more personal interest 
 in food," said Standish. 
 
 "What a low-minded speech," cried Miss Oakley. *' I 
 was going to say, Dorothy, that I would come over this 
 evening and try that duet again, with Mabel as accompan- 
 ist, then Mr. Standish might look in and we could go over the 
 trio, too. 
 
 "We shall be delighted to see you." 
 
 "Very well, about 8.30. Are you going?" 
 
 ' 'I will walk across the common with you," said Stan- 
 dish, following her into the hall. 
 
 "Yes, do please," she returned feeling a sense of strength 
 and comfort in his companionship, and longing to be 
 
II '! 
 
 I 
 
 
 li 
 
 38 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 able really to pour out her heart to him — if it were possible 
 to put her vague uneasiness into \/ords. Even if she were 
 — but Standish was speaking. 
 
 "You are quite right to hurry back to poor Mabel's res- 
 cue, She is by no means equal to encounter her mother- 
 in-law single handed." 
 
 "You are right. I don't think she is equal to anything," 
 said Dorothy, sadly. 
 
 "What," he exclaimed, struck by her tone, "you are not 
 seriously uneasy about her V" 
 
 "There is no reason I should be, but — oh, I can't explain 
 my indefinable anxiety — I daresay you would laugh at 
 me if I could." 
 
 Here they were interrupted by a young lieutenant of St. 
 John's regiment, a warm, though silent, admirer of 
 Dorothy, who turned with them unasked under the plea 
 of imparting the project of a regimental ball, for which he 
 hoped Miss Wynn would hold herself disengaged. 
 
 They were almost at the gate of the Knoll before he left 
 them, and they did not resume the conversation. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Callander in?" asked Dorothy of the man who 
 answered the bell. 
 
 ' 'No, Miss. Mrs. Callander — the Dowager Mrs. Callan- 
 der — called before she had finished luncheon — she and 
 Mr. Egerton — and they all went out in the carriage to- 
 gether." 
 
 "Did not my sister drive this morning." 
 
 '*No, Miss, The mistress went out with nurse and the 
 children. Mr. Egerton came back with her." 
 
 "It is probable she will not be back for some time," said 
 Standish. ' 'Let us go down on the beach, Dorothy, you 
 look as if you too wanted to be taken care of, and 
 the open air will do you more good than sitting in a 
 room." 
 
 "Very well," and she turned from the house to go 
 through the garden. "But I am quite well, only a little 
 worn out with my practice and two whole hours of Miss 
 Oakley's enthusiasm." 
 
 "1 can imagine it. High pressure — eh?" 
 
 "Yes, very high," They walked on silently till they 
 reached the water's edge, when Dorothy instinctively 
 turned her back on a more frequented part of the common 
 and exclaimed : 
 
 " Let us get as far from the madding crowd as possible." 
 
 M 
 
 "is 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 88 
 
 ere possible 
 if she were 
 
 Mabel's res- 
 ier mother- 
 
 auy thing," 
 
 you are not 
 
 tu't explain 
 d laugh at 
 
 euant of St. 
 
 admirer of 
 
 der the plea 
 
 Dr which he 
 
 jd. 
 
 )fore he left 
 
 he man who 
 
 ^rs. Callan- 
 m — she and 
 carriage to- 
 
 irse and the 
 
 time," said 
 orothy, you 
 re of, and 
 sitting in a 
 
 house to go 
 only a little 
 lurs of Miss 
 
 ily till they 
 nstinctively 
 ,he common 
 
 bs possible." 
 
 ul 
 
 'By all means, especially as I want a little private talk 
 with you." 
 
 ''Do you'?" in an alarmed tone, "I hope not a scolding." 
 "Do I ever scold you?" reproachfully. 
 "Well, no ! But just now I always anticipate evil." 
 "The terrors of an awakened conscience, I suppose ?" 
 •'i think I am more imperfect than wicked," said Dorothy 
 with a sigh. 
 
 Standish laughed. 
 
 " Conscience is hard at work, I see. No, I am not going 
 to scold — why should 1 ? You are a really good girl, so 
 far as I sep. I am going to cross-examine you." 
 
 " That is bad enough," and Dorothy bent her head, her 
 naturally i^athetic little face looking so sad that Standish 
 involuntarily drew closer to her." 
 
 " You don't imagine, my dear Dorothy that I would wil- 
 ingly distress you? I think you can trust me! Now," with 
 a change of tone — " tell me; are you aware that I have re- 
 ceived overtures for a matrimonial alliance with my charm- 
 ing ward from an exceptional parti ?" 
 " I am," very seriously. 
 
 " It seems you have refused Egerton. May I ask the why 
 and the wherefore ?" 
 " I don't like him." 
 "But why?" urged Standish. 
 
 " Curious fool, be still ! Is human love the growth of 
 human will?" quoted Dorothy, with a wonderfully sweet, 
 bright smile. 
 
 " What a pretty creature she is sometimes ! " thought 
 Standish, while he said, " Bad study, Byron, for young 
 ladies ! Come, Dorothy, you must have some method in 
 your madness, for ma.lness it would be considered by most 
 women to refuse such a man ! Handsome, fascinating, 
 clever — yes, I decidely think him clever, rich, young, with 
 the world before him where to choose, wisely picking out 
 this humble, sweet, obscure violet." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, Paul ! I am not a bit humble, and I am 
 not a sweet violet. If I am anything in that line, I am a 
 rose with many thorns. Now go on and do no' laugh." 
 
 " I will be quite serious. I consider it my duLy as your 
 guardian to point out the advantages of sut-h a match." 
 
 "Match! I hate the word— it only applies to lucifers and 
 carriage horses." 
 
 '* Well, marriage, then. (.)f coia-se, Eyerton's wife would 
 
BiTrinrmrrr- 1 
 
 m 
 
 ■^f' 
 
 \ 
 
 M 
 
 40 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 have a capital position, and everything the female heart 
 can Mish, including a handsome husband. Moreover, he 
 is, I can see, rather a fascinating fellow, and as he has 
 evidently been devoted to you for some time, I am a little 
 puzzled how you have come to steel your heart against 
 him." 
 
 Silence on Dorothy's part, her large, dark grey eyes look- 
 ing out over the sea with a dreamy, soft expression. 
 
 " Yes, I confess myself puzzled," resumed Standish, watch- 
 ing her. " I don't want to force any confidence— but — is 
 the. fortress impregnable because a stronger than Egerton is 
 already in possession ?" 
 
 Dorothy started, tne warm color mantling in her cheek 
 but still she did not speak. 
 
 " I only suggest the notion, because your happiness is 
 very precious to me, and — and — I would promote it by all 
 means in my power. Come, my dearest Dorothy, be confi- 
 dential. Can you not tell me the secret of your proud, fiery 
 heart ?" 
 
 " Yes, most of them, but, Paul, would you like to give 
 me to this man ?" 
 
 "No — by heaven, no! " cried Standish, with unnecessary 
 energy. '' I would rather have you at hand to soothe my 
 declining vears, and give me my last cup of gruel, but I am 
 bound toplace the advantages of such a marriage before 
 you, and your indifierence to what would charm most 
 women half alarms me. Come, my dear ward, your rea- 
 sons?" 
 
 " I think," began Dorothy, thoughtfully and slowly, 
 " that Mr. Egerton might be charming — perhaps irresist- 
 ible, if he loved, but somehow or other I feel quite con- 
 vinced that he does not love me ! " 
 
 "My dear Dorothy, what an absurd impression. Why 
 should he ask you to marry him ? Why seek you at all, 
 were he not strongly attracted '? you have no particular ad- 
 vantages of rank or wealth — indeed, Egerton wants noth- 
 ing of that kind." 
 
 " Yes, it is all very curious, I know it seems absurd to 
 say so, but I feel quite sure he does not care a straw for 
 me." 
 
 " How do you know ? What is at the bottom of this 
 preposterous conviction ?" 
 
 " Nothing at all that any sensible person would consider 
 proof," returned Dorothy in a deliberate tone, dwelling on 
 
 m 
 
p-'5 g "pr»^TT 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 41 
 
 lale heart 
 •reover, he 
 >s he has 
 u a little 
 )rrt against 
 
 eyes look- 
 
 iOD. 
 
 sh, watch- 
 e— but — is 
 Egerton is 
 
 her cheek 
 
 Dpiness is 
 
 } it by ail 
 
 be confi- 
 
 jroud, fiery 
 
 B to give 
 
 I necessary 
 
 00 the my 
 I, but I am 
 Ebge before 
 arm most 
 your rea- 
 
 id slowly, 
 3 irresist- 
 ijuite con- 
 ion. Why 
 >u at all, 
 ticular ad- 
 mts noth- 
 
 ibsurd to 
 p straw for 
 
 1 of this 
 
 Id consider 
 reliing on 
 
 •f 
 
 1 
 
 her words, " but there is no love in his voice or his touch — 
 or— oh, no !" breaking off suddenly, " there is no love in him 
 for me, or I conld never be so indifferent to him! " 
 
 *'Do you mean to say," looking at her rather sternly 
 '* that you would love anyone whom you felt or fan- 
 cied loved you V " 
 
 **No, Paul; but if I felt that a man was really in love 
 with me, I should be sorry for him, and wish I could make 
 him happy and " she stopped, 
 
 ' You feel none of these amiable emotions towards Eg- 
 erton ? " 
 
 "Not one! I do not like him. I used. I thought him 
 delightful when we were in London, but I did not feel the 
 least bit in love with him, you understand?" 
 
 " No, I do not — not half as well as you do. Why, how 
 have you acquired such an extraordinary amount of heart 
 lore?" And he looked very steadily at her with a slight 
 smile on his lip. 
 
 "By an exter-^^ive and profound study of novels, 1 sup- 
 pose, for I have seen very little of life." 
 
 "And instinct, my dear child ! Have you not tried your 
 'prentice hand or eyes on any of the charming young 
 fellows, red, blue and green, who abound here ? " 
 
 " Why, Paul, how could I? Since Herbert came home 
 we have never gone anywhere, nor inviced anyone." 
 
 " True; but before he came, and ever since? for many a 
 quiet game has been played, of which the lookers-on have 
 little idea." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" said Dorothy absently ; then return- 
 114 to the original current of her thought, she added gently, 
 ' Well, my dear guardian, I have never tried them." 
 
 " I believe so," he returned heartily. '' I think you are 
 strong enough and proud enough to steer pretty straight 
 through the life that lies before you — all before, you happy 
 young thing ! " he added with a sigh. "But don't give 
 away your heart too readily ; the whole color of your life, 
 of the lives of such woman as you are, depend on that first 
 venture." 
 
 "Oil, I'll take care," said Dorothy, with an arch smile. 
 "Antl now you will promise not to trouble me any more 
 about Mr. Egerton— that is finished." 
 
 " I sui)pose so. I will not trouble you, Dorothy, but Eg 
 erton will ; and Callrn<lil, he is rather keen about tl.c 
 
42 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 ;) 
 
 h 
 
 ;!!i!l!]i.l 
 
 affair. For my part, I am a little disposed to be on yonr 
 side. Still, I think tlie fellow is in love with you." 
 
 "And I — though I cannot argue about it— feel sure he is 
 not." 
 
 There was a pause. Then Standish, as if to change the 
 subject definitelj% turned to face the water, and, stretching 
 out liis hand, said, " That's some foreign craft there you 
 see, with brown sails, tacking across the bay. She com- 
 pletes the picture, doesii't she ?" 
 
 ' Yes. How do you know she is foreign ?" 
 
 " I can hardly tell you, but she doesn't look like a 
 Britisher." 
 
 "Ah ! you accept intuitions, too ! " cried Dorothy, a mis- 
 chievious smile changing her face completely. 
 
 '' I do not act upon them," he returned, laughing. After 
 watching the vessel for a few minutes they went back to 
 the villa in pleasant confidential conversation. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS." 
 
 Colonel Callander prolonged his stay in town for a few 
 days, as he wished to consult Dr. B , the great special- 
 ist for nerves, and had to wait for an appointment. His 
 letters, however, were cheerful, and full of small details, 
 which showed that he was fast rei^aining his normal con- 
 dition of mind, and powers of enjoyment. 
 
 His wife wrote him every day. Long epistles which ex- 
 cited Dorothy's surprise. " What can she have to write 
 
 about ?" she said to herself. '• For though it is pleasant 
 
 our life here—one day is like another." 
 
 Since iier confession of doubt respecting Egerton to her 
 guardian, she had felt happier. She was, perhaps, a little 
 too ready to (luarrel with him, but she was always restless 
 till she made friends again. 
 
 Mabel did not rall^^ from her attack of neuralgia as 
 quickly or as completely as Dorothy hoped and expected. 
 
 In vain the younger sister urged her to join the Colonel 
 
 in town, and avail herself of Dr. B 's skill. She refused 
 
 with a degree of impatience thai astonished Dorothy. 
 
 Aleantlme, the praotisings and preparations for Miss 
 Oakley'.-, (concert went on with much vigor. The Dowager 
 called ovor^ day, and insisted that IMabel should take what 
 
^ 
 
 be on your 
 ^ou." 
 lel sure he is 
 
 change the 
 
 1, stretching 
 
 t there you 
 
 She com- 
 
 ook like a 
 ►thy, a mis- 
 ting. After 
 ^ent back to 
 
 BLIND FAT 10. 
 
 43 
 
 n for a few 
 •eat special- 
 nent. His 
 all details, 
 lormal con- 
 
 which ex- 
 76 to write 
 pleasant — 
 
 irton to her 
 ips, a little 
 lys restless 
 
 uralgia as 
 expected, 
 he Colonel 
 be refused, 
 'othy. 
 
 for Miss 
 e Dowager 
 take what 
 
 she called an " airing" in her agreeable company, and poor 
 Mabel dared not refuse. 
 
 Egerton contrived to be a good deal with Dorothy, and 
 as lie always talked like a pleasant friend, and seemed to 
 have laid aside the lover, she had no excuse for quarrelling 
 with him, while she was somewhat irritated by the quiet 
 ingenuity with which he contrived to appropriate her, while 
 everyone else evidently made way for him, always except- 
 ing Frank Selby, the young rifleman aforementioned, who, 
 with a certain boyish fun and audacity, boldly tried to 
 gather all the crumbs that fell from Egerton's richer table. 
 It pleased and amused Dorothy to assist him as much as 
 possible. 
 
 At all this Standish looked with much interest, seeing 
 very clearly that Dorothy did not oven like Egerton as well 
 as she once did. Indeed, the young lady's moods and con- 
 duct puzzled him a good deal at this time, and he was 
 somehow less lenient in his judgment on her than for- 
 merly. 
 
 Miss Oakley, whose imagination never suggested a 
 picture of, repose as a thing to be enjoyed, was always 
 " making up parties," " organising picnics," or gathering 
 together somewhat noisy collections of young people to 
 dine or sup. She enjoyed to the full the liberty which 
 wealth, and wealth only, bestows on an unmarried woman. 
 Though willing to be thought much younger. Miss Oakley 
 supported her pretensions to originality by proclaiming 
 aloud that at thirty a girl (!) might venture to dispense 
 with chaperones. In many ways she was a thorn in her 
 austere aunt's side. Nevertheless slie could bear with much 
 from a girl whose innate purity and rectitude are guaran- 
 teed by the possession of four thousand f. year! And then, 
 Herbert had behaved so heartlessly to hei' ! In short, Mrs. 
 Callander, senior, could not shut her heart against a 
 creature so endowed. 
 
 "My dear Mabel," cried Miss Oakley, walking un- 
 ceremoniously into the drawing room of The Knoll one 
 cool, gray morning, as Dorothy was singing a German 
 sleeping song to her little niece, who stood beside her, try- 
 ing to join, while Mabel was playing with her boy on the 
 sofa; " my dear Mabel, what an idyllic scene I and lam 
 come to drag you away from your babies. 1 want you to 
 oome back with me to luncheon. Major St. John and Mr. 
 Standish are coming, and we will ask Mr. Egertou if we 
 
'*ifl 
 
 III llt^Bi 
 
 M j I III 
 
 li 
 
 44 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 meet him. Then they are to escort me to the port. Thoio 
 is a Spanish or Portuguese ship tliere, and they have a 
 wonderful parrot who speaks several languages. I want 
 to buy it. I shall teach it English, and complete its educa- 
 tion. 1 should like to get on board and see what sort of a 
 place the ship is. Now I want you and Dorothy to come, 
 too ; it will be an expedition. I believe there are some cu- 
 rious old streets about the port, too." 
 
 " They are shockingly dirty," said Mabel, " and I have 
 promised to go out with Mrs. Callander. Slie has deigned 
 to ask the children, and I think Herbert would be annoyed 
 if I refused. But Dorothy will go, 1 daresay." 
 
 " My dear Mabel," returned Miss Oakley, composing her 
 round, good-humored face and restless black eyes to a se- 
 rious asj ect, " what do you do with yourself all day ? You 
 never join in anything or go anywhere. Do you lie on the 
 sofa from morning till ni}4ht reading novels ? I do not 
 wonder at your looking pale aud wo begone ! Why, you 
 are making an old woman of yourself ! Isn't she Do- 
 rothy ?" 
 
 ** I don't think she is very strong," said Dorothy, leaving 
 the piano and coming to sit beside her sister ; "at all events 
 she must not be scolded. 1 should like to see the foreign 
 ship, Henrietta. I will come with you. Let me go and 
 change my dress." 
 
 ' ' That is a good girl ; don't be long." 
 
 " 1 hear you are as gay as the means of little Fordsea 
 permit," said Mabel, making room for her cousin on the 
 sofa beside her by gathering up her baby boy in her arms 
 aud hushing him gently to sleep. 
 
 " It isn't half a bad little place," returned Miss Oakley, 
 *' and there are so few people to give parties or keep the 
 ball rolling that they are grateful to anyone who will. 
 Everyone is very nice to me — indeed, I do very much what 
 I like. Why, that was Mr. Egerton who passed the win- 
 dow, wasn't it ?" 
 
 " I did not see ; but very likely it was." 
 
 ** Of course he is here a good deal. How are matters 
 going on ?" 
 
 *♦ Oh ! 1 don't know," wearily, 
 
 ♦' Nonsense, Mabel, you must know. Surely she will not 
 be such a goose as to refuse." 
 
 " Mr. Egerton," announced Collins, the Colonel's soldier 
 seryRnt. 
 
'% 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 45 
 
 port. Thoi o 
 they have a 
 ^es. I want 
 cte its educa- 
 rh&t sort of a 
 )thy to come, 
 are some cu- 
 
 " and I have 
 ) has deigned 
 
 d be annoyed 
 
 » 
 
 imposing her 
 eyes to a se- 
 illday? You 
 ou lie on the 
 s ? I do not 
 Why, you 
 m't she Do- 
 
 othy, leaving 
 ' at all events 
 e the foreign 
 )t me go and 
 
 ittle Fordsea 
 
 ousin on the 
 
 in her arms 
 
 iliss Oakley, 
 3 or keep the 
 le who will, 
 much what 
 3ed the win- 
 
 are matters 
 
 she will not 
 jnel's soldier 
 
 ** Oh! we were just talking of you, Mr. Egerton. I want 
 you to come back to lunch with me. I have two or three 
 men guests and Dorothy. We are all going down to the 
 port after to see what curios we can pick up from the 
 Spanish sailors. They have a wonderful parrot on which 
 I have set my heart. I suppose one could hardly find a 
 real mantilla among these people ? The captain would not 
 have a wife on board who would be willing for a considera- 
 tion to part with her best ' go to meeting ' mantilla ?" 
 
 *»No, I think not," he said, turning from Mabel, with 
 whom he had exchanged greetings. " I have seen some of 
 these people, they are rather rough specimens, there are 
 only a sprinkling of Spaniards, some are from Valencia, my 
 mother's country." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, to be sure ! You must be our interpreter. I 
 wish Dorothy would come, I am burning to get luncheon 
 over and attack these people." 
 
 " I am sorry I cannot join you at lunch. I have a par- 
 ticular engagement with my old skipper. I have some 
 thoughts of buying the Gitana if the owner satisfies me on 
 one or two points." 
 
 " But you really must !" 
 
 '* I am infinitely distressed to be obliged to refuse you," 
 said Egerton, airily ; " but I'll try to meet you at the dock. 
 I believe that Portuguese schooner is lying alongside. I'll 
 be very happy to translate for you, though my Spanish is 
 growing rusty. I used to speak it as much as I spoke Eng- 
 lish while my poor mother lived." 
 
 "Oh thanks! a thousand chanks," cried Miss Oakley. 
 '• Then I feel sure of the i)arrot. Ah ! here comes Dorothy. 
 How long you have been beautifying? You must scold 
 this obstinate man, he will not come to lunch, and Dorothy 
 wiU be obliged to depend on Mr. Selby for an escort." 
 
 " No ! Mr. Standish will be there, and I have a sort of 
 vested right to my guardian," said Dorothy, laughing. 
 
 " Come," repeated Miss Oakley, kissing her hand to 
 Mabel, " we'll bring you a fairing," and she walked briskly 
 out of the room, while Egerton holding the door open whis- 
 pered to Dorothy as she passed — 
 
 " Standish is a far more formidable rival than Selby I" 
 
 Dorothy gave him a startled glance and colored crimson, 
 saying coldly — 
 
 *" toannot understand you." 
 
 She hurried after Miss Oakley, her veins tingling with 
 
46 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 m h i 
 
 Vjxation and a sort of fear. V/as it possible that Egerton 
 perceived and dared to hi^t at ^%'hat she herself shrunk 
 from perceiving ? That hint tiirnad the scf le, and as she 
 walked on briskly beside Miss Oakley, hei^ring, without 
 listening to, her animated chatter, she made up her mind 
 that she both disliked and distrusted Egerton, that there 
 waa something cruel and relentless in his fine dark eyes, 
 that he tried in some way to dominate her. At the thought, 
 her spirit rose defiantly. He should find he had no fool to 
 deal with ! Why did he i>retend to pose as her lover when 
 he did not care a straw for her ? What was his object ? 
 
 The luncheon party was merry and noisy, they chaffed 
 each other, and talked all together, and told stories, more 
 or less credible ; but Miss Oakley cut them short and ex- 
 pressed her anxiety to start in search of the much desired 
 parrot. 
 
 " What's the matter Dorothy ?" asl^^d Standish, as they 
 sallied forth. ' ' You have neither eaten nor talked." 
 
 " Don'" mind, dear,'' cried Miss Oakky, wxio overheard 
 the remark. " He is to meet us presently, you know," and 
 with an insufferably knowing smile she fell back to allow 
 Major St. John joining her. 
 
 Standish laughed. 
 
 " That is what m.ay be called delicaio tact," he said ; 
 "I'm glad eyes cannot kiU or it would be all over with our 
 dear Henrietta '? T never thought you could develop into 
 such a fierce — what shall I say, warrior augel." 
 
 "Paul, you are unkind, and you do not care that I am 
 annoyed and worried." 
 
 " Why, Dorothy, what is there to worry you?" Ino one 
 can force you to do what you don't wish, and I must say 
 your annoyance does not suggest indifference." 
 
 ♦♦ Indifference," she repeated in a low, earnest tone. " No ! 
 indifference is mer^-^ed in dislike." 
 
 " I never knew you luireasonable — that is, decidedly un- 
 reasonable, before." 
 
 " I suppose, on the whole that is a compliment," said 
 Dorothy, drily. Further coaversation was prevented by 
 Mr. Selby, who attached himself to Dorothy. Slie was very 
 qniet and silent, but her young admirer was quite willing 
 to do aU the talking himself. 
 
 Standish was guide. He had rambled much about the 
 older parts of Eastport during those early hours when his 
 t'siuU companions were either in bed or at breakfast, and 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 41 
 
 ) that Egerton 
 )erself shrunk 
 le, and as she 
 ring, without 
 e up her mind 
 ;on, that there 
 ne dark eyes, 
 Lt the thought, 
 had no fool to 
 ler lover when 
 his object ? 
 , they chafEed 
 stories, more 
 short and ex- 
 much desired 
 
 idish, as they 
 uaiked." 
 no overheard 
 >u know," and 
 back to allow 
 
 ct," he said ; 
 over with our 
 develop into 
 1." 
 are that I am 
 
 >u?" l\o one 
 id I must say 
 
 St tone. '' No ! 
 
 decidedly un- 
 
 pliment," said 
 prevented by 
 Slie was very 
 quite willing 
 
 ich about the 
 >urs when his 
 ireakfast, and 
 
 # 
 
 he now led them through narrow street i of red-roofed, ir- 
 regular 1 ouses with many a projecting window and deep 
 porch th ckly studded with tavevns and public-houses 
 adorned by curious, quaint signi, past a very old red-brick, 
 owo-storied church, with dormer windows in the roof and 
 an ivy-grown square tower that boasted some fine bells, 
 altogether a remarkable mixture of the dwelling-house and 
 the sanctujj,ry, past an evil-smelling fish market, where 
 wonderful " old tars " male and female, for the fish wives 
 were scarcely womanly, and through groups of fishy sea- 
 faring men, down to a small dock, its walls much battered 
 and gray with age and weather, into which the sea ran at 
 high water, receding as the tide fell and leaving an abyss 
 of malodorous mud behind. This was the only harbor 
 for emit unconnected with the navy, and all the small fry 
 of vessels which brought foreign merchandise, and they 
 were not many, went into it. 
 
 " Look on this picture — and on this," said Standish, 
 with a slight nod in the direction of an ancient " purveyor 
 of fish," who invited them to hxiy, and whose coarse, tann- 
 ed upper garment was turned back, showing a much- 
 stained striped and ragged petticoat, anu then touching 
 Dorothy's dain'/ costume, "The force of idealising could 
 no further go," 
 
 " Yet that poor old thing must have been pretty once," 
 said Dorothy glancing kiudly at her. "How terrible the 
 oW. age of the poor must be. When tliey can no longer work 
 they become burdens, and I am afraid their relatives do not 
 disguise the fact." 
 
 " Yet there is a wonderful amount of kindness from the 
 poor to the poor, and granted the difference of habit and 
 manner between social grades, I don't suppose one class is 
 much })arder to its poor old dependants than another. It is 
 the absolute physical needs of itoverty-stricken old age that 
 are a»o sad. I don't think wo have half enough refuges for 
 the aged. Sug{;est this sort of occupation and excitement 
 to your friend, JVliss OakJey. A set of almshouses on the 
 hill behind the town tin re, would look picturesque — or 
 might look picturesque — and give comfort and rest to some 
 poor, worn-out toilers.'* 
 
 " Pray mention the plan yoiu'self ; you have a good deal 
 more intluence than 1 have," 
 
 ' Tber* ia tho dock mid there is the ship. It is the sc^me 
 
L3^^ 
 
 i 
 
 i«!i 
 
 Mi! 
 
 i I 
 
 iifflii ^ 
 
 48 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 we saw standing across the bay the other evening, you re- 
 member." 
 
 •' I do. How picturesque the old place looks, and the 
 masts and cordage against the soft grey sky, the general 
 leaden hue, and the bright red caps of those sailors who 
 are grouped round that gentleman. Why, it is Mr. Eger- 
 ton !" 
 
 " Yes, there is Mr. Egerton," cried Miss Oakley, coming 
 up with them as they paused. '* 1 was sure he would be 
 before us." 
 
 A few minutes more brought them to the spot where 
 Egerton stood talking with some of the swarthy crew. 
 " Well !" he exclaimed, coming forward to meet them ; " I 
 have been sounding some of my demi-semi compatriots, 
 and they are ready to sell you everything, their ship and 
 themselves into the bargain, but they are a little uncertain 
 about the parrot. It belongs to a Portuguese fellow called 
 Gruiseppe, who speaks a little English, so is gone into the 
 town to market. The crew are chiefly Poi Luguese, with a 
 sprinkling of Moors and Spaniards. I miut say my Span- 
 ish cousins are the only good-looking fellows among them. 
 I am rather proud that they understand me. There, that 
 tall sailor, who is so terribly in need of an outfit, he comes 
 from my mother's part of the country, and recognised some 
 of my expressions as Valencian." He signed to the man to 
 approach, wliich he did, with a graceful, haughty bow. 
 
 While Egerton spoke to him, Dorothy looked earnestly 
 at the strong, active form, the swarthy face of the sailor, 
 with its glittering darJs: eyes, massive cruel jaw, and some- 
 what overharigiug brow. The mouth was hidden by a thick 
 jet-black moustache, through winch the stroug white teeth 
 showed when he spoke and smiled. 
 
 "Yes he is good-looking — very handsome ''ndeed; but 1 
 should be afraid of him. He looks as it he would murder 
 anyone for sixpence." 
 
 *' Sixpence ! No, two-and-sixpence, perhaps," said Eger- 
 ton, laughing. *' But i assure you, Spanish peasants are 
 very fine fellows. I used to like tliem immensely when I 
 stayed in the country some years ago. I don't know much 
 of the seafaring population. I don't suppose they stick to 
 trities,^ — Miss Oakley," he continued, " 1 have asked the 
 men to bring any curiosities they may have out here. I 
 don't think the ship is exactly the most cleanly or agree- 
 able spot to drive a bargain in." 
 
 '''■m 
 
 m 
 
' ' ;7fl^ "^ ■^■■'■™'-*"- *■ 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 49 
 
 ling, you re- 
 
 >ks, and the 
 
 the general 
 
 sailors who 
 
 s Mr. Eger- 
 
 sley, coming 
 le would be 
 
 spot where 
 arthy crew, 
 t them ; " I 
 compatriots, 
 eir ship and 
 le uncertain 
 ellow called 
 me into the 
 aeae, with a 
 ly my Span- 
 .mong them. 
 
 There, that 
 fit, he comes 
 gnised some 
 ) the man to 
 ity bow. 
 ed earnestly 
 f the sailor, 
 7, andsome- 
 u by a thick 
 
 white teeth 
 
 ideed ; but 1 
 3uld murder 
 
 " said Eger- 
 )easaiits are 
 «ely when I 
 know much 
 hey stick to 
 3 asked the 
 >ut hei-e. I 
 ily or agree- 
 
 
 Here some eager talk and pointing of hands towards the 
 town among tho sailor« dr»w his attention to a short, broad 
 man coming toward tJaem, a net full of vegetables slung 
 over his shoulder, a broad, brawny, good-humored faced 
 man, with black ringles, and a smiling mouth never quite 
 closed over his brilliantly white teeth. Hastening his steps 
 at the general cry of "Guiseppe," he deposited his net in 
 their midst, took oft" his cap and bowed with much de- 
 ference. 
 
 " You ought to be more lenient to my friuad Diego," said 
 Egerton aside to Dorothy. ' ' He has asked me who the fair, 
 beautiful angel is ; if she is my— sister." 
 
 '' I am much obliged to him. Even his flattering appro- 
 bation does not change my opinion." 
 
 Meantime, Miss Oakley, finding that Guiseppe spoke 
 English, began negotiations with him at once." 
 
 The Portuguese was all that deferential politeness 
 could demand, but asked an exorbitant price for his parrot, 
 and stuck to it. His broken English amused Miss Oakley, 
 and she prolonged the bargaining to make him talk. Gui- 
 seppe vowed that the bird T;/as as dear to him as a brother; 
 that it had a most extraordinary history. " Once," said 
 its proud owner, " he had been wrecked, and contrived to 
 escape to an uninhabited island, when he suddenly found 
 himself addressed by this parrot — who was perched on a 
 tree — in Spanisii, too; rather curious Spanish — and the 
 bird had attached itself to him — had accompanied him 
 when be was rescued. They had never b( en parted since. 
 Stay, he would letch it to show the lady. It was a wonder- 
 ful bird. No money would pay him Tor it." He picked up 
 his net of vegetables and went on board the ship. 
 
 "He is goiuL^ to ask a big price," said Egerton to Miss 
 Oakley. "Don't give it." 
 
 "Butl siiouldlike to have the bird," she exclaimed. "It 
 is such a curious story. Why, it may be a hundred yeara 
 old. You know they live to an immense age." 
 
 "Indeed." 
 
 *'0h, you are horribly incredulous." 
 
 "It is «: pi ituresque group, said Standish, calmly scrutin- 
 ising the figures before him ; "th se dark desperadoes, the 
 accurately dressed Ej^lishman, Miss Oakley, and your- 
 self, and the backgronnc^ of grey sea and sky. You seem 
 to have fascinated Egerton's V^aleucian friend. He is 
 gazing in wonder and admiration at you." 
 
"ir^ 
 
 50 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 i 
 
 ■■ : 
 t 
 
 m '• 
 
 fe 
 
 II 
 
 mmA 
 
 I \M 
 
 i: 
 
 I 
 
 ill 
 
 "I think he is very like Mr. Egerton, or rather Mr. 
 Eoerton would be very like him in the same clothes." 
 
 Standish lau-^hed heartily. ''Fancy Egerton in those 
 rags! I cannot say I see the likeness." 
 
 "Well, I do," returned Dorothy with a shudder. 
 
 Standisli looked at her surprised. 
 
 "Have yon caught cold, Dorotliy," he asked, with more 
 earneflness than the occasion seemed to need. 
 
 "Yes— I suppose so — I feel chilled to the heart," said 
 Dorothy, as if the words escaped her involunLarily. Stan- 
 dish looked round. 
 
 "I wish there was some wrap here to put round you," he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Stand near me," murmured Dorothy. "I — you will think 
 me foolish — but 1 do not like these people." 
 
 "You are far more fanciful than you used to be, but if 
 you wish me near you, no one shall come between us," and 
 he drew closer to her. "See," he continued, "here comes 
 Guiseppe and his parrot. It is no great beauty to look at." 
 
 Then the chaffering began. Guiseppe vowing at last 
 that no money would tempt him to part with his dear tried 
 companion, but he could refuse the beautiful lady nothing, 
 so he would give it to her, and she should give him what 
 little token of acknowledgment she liked. 
 
 "What a nice, generous little man, she cried. "Well 
 then, will live pounds be enough." 
 
 With a gesture of resignation he said : "Whatever the 
 lady likes," and scratched his Poll's head with a senti- 
 mental air. 
 
 "Do iind out what will satisfy him," said Miss Oakley 
 to Egerton. 
 
 "If he is not satisfied he ought to be," he returned. 
 
 "Will you bring the parrot to me early to-morrow to 
 the Pier Hotel,"' she continued. "There is my card, you 
 and I will settle the matter between us. I will have a nice 
 new cage ready. You must tell me what the dear thing 
 eats and drinks ! Poor Poll, pretty Poll!" — she attempted 
 to stroke it, but the "pretty creature" made a fierce, de- 
 termined attempt to bite the caressing hand, and uttered a 
 volley of choice epithets which did credit to the resources 
 of the Spanish tongue. 
 
 The sailors laughed unrestrainedly, and even Egerton 
 smiled. 
 
 '» 'Tis because he is in my hand, signora," cried Guiseppe. 
 
►r rather Mr. 
 
 othes." 
 
 m in those 
 
 der. 
 
 ., with more 
 
 heart," said 
 larily. Stan- 
 
 ind you," he 
 
 >u will think 
 
 to be, but if 
 
 Jen us," and 
 
 "here comes 
 
 to look at." 
 
 ing at last 
 is dear tried 
 ,dy nothing, 
 '■e him what 
 
 ied. "Weil 
 
 hatever the 
 ith a senti- 
 
 iiiss Oakley 
 
 irned. 
 
 i-morrow to 
 Y card, you 
 have a nice 
 dear thing 
 I attempted 
 a. fierce, de- 
 id uttered a 
 e resources 
 
 en Egerton 
 
 dGuiseppe. 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 61 
 
 u 
 
 Ha will love you in a week, and 1 leave myself to your 
 generosity." 
 
 "It is all over with you, Miss Oakley, if you bargain 
 witih the devil single-handed." 
 
 'But don't you see there will be no bargaining. He 
 leaves everything to me." 
 
 Egerton shrugged his shoulders, and Guiseppe, with a 
 bow and an a^.r of humanity, stepped back to make way 
 for a gaunt, grivjzled, Jewish-looking man, who offered 
 an old dagger, with a curiously wrought silver hilt and 
 scabbard, frightfully in want ot plate brush and powder, 
 while another produced some bits of gold filagree. These 
 last Dorothy admired, and Standish bought immediately. 
 These were all the curios that could be found, and after 
 some further talk with the smiling, gesticulating Guiseppe 
 Miss Oakley and party moved ofE, while the foreign sailors 
 closed up and continued to talk and laugL loudly among 
 themselves. 
 
 Egerton took his place beside Dorothy, with the evident 
 intention of accompanying her home, and Standish, re- 
 minded by a glance of his promise to keep near her, held 
 #1 his position at her other side. After a friendly good-bye 
 from Miss Oakley, and an explanation that they could not 
 meet again that day, the party divided, and youn^^ Selby 
 went disconsolately away to solace himself with a game of 
 pool before dressing for dinner. 
 
 On reaching The Knoll Dorothy bid both her companions 
 good-bye. 
 
 " I am too tired to talk any more," she said, with a 
 pleasant, arch smile, that took all asperity from her words, 
 " and as Mabel appears to have gone out 1 will not ask you 
 to come in." 
 
 Standish shook his head. *' You must remember my 
 holiday is nearly over, I shall come to-morrow early. 
 Why, I haven't seen Mabel to-day." 
 
 " 1 dare not take such liberties," said Egerton, " but I 
 hope to have a glance of you both to-morrow." 
 
 '* Auf wiedersehn," cried Dorothy, waving her hand be- 
 fore disappearing into the house. 
 
 The two men walked away silently for a few paces. 
 
 They wore by no means as congenial as before. Standish 
 
 could not account for it. Egerton was always agreeable 
 
 ,^ and obliging, but of late he had been less cordial — morere- 
 
 p served. Whenever he saw Standish installed in Mabel's 
 
^•:*U'«<4gm#l« 
 
 %3 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 I 
 
 jilt 
 
 m\- 
 
 'Ml! 
 
 !.j 
 
 
 ai«^ xjag-room he seemed, with all his tact in masking his 
 feeliugs, to be too irritated to resist uttering stinging though 
 veiled allusions to the extraordinary conscientiousness 
 with which Standish performed his duties as guardian or 
 watch dog. 
 
 " Can it be that I create any jealous feeling in his mind?" 
 thought Standish. " Does he think that a bright, fastid- 
 ious, and rather romantic young creature like Dorothy 
 would give more than a friendly thought to a fellow old 
 enough, or nearly old enough, to be her father ? — who has 
 been pretty well battered in the struggle for life, a^id with 
 a host of not exhilarating memories behind him. God for- 
 bid that such an idea should ever be sui^^ested to her, to 
 tarnish the happy familiarity of our intercourse, or check 
 her frank confidence in me ! Yet iu some ways she is older 
 than Mabel, bolder, stronger, riper ; she has grown more 
 womanly of late too, very much more! Handsome, wealtiiy 
 well born as he is, I doubt if Egerton is worthy of her." He 
 glanced at his companion. His brows were knit, and his 
 mouth set with a hard expression. Catching Standish's 
 eyes he laughed a slight, good-humored laugh, his expres- 
 sion changing completely. 
 
 " You think i am the picture of a rejected lover," he said, 
 with an air of frank confidence. ' ' The fact is I am both 
 riled and disheartened. Your fascinating little ward is so 
 resolutely cold ! If I thought she had given her heart to 
 anyone else — of course I would not annoy her by pressing 
 my suit. But I don't think she hati. She amuses herself 
 with that boy Selby; it is the instinct of the cat-like fem- 
 inine nature to torment any mouse that lets itself be caught. 
 Why should she not fancy me? I have always got on very 
 well with women? it's some girlish whim, and I assure 
 you I am convinced that patience and perseverance are 
 levers which shall lift her resistance and shiver it to atoms, 
 especially as 1 am sure of your oor sent when I can win 
 hers! What a dainty, charming little witch it is ! Her 
 gravity — her apparent pensiveness is so piquant when you 
 know what a dash of the devil there is under it ! To inspire 
 such a creature as that with a real, downright passion 
 would be worth a good deal of trouble, don't you think so?" 
 turning sharply and looking full into his companian's 
 face. 
 
 Standish suddenly flushed under his tanned skin, and 
 met Egerton's eyes with a cold, grave look. 
 
tasking his 
 ging though 
 lentiousness 
 uardian or 
 
 Q his mind?" 
 ght, fastid- 
 ke Dorothy 
 
 fellow old 
 ? — who has 
 3, a^d with 
 Q. God for- 
 
 to her, to 
 e, or check 
 J she is older 
 jrown more 
 me, wealthy 
 r of her." He 
 it, and his 
 Standish's 
 
 his expres- 
 
 ver," he said, 
 I am both 
 e ward is so 
 er heart to 
 by pressing 
 uses herself 
 at-] ike fem- 
 ielf be caught. 
 3 got on very 
 id I assure 
 jverance are 
 r it to atoms, 
 I can win 
 it is ! Her 
 nt when you 
 it! To inspire 
 ight passion 
 ou think so?" 
 companian's 
 
 led skin, and 
 
 i 
 
 BLIND FATE. 53 
 
 " The love of such a woman is doubtless well worth the 
 trouble of wiuning,'* he said, seriously. " Win it if you 
 can." 
 
 " Do you know there's a tou/n of defiance in your tone ?" 
 returned Egerton, laughing. " I don't think vou are as 
 heartily on my side as Callander is." 
 
 " Why should I not be on yotr side ? You are what all 
 match-makers would call an unexceptional parlV 
 
 " Oh ! there is no knowing the depths of inscrutable 
 motive in so experienced an old fellow as you are !" Then, 
 drawing out his watch, he went on, "Five-thirty! I'll 
 have time to catch the six forty-tive express. I think I'll 
 run up to town for twenty-four hours. There are various 
 things to be attended to which I have neglected. You'll 
 excuse my leaving you so abruptly, but I have to dress and 
 give my man so mo directions. Good-bye till to-morrow. 
 Make my excuses at The Knoll.' He jumped into an open 
 iiy which was crawling near and which he had hailed, and, 
 ordering the man to " Beach House Hotel," drove rapidly 
 away. 
 
 Standish looked after him, a curious expression contrast- 
 ing his brow. " She is right," he said to himself, "he doce 
 not love her ; there was not a note of love or even passion 
 in his tones. What can his game be ? And what magic 
 has opened Dorothy's eyes to the truth ? It is all beyond 
 my comprehension." 
 
 Mrs. Callander came back from her walk looking, as 
 Dorothy thought, unusually well — with more than her or- 
 dinary color. " I met Mrs. Markham, and we took a stroll 
 on the beach together. She is very amusing and told me 
 some droll stories of the people she had known at Naples 
 and Palermo, when her husband was on the Mediterranean 
 station. Real life seems much more extraordinary than 
 the life of novels," said Mabel, as she sat with her sister at 
 their evening meal. 
 
 " I dare say it is. Henrietta Oakley and I had a glimpse 
 of the romantic — the roughly romantic — side of it to-day," 
 and Dorothy proceeded to describe their visit to the old 
 dock and their interview with Guiseppe. 
 
 " What quantities of money Henrietta must spend," said 
 Mrs. Callander. " She is very generous and good-natured. 
 But I cannot believe Mr. Egerton could be like a common 
 sailor, Dorothy." 
 
 " He was, I assure you, but the man was not a common 
 
iiuMfhiJ 
 
 If; Hi 
 
 ! 
 
 *1 
 
 I 
 
 54 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 sailor. He was very handsome, though wicked-looking — 
 just like Mr. E^erton mi^ht have been if he had not been 
 educated and trained and taught his catechism and made 
 an English gentleman of." 
 
 •* He certainly is more an English gentleman than any- 
 thing else." 
 
 " Goodness knows," returned Dorothy. 
 
 The"e was a pause. Then, with some hesitation, Mabel 
 said, in a soft, caressing voice, "Are you sure, dear Dorothy, 
 that you ds not — cannot love Randal Egerton ?" 
 
 •' Yes ; (iuite sure," returned Dorothy, promptly, "Would 
 you wish me to marry him ?" 
 
 ''I only wish for what woul<i make you happy — happy as 
 a dream, dear, dearest sister. Don't you know how I love 
 you ? Nearly as well as my children ; but, oh, I envy you, 
 Dorothy." 
 
 " Envy me ? Why i'" smiling, and stretching out her 
 hand to her sister. 
 
 •' Oh, because you are so much stronger than I am. If 
 you do not like or approve anything you can say no. You 
 cannot fancy how impossible it is to me to say no to a per- 
 son who asks me to say yes ! " 
 
 '* Well, fortunately you have not much trouble in that 
 way, Mabel, for you have all you want, and-^ " 
 
 " Oh, Dorothy ! I have my troubles too — just now, I 
 mean. I have been writing to say 'no' to Herbert this 
 morning." 
 
 " What about ? " asked Dorothy, startled and greatly 
 p mazed. 
 
 '*■ About this expedition to Switzerland, or wherever he 
 wanted to go. I really do not feel equal to it. I do not 
 feel as if I could go." 
 
 Her big blue eyes looked imploringly at her sister. 
 Dorothy grew very grave. " He Wiil be awfully veiled. 
 What has induced you to ^ive it up ? ■' 
 
 '* Just what I i)o\d you. I cannot go." 
 
 "Dear Mabel ! I wish you had talked to me first I wish 
 you had not done this. It will be such a blow to Herbert. 
 A quiet journey with you would havo done h'uj. so much 
 good. Have you ^^^osted the letter ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he will g;«>t it this evening." 
 
 "Ab, that is the worst time. I do wish you had not 
 written. Unless you are really unwell (and I have been 
 
 'U< 
 
BLIN? FATE. 
 
 65 
 
 ced-looking — 
 had not been 
 sm and made 
 
 an than any- 
 
 kation, Mabel 
 dear Dorothy, 
 
 ?" 
 
 ptly. "Would 
 
 py— happy as 
 77 how I love 
 h, I envy you, 
 
 hing out her 
 
 lan I am. If 
 say no. You 
 ,y no to a per- 
 
 ouble in that 
 
 j» 
 
 -just now, I 
 Herbert this 
 
 1 and greatly 
 
 c wherever he 
 it. I do not 
 
 ,t her sister, 
 wfully ve:^ed, 
 
 ? first. I wish 
 
 ow to Herbert. 
 
 h'uA so much 
 
 you had not 
 
 id I have been 
 
 very uneasy about you) you could surely manage to boar a 
 little travelling, and it would do you good, I am sure. You 
 have had such a strained, dazed look lately. I am sure 
 your neuralgia has been worse than you admit. This will 
 be a great blow to Herbert. I feel it will be. Do tele- 
 graph to say that you will be ready to start — that you are 
 better. Do, dear Mabel. You know in his state of health 
 it might " 
 
 "That is just it," interrupted Mabel, with tremulous 
 eagerness. " Suppose he were taken ill when I was alone 
 with him ? I should not know what to do, I should be 
 quite unnerved." 
 
 " Mabel, this is not like you. You ought not to have re- 
 fused. I am dreadfully distressed." 
 
 " Ah, Dorothy," cried Mabel, pressing her haiids tightly 
 together, " you must not desert me. You must keep on my 
 side. We have always loved each other, and you must 
 back me up about this horrid journey. Why need Herbert 
 go wandering about ? The tranquility of his own house is 
 better for him than noisy hotels and rapid journeys. I will 
 do all I can for him here, and then, you know him, if he 
 thinks I do not want to go he won't care about it. He 
 must be a great deal better from his report of what Dr. B. 
 says— that a few month's care and quiet will entirely re- 
 store him — and he was much more cheerful before he went 
 to town." 
 
 " That may all be true, still — oh, Mabel ! how had you 
 the heart to disappoint him ? " 
 
 Mabel's only answer was to rise, and, approaching her sis- 
 ter who was standing near the window, she threw her arms 
 round her, and laying her head on her shoulder pressed her 
 closely till Dorothy felt the strong beating of her heart, the 
 quick, sobbing breath. " You do not know. You cannot 
 understand." 
 
 " 1 cannot, indeed, unless you tell me. Why do you 
 keep anything from me dearest? I am not very wise, but 
 it is well to look at things sometimes through other peo- 
 ple's eyes. Oh, that I had some magic lo draw back that 
 letter before it reaches Herbert's hands. I wish you had 
 never written itl " 
 
 '^ 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "A CHANGE IN PLAN.'" 
 
 Dorothy was inclined to think that she had allowed her 
 
m 
 
 lii 
 
 H 
 
 
 II 
 
 liiv 
 
 m 
 
 il ' : 
 
 ill, 
 
 56 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 imagination to cheat her into unnecessary terrors, when 
 after two days of vague indescribable anxiety Colonel 
 Callander wrote in reply to his wife. He simply remarked 
 that as she was indisposed for the trip she had suggested, 
 it was better to give it up, but that he was sorry to do so. 
 "I shall return about the 5th," he added, "and as I have 
 a touch of fever and ague, both of which are worse at 
 night, you had better have my own room made ready for 
 
 »» 
 
 me. 
 
 "How thoughtful he is," cried Dorothy. "He is so afraid 
 of disturbing you." 
 
 "Yes! He is good — very good! I am glad hethouglit 
 of it, though ! I am feverish and restless enough myself. 
 I cannot breathe unless I have my window open all night." 
 
 "That is not safe, Mabel." 
 
 "Why, what could make it unsafe? With that wide 
 area around the house it is like being on the second 
 story." 
 
 "Oh. yes, safe enough in that way. I thought of the 
 night air, your chest is not too st^^ong." 
 
 "I am strong enough — physically,'' said Mabel with a 
 sigh. 
 
 Callander was better than his woid, and the day before 
 the date he had fixed for his return, he presented himself 
 at the hotel, when his mother was resting after her drive, 
 before retiring to her room to dress for dinner. 
 
 "Why Herbert ! I did not know you had returned," she 
 exclaimed, "yoa were not expected till to-morrow." 
 
 ' 'I thought I had better break away, as I have had a 
 reminder from my old enemies fever and ague, and every 
 day something turned up to delay me." 
 
 "I thought you were feeling much better. I can't say yon 
 look it." 
 
 "I was greatly better, but the bad nights I get now 
 are against me. 1 found an empty house, so I came on 
 hera" 
 
 "Exactly, any port in a storm," said Mrs. Callander, 
 with a dry laugh. "Yes, the whole party are out in Mr. 
 Egerton's yacht. They are coming back to some sort of 
 supper at your house. They generally end their very Bohem- 
 ian excursions there." 
 
 "I suppose so," he returned. "Mabel ought not to send 
 her friends empty away." 
 
 "You are a most indulgent husband, my dear son, indeed 
 
:^i£^^£%.' 
 
 BLIJND FATE. 
 
 57 
 
 terrors, when 
 xiety Colonel 
 ply remarked 
 tad suggested, 
 )rry to do so. 
 and as I have 
 are worse at 
 ade ready for 
 
 [e is so afraid 
 
 id he thought 
 lough myself, 
 en all night." 
 
 ith that wide 
 )n the second 
 
 lought of the 
 
 Vlabel with a 
 
 the day before 
 ented himself 
 if ter her drive, 
 er. 
 
 returned," she 
 >rrow." 
 
 I have had a 
 ;ue, and every 
 
 I can't say you 
 
 ts I get now 
 so I came on 
 
 !rs. Callander , 
 are out in Mr. 
 D some sort of 
 ir very Bohem- 
 
 o-ht not to send 
 
 lear son, indeed 
 
 Hahel ought to think herself the happiest of women, pro- 
 Dubly she does. We have seen somewhat more of each 
 other since you were away. I have frequently taken her 
 out to drives, and I think if she were away from that very 
 flippant sister of hers, she " 
 
 "I see no room for improvement in my wife," returned 
 Call a nder coldly. "Of course I should like her to be a 
 dau ghter to you." His mother sighed obtrusively. 
 
 "I am sure I am her truest friend if she would believe 
 it." Then Mrs. Callander wisely digressed to some other 
 topics connected with friends and acquaintances, and got 
 little more than monosyllabic replies to her questions. 
 
 "Mr. Egerton is still in close attendance on your sister- 
 in-law," she said presently. "It is time I think that — 
 that the engagement were announced, for while she is free 
 Dorothy thinks she has a right to amuse herself with 
 everyone and anyone. There is a young subaltern in 
 Major St. John's regiment whom she encourages in a way 
 I do not approve," 
 
 "I suppose all women are pretty much alike where ad- 
 mirers and admiration are concerned." 
 
 "No, Herbert, not all women." 
 
 "Well, look at Henrietta Oakley, she is an unlimited 
 flirt." 
 
 "Henrietta Oakley," said Mrs. Callander, in a dig- 
 nified tone, "is in a very different position from Dorothy 
 Wynn." 
 
 "True, and considerably older into the bargain.'' 
 
 "She is more impulsive than I like, but she is a righ 
 minded and reliable gentlewoman for all that." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "Will you join meat dinner, Herbert?" asked his 
 mother. **Yoa will get nothing to eat till late at home. 
 I know the evening repast is generally ordered to be served 
 at eight or nine o'clock by Mr. Standish, who is master of 
 the house in your absence, and is, I must say, strangely 
 domineering." 
 
 "Of course, as my wife's former guardian, he is naturally 
 her referee and protector when I am avvay. He generally 
 gets on very well with women, why don't you like him?" 
 Callander who had kept his eyes on the carpet suddenly 
 raised them and looked full at his mother, who unimagin- 
 ative as she was, was startled by their expression. 
 
 "You need not be so angry, Herbert," she said. "I don't 
 
'^-ii 
 
 'p. \ 
 
 wm 
 
 I'll : ;|.':i ,111 
 
 Sjli]||ulii 
 
 58 
 
 BUND l^'ATE. 
 
 like Mr. Standish because he thinks quite too much oi 
 himself, in the first place ; unci iu the second, j^uardian 
 though he is, he is still too young to be seen perpetually 
 with Mabel ; we know it is all right, but society will put 
 an evil con " 
 
 "Stop!" said Callander, putting up his hands as if boldly 
 to repel the idea. "This ia a subject on which I will not 
 hear you. You exaggerate; it is not for me to listen. Drop 
 this subject or we shall cease to bo friends. Now, I shall 
 leave you. The children at least will liave returned, and 
 I have brought thorn some presents which I should like to 
 give them myself." 
 
 ''To-morrow, then, will you and Mabel dine with m©?'' 
 
 ' ' With pleasure, if she is disengaged." 
 
 The children were at tea when the Colonel reached the 
 Knoll, and received him with rapture. Little Dolly was 
 n\ade quite happy because " Father" sat down beside her, 
 and took some sips out of her cup. Then the new toys were 
 produced, and Callander seemed a very different man from 
 Mrs. Callander's tactiturn visitor of half an hour before. 
 
 When, after dusk, Mabel ana her guests reached home 
 Callander was most warmly greeted by the whole party 
 and much desultory conversation ensued, in which he took 
 his part. Then Miss Oakley took possession of him, de- 
 claring slie had some business matters to discuss, and they 
 or rather she, talked for a considerable time in a dim cor- 
 ner of the drawing-room, till Standish annoimced that he 
 was quite ready to escort Miss Oakley to her hotel. Cal- 
 lander seemed to have communicated his talent for s'lence 
 to his friend Egerton, for ho scarcely spoke. 
 
 Dorothy felt infinitely relieved when they were alone 
 As soon as she had made a few affectionate inquires as to 
 Callander's health, she bid them good-night, hoping that a 
 little private talk would clear away any shadow of misun- 
 derstanding between husband and wife. 
 
 Next day Callander produced some trinkets for each sis- 
 ter, and after looking at the papers, went off to join the 
 children on tlie beach. As soon as Dorothy was alone with 
 her bister she asked. " Is all right with Herbert ?" 
 
 "Yes, quite right. I told you he would not mind. We 
 will try and make him as comfortable as possible now." 
 " Yes, of course ! but, Mabel, he looks awfully bad.** 
 

 BLIND FATE. 
 
 59 
 
 too much 01 
 end, j^uardiaii 
 311 perpetually 
 )ciety will put 
 
 ds as if boldly 
 ioh I will not 
 listen. Drop 
 Now, I shall 
 returned, and 
 sh ould like to 
 
 le with me?'' 
 
 reach ed the 
 e Dolly was 
 n beside her, 
 new toys were 
 int man from 
 hour before. 
 
 eached home 
 
 whole party 
 
 /^hich he took 
 
 of him, de- 
 uss, and they 
 in a dim cor- 
 nced that he 
 
 hotel. Cal- 
 ut for s'.lence 
 
 were alone, 
 nquires as to 
 hoping that a 
 dow of misun- 
 
 i for each sis- 
 : to join the 
 vas alone with 
 )ert ?" 
 
 )t mind. We 
 sible now." 
 ully bad." 
 
 " He does, poor dear fellow. It is this horrid ague. 
 When 1 bid him good-night he was trembling all over. It 
 is some time since he had such au attack. We must get 
 his old prescription made up. I will join him presently on 
 the beach. What are you going to do, Dorothy ?" 
 
 " Oh ! there is tlie everlasting practice with Henrietta." 
 
 " TJien I will tell Paul to go and take you away at one 
 o'clock. Herbert would like to see you at luncheon." 
 
 Dorothy sped away with a light heart. The clouds she 
 fancied so threatening were breaking, and behind them lay 
 clear, blue sky. 
 
 The holiday so much enjoyed by Paul Standish was 
 nearly over. Egerton tried to prevent anything like tete- 
 a-tete interviews between him and his ward during the last 
 few days, to Dorothy's great disgust. There was such a 
 thorough sense of companionship between the two, that 
 any third person spoiled their frank intercourse, and Eger- 
 ton's third was particularly unpleasant to Dorothy. 
 
 It was, then, a great relief to her mind when Paul pre- 
 sented himself, unaccompanied, in Miss Oakley's sitting- 
 room at the time appointed, and they walked leisurely back 
 to " The Knoll," talking pleasantly of many things. 
 
 " So Callander took his disappointment about his intend- 
 ed second edition of the ' Honeymoon' very calmly," said 
 Standish. 
 
 "Very kindly and calmly, though 1 think he was woe- 
 fully disappointed. Perhaps he is better at homo, as he has 
 had return of fever andagua He is a dear, I think Mabel 
 is so lucky to have found such a husband ! " 
 
 " I think she is. What shall I do when you marry too ? 
 My occupation will be o'er, without a wilful ward to man- 
 
 age.' 
 
 She has a 
 fancy you 
 
 " You can find some occupatit a in Dolly, 
 very pretty little will of her own! But don't 
 will get rid of me so soon." 
 
 " I suspect I shall. I don't think Egerton is a man to be 
 easily beaten, and I believe greatly in the effects of perse- 
 verence, especially here the object to be won has a warm 
 heart, a ^jrateful nature." 
 
 " Thanks for your good opinion," said Dorothy, coloring, 
 " but I don't find any especial gratitude in my nature to- 
 wards Mr. Egerton. You know what my belief is as re- 
 gards his professions. I do not think he cares for me. If 
 he did, some electric current of sympathy would make me 
 
60 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 ) 
 
 considerate for him, instead of feeling as I do as hard as 
 flint." 
 
 "It is a most extraordinary impress!^ , and I cannot 
 share it," he returned, thoughtfully. "You will find out 
 your mistake some nne day, then there will be a revolution 
 in your mind. Keep me posted up in the interesting his- 
 tory, Dorothy. I shall look for your letters. If you hold 
 out against Egerton there is but one way of accounting for 
 it." 
 
 " You are wrong on all points," said Dorothy, hastily, 
 shaking her head ar.d smiling archly. " We'll discuss this 
 when we meet in town." 
 
 u Very well. When do you they of coming up? " 
 
 "Oh, if Herbert is well eu'^ngh, they are going to Gen- 
 eral Urquhart's for some shooting in November. I am to 
 remain here until they find a house in town, and then we 
 join forces." 
 
 •• WgU, I am obliged to go to Berlin to amuse myselt for 
 some little time rfext week. I shall be home again before 
 you come up to town." 
 
 These woras brought them to the house, and in the hall 
 they found nurse (Mrs. McHugh) looking for one of Miss 
 Dolly's gloves, which she had lost. 
 
 " Has Mrs. Caliander come in ? " 
 
 " No^ Miss ; she was going oat to meet the Colonel early, 
 butjastasshe was putting on her hat in the hall, two 
 outlandish men came to the front door — by good luck I 
 hadn't gone cut, so I waited with the missus, for I must 
 say they were ugly customers. Thuy belong to that foreign 
 ship there, and I say they oiii;ht not to be let rampage 
 about, frightening respectable i)eople. One was a great, 
 tall, wild-looking fellow with eyes like a tiger, in a manner 
 of speaking, the other, a fat little chap; with curls, both 
 nearly as dark as niggers; the little one spoke a queer soit 
 of English." 
 
 "What did they want, Nurse?" asked Standish. 
 
 "Well, sir, they came inside the door as bold as brass, 
 and the little fellow, he asked for 'the other young lady.' 
 So I up and says, * What young lady ? ' for I saw my 
 missTis was frigh' ?ned, and he says, 'The young lady as 
 came to the ship with the gentleman what speaks Spanish.' 
 
 ' She's not at home,' says I. ' Then,' says he, ' maybe 
 this lady would look at what my comrade here has to show.' 
 With that the tali one pulled offhir rod cap and took a 
 
 wai 
 fori 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 fa 
 
rij«^p-vCT-;>v,;ff"prj;7.-tj«7;;/ 
 
 as hard 
 
 at foreign 
 rampage 
 as a great, 
 n a manner 
 curls, both 
 
 queer soit 
 
 ih. 
 
 d as brass, 
 ^ng lady.' 
 saw my 
 Iff lady as 
 i Spanish.' 
 , ' maybe 
 s to show.' 
 id took a 
 
 as 
 
 md I cannot 
 will find out 
 
 a revolution 
 :eresting his- 
 
 If you hold 
 icounting for 
 
 ;hy, hastily, 
 discuss this 
 
 ip?" 
 
 >ing to Gen- 
 r. I am to 
 and then we 
 
 56 myselt for 
 again before 
 
 i in the hall 
 me of Miss 
 
 )lon6l early, 
 B hall, two 
 )od luck I 
 for I must 
 bh 
 )t 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 61 
 
 little bag all sewn with gold and silver, but that dirty, and 
 took out a queer green stone all covered over with figures. 
 'This is a something,' I can't remember the word, ' a charm,' 
 says the little man, ' that belonged to the Moors.' Now I 
 knew that was a lie, for the Moores are an old Irish fam- 
 ily, my mother's people, and no such thing as that ever 
 came out of Ireland." 
 
 " What did my sister do ? " asked Dorothy. 
 
 " Oh, sho took it and looked at it, and asked if the young 
 lady wanted it. So the littlo .xian said the young lady 
 wanted curiosities, and they had none, for they had 
 forgotten this thing, which hung round one of their filthy 
 necks, it seems; anyhow Mrs. Callander was taken with it, 
 but when the little man asked two pounds for it, I first 
 told her it was throwing away good money. Po we bar- 
 gained a bit, and they agreed to let us have it for twenty- 
 five shillings. Then the missus says, ' Stay here, N ursy, 
 I'll go fetch my purse. Then, back she comes, and gives 
 the gold piece and five shillings, with a sweet smile, and 
 says she, so gentle and sweet, ' I hope it will bring me 
 good luck,' says she. ' How long are you going to be 
 here ? ' and the little man answers that they might sail 
 any day. All this time the black-looking sailor never took 
 his eyes off her. I saw him glance at her beautiful rings. 
 I can teli you I was right glad to see the back of them." 
 
 '' Poor men ! why should you make up your mind they 
 are thieves because they look shabby '? " 
 
 " Well, Miss Dorothy, they looked more than that, they 
 looked thorough cut-throats, " 
 
 "Don't say so, nurse," said Dorothy, smiling. " When I 
 spoke to these men — I am sure they are the same — I thought 
 the tallest very like Mr. Egerton." 
 
 " That ragamuffin," cried Nurse, indignantly. ' ' God 
 forgive you. Miss Dorothy, an elegant gentleman like him." 
 
 Egerton was Nurse's beau-iOeal of a high bred open-hand- 
 ed squire of high degree, " not a bit proud, ready to say a 
 kind word," &c., &c. 
 
 . " But there, I must be going ! that girl will be letting the 
 children turn the nursery upside down." 
 
 " Servants and dogs seem to have an instinctive objec- 
 tion to rags," said Standish, laughing, as Mrs. McHugh 
 walked away. 
 
 " Nurse is rather kindly and charitable 
 fancy it was Mabel's fright that annoyed 
 
 to beggars, 
 her. Mabel 
 
 I 
 
 IS 
 
62 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 1 
 
 terribly nervous. I wish she had not paid such a higL 
 price for a tiling I daresay I shall not care to have,** said 
 Dorothy. 
 
 "If it is a real Moorish amulet it is a curiosity, and 
 worth having, even if all the Moores in Ireland repudiate 
 it," observed Staudish. "Mabel is late, it is half-past one." 
 
 " Here she is," cried Dorothy, as Mrs. Callander slowly 
 ascended the steps and crossed the threshold. 
 
 " Is Herbert not here ?" were her first words. " I missed 
 him, I suppose, by stopping to talk to those strange sailors, 
 and I cannot see him anywhere. We had better go to 
 luncheon, for I am so tired I can hardly stand. Herbert 
 will come in before we have finished. I wonder he did not 
 wait for me." But luncheon passed, and Callander did not 
 return. 
 
 " I must show you your amulet," said Mabel, when they 
 returned to the drawing-room, and she took it from the 
 drawer of her work-table. It was a dark green stone, 
 roughly shaped in the form of a beetle, and covered with 
 tiny hieroglyphics, and some square, priniltive-looking 
 charactej's. One end was perforated from side to side, as 
 if for a chain. 
 
 " It looks Egyptian; it is very curious," said Standish, 
 examining it. " You ought to wear it constantly, Dor- 
 othy. It may bring you untold good fortune." 
 
 "It ought, after costing such a price," said the young 
 lady. 
 
 " Never mind, dear ! Accept it as a present from me," 
 cried Mabel. 
 
 After awhile Standish left them, to make some valedic- 
 tory visits, as ho was obliged to leave, he said, by the last 
 train to-morrow, to be ready for harness early next day. 
 " You will come to dinner, will you not ?" asked Mabel. 
 " Too gladly ! Wliere else v ould I spend the last evening 
 of my holiday- -a holiday you have made so delightful ?" 
 
 Neither of the sisters loft the house any more that day, 
 as the sky grew clouded, and a thick fine rain began to 
 fall. 
 
 * 'I- * >i« * * ,it 
 
 Colonel Callander did not reappear till close on dinner- 
 time, wiieii he confessed that lie had forgotten his appoint- 
 ment with his wife, and wandered he scarce knew where. 
 
 The " last day" smiled bouiguly on Standish. A bright 
 blue sky,ileeced wiih !l -eoy clouds, a flood of golden sun- 
 
 
 si 
 
 Cl 
 
 wl 
 
 eJ 
 
ich a higl. 
 lave,** said 
 
 osity, and 
 i repudiate 
 ■-past one." 
 der slowly 
 
 "I missed 
 ige sailors, 
 ter go to 
 . Herbert 
 he did not 
 ier did not 
 
 when they 
 from the 
 3en stone, 
 ered with 
 ve-looking 
 side, as 
 
 Standish , 
 itly, Dor- 
 
 16 young 
 
 rom me," 
 
 valedic- 
 the last 
 xt day. 
 3d Mabel. 
 3t evening 
 ightf ul ?" 
 hat day, 
 began to 
 
 * 
 
 dinner- 
 appoint- 
 where. 
 A. bright 
 ieu sun- 
 
 BUNI) PATE. 
 
 ea 
 
 f 
 
 shine, a clear, invigorating atmosphere, fresh with the first 
 crispness of autumn, made breathing a pleasure. 
 
 Dorothy readily assented to a long tete-a-tete walk,which 
 was more easily managed because, for some reason or other 
 Egerton did not make his appearance that morning. 
 
 Guardian and ward had a long, delightful ramble. They 
 discussed books and people, and future plans. Standish was 
 unusually sympathetic, and not the smallest catspaw of 
 difEerence rippled the smooth surface of their confidential 
 intercourse. 
 
 Standish parted with Dorothy at The Knolls gate, and 
 she entered the house with a profound sense of depression 
 weighing her down. To-morrow ! How loneJy and empty 
 to-morrow would be ! What months must come and go be- 
 fore she should enjoy another uninterrupted talk ! But she 
 was too silly and weak ! She must learn to be sufficient to 
 herself ! 
 
 In an absent mood she went to her own room and laid 
 aside her hat and mantle, and hearing from Collins that 
 Mrs. Callander was out, she descended to the drawing- 
 room, determined to occupy her mind by an hour's diligent 
 practice. 
 
 As she approached the piano, which stood near one of the 
 windows leading into the verandah, the sound of voices, 
 speaking low, met her ear. 
 
 She thought she distinguished Egerton's, and paused to 
 make sure, intending to retreat if convinced that it was. 
 Then some words caught her ear, which seemed to turn her 
 to stone, and for thb moment deprived her of volition. 
 
 *' You know I love you," he was saying, in low, deep 
 tones full of passion. "But how intensely, how wildly, 
 your nature, perhaps, forbids you to comprehend." 
 
 Then Mabel's voice murmured something, and Egerton 
 replied, " No, Mabel ; I will not be fooled! You have let me 
 see that I am of importance to you. You have given ma 
 hope." 
 
 "I fear you, I do not think I love you," said Mabel more 
 distinctly, " and I cannot, dare not, cut myself ofE from 
 everyone, everything that makes life worth living. No, no, 
 1 cannot," her voice broke ofE into sobs, suppressed sobs. 
 
 " You will drive me mad ! Existence is torture I The 
 t bought of your husband makes me capable of any crime, 
 to think of you belonging to another sets my blood on fire ! 
 You are miserable, too. He is cold and indifferent. Leave 
 

 :il 
 
 J ,1 
 
 64 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 him .' Listen. Rather than sulfer disappointment — rather 
 than see you his, I would crush out your life, beloved as 
 you are ! " The tone of his voice was deadly. 
 
 Dorothy's senses came back to her with a wild thrill of 
 horror, of rage against the man who dared to insult and 
 threaten her sister. And Mabel listened to him — had list- 
 ened to him ! How strange it seemed that she now felt 
 \vhat the formless shadow was which had lain upon her. 
 
 What should she do ? She must not drive that fierce, 
 bad man to desperation. She must appeal to Mabel, and 
 strengthen her — save her. She stole softly away, and stood 
 for a moment by the stair-head window. 
 
 This sudden revelation of the abyss of treachery, of 
 baseness, of cruel sinful passion, yawning under the fair, 
 smooth surface of their innocent daily life, made her faint 
 and sick, as though a glimpse of somo hidden hell had been 
 forced upon her. Then iier spirit rose in righteous wrath, 
 and she felt brave enough to face the Evil One himaelf. 
 She burned to speak to her sister. It was not, it could not 
 be of her own free choice that Mabel had listened to him 
 No, he had exercised some devilish spell. It wanted two 
 hours to dinner-time. If only he would go, she might have 
 time to warn, to entreat, to insist. Oh ! she did not fear 
 the result—she would save Mabel ! 
 
 Restless, fevered, she left her room, and wandered into 
 the day-nursery, which looked to the front, there she looked 
 round at the toys the pictures, the various nursery trea- 
 sures, and thinking of those sweet, unconscious children 
 of the generous, true-hearted father, the type of a straight- 
 forward English gentleman, she broke down, and wept 
 bitterly. 
 
 The sound of the outer gate closing loudly roused hdr, 
 and, starting to the window, she saw Egerton walk rapid- 
 ly away towards the town. 
 
 Dorothy did not delay a moment. Running down-stairs, 
 she tried to enter her sister's room. The door was locked. 
 
 "Let me in, Mabel. I want you. I am ill — oh, very ill." 
 
 In another moment Mabel opened it. Dorothy closed 
 and re-locked it, then stood an instant, gating at her sister, 
 whose eyes had a terrilied, strained look. Her face was 
 deadly white. 
 
 Then, clasping her closely, she|exclaimed brokenly, with 
 heaving bret;st, "Mabel, what are you going to do? Goiild 
 
 * 
 
 I 
 
mxm) FATE. 
 
 lent — rather 
 beloved as 
 
 Id thrill of 
 insult and 
 — had list- 
 tie now felt 
 ipon her. 
 that fierce, 
 klabel, and 
 , and stood 
 
 eachery, of 
 Br the fair, 
 de her faint 
 )11 had been 
 >us wrath, 
 le himself, 
 t could not 
 led to him 
 wanted two 
 night have 
 d not fear 
 
 idered into 
 she looked 
 irsery trea- 
 children 
 a straight- 
 and wept 
 
 roused h«ir, 
 7alk rapid- 
 
 )wn-stairs, 
 vas locked. 
 
 very ill." 
 thy closed 
 
 her sister, 
 .' face was 
 
 enly, with 
 Ko? Coold 
 
 yvBi let that devil draw you to destruction ? I have heard 
 fekn just now — I wi»h I could have struck him dead." 
 
 "Heard — what — where," stammered Mabel, her eyes grow- 
 ing vacant as if too overdone to understand anything. 
 
 "There in the drawing-room, when you were in the bal- 
 cony." 
 
 "He said there was no one there," gasped Mabel, and 
 she trembled so violently that Dorothy hastily led her to a 
 chair lest she should fall. 
 
 "I came in and heard enough, Mabel ! What are you 
 going to do ?" 
 
 ''I wish I were dead. I do not want to yield — I — oh, 
 Dorothy, can you bear to look at me — to tov h me?" 
 
 "I love you with all my heart and soul," cried Dorothy," 
 kneeling down and clasping her waist, while she laid her 
 head against her bosom, "and before that vile wretch suc- 
 ceeds in his sorcery, I would kill him. You are not your- 
 self, Mabel, you arc under a spell. Throw it off, defy him! 
 What can he do? Would you forsake your own true hus- 
 band for a traitor like this ? Where are your senser ? 
 Forbid him to come near you. Let me be with you every 
 moment of the day, and I will exorcise this unholy spirit." 
 
 ' *I am unfit to stay with my husband — my children," 
 sobbed Mabel. "I ought not to have listened." 
 
 "You are fit — quite fit, I. tell you so. You are not acting 
 by your own wil), you are under the will of another." 
 
 "I do not want to go. Oh, Dorothy ! help me. Randal 
 Egerton alvrays interested me, and I can scarcely tell how 
 I came to like him. I fear him now. I wish I had [never 
 let him mesmerise me. But if I refuse him, what — what 
 will he do ? anything for revenge — even something des- 
 perate to Herbert. 
 
 "No, Mabel, he dare not. Never fear to do right. Tell 
 him to leave you ; that you have come to your senses. I 
 will give him the letter." 
 
 "I have written to him, yesterday, and he came, you see, 
 all the same. Oh, you do not know him! " 
 
 "If you are true to yourself, Mabel, you can shake him 
 off ," cried Dorothy, rising and stamping her foot. "How 
 dare he prosecute you ! How dare he practise his villainy 
 on you ! Write again, Mabel. I will give the letter into 
 his hand." 
 
 "Let me collect myself a little, and you shall help me to 
 
1,;/ 
 
 da 
 
 BLIND FATB. 
 
 write it. Now, if you stand by me, I shall have strengtn 
 to do right. But the idea of having so far lost myseli 
 will poison all my life.'* 
 
 "Mabel, dear, put your hand to the plough and neyer loolj 
 
 back." 
 
 "If —if only Herbert never suspects. I will devote my- 
 self to him. Oh, can I ever atone ?" 
 
 Some more energetic persuasion on Dorothy's part, a 
 few words here and there indicative of reviving hope and 
 courage on her sister's, and they started to find how late it 
 
 was. 
 
 "We must try to look as usual," said Dorothy. "If you 
 would like to keep quiet, and not see anyone, I will darken 
 the room and say you have a headache. I can face them 
 all for you, sweetest, dearest, Mabe!." 
 
 "Ah, yes, do, Dorothy." 
 
 "With the strength and firmness which true afEection 
 gives, Dorothy prepared herself to play the part of hostess 
 at dinner. She was infinitely helped by a message from 
 Egerton to the effect that ho could not join them. 
 
 Colonel Callander said he would not disturb his wife, as 
 she was trying to sleep. Dorothy wished he would. A 
 few tender words at this juncture might, she felt sure, pro- 
 duce a great eflect. 
 
 Dinner passed heavily. Then camethe moment of parting. 
 Colonel Callander excused himself with, what Dorothy 
 thought, cold politeness from accompanying Standish to 
 the station. 
 
 " Good-bye, my dear ward," he said, pressing her hand 
 in both his own. " it seems to me you have been a good 
 deal disturbed by something. There is a tragic look in 
 your eyes. Will you tell me when we meet again;:'" 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Dorothy, trying to smile. "Oh, lam 
 so sorry you are going ! " Standish bent down and kissed 
 the wavy braids into which her hair was divided above 
 her brow, kissed them lightly and tenderly, and was gone. 
 
 drc 
 
 chj 
 hii 
 ma4 
 
 Tet\ 
 
 her I 
 
 "I 
 
 fin 
 
 The next day Colonel Callander stayed indoors for the 
 greater part of the day, writing and arranging his papers. 
 
 This gave the sisters time to study what was best and 
 strongest to say in Mabel's note to j^gerton. 
 
 "You must get it from him as soon as he reads it," was 
 her final injuncion to Dorothy as she put it in her pocket. 
 
have strengtn 
 ir lost myself 
 
 and never lool 
 
 ill devote my- 
 
 othy's part, a 
 7ing hope and 
 nd how late it 
 
 )thy. "If you 
 I will darken 
 can face them 
 
 true affection 
 )art of hostess 
 message from 
 lem. 
 
 rb his wife, as 
 
 be would. A 
 
 felt sure, pro- 
 
 3nt of parting, 
 hat Dorothy 
 Standish to 
 
 ng her hand 
 3een a good 
 
 a<^ic look in 
 ain?" 
 
 "Oh, Tarn 
 
 /■n and kissed 
 vided above 
 
 nd was gone. 
 
 * 
 
 Gors for the 
 g his papers. 
 
 i^as best and 
 
 ads it," was 
 ler pocket. 
 
 BMIfD FATE. 
 
 67 
 
 •*0h, Mabel; if you think this necessary, how could you 
 dream of deserting us all for him. 
 
 " I cannot tell. I — I was not myself. I fancied I saw a 
 change in Htibert. If he suspected me I could not face 
 him. Ever since we spoke of that tour, Randal was like a 
 madman." 
 
 '' Don't call him by his Christian name. Did he make you 
 refuse to go ? " Mabel bent her head, and then covering 
 her face cried quietly but bitterly. 
 
 " Do not despair, all will be well yet, Mabel, if you are 
 firm now." 
 
 " Can I ever regain my self-respect ? Oh, Dorothy, let 
 us t:"y never to name him again." 
 
 Bat Egerton did not present himself the next day, nor 
 the next until dinner time, when he and Miss Oakely joined 
 the party at The Knoll. 
 
 The presence and vivacity of Miss Oakley, seconded as 
 she was by Egerton, helped to cover not only the taciturn- 
 ity of the host and hostess, which was not unusual, but 
 Dorothy's remarkable absence of mind. At last Miss Oak- 
 ley had exhausted herself and her subjects, and departed. 
 
 " What a dark night," she said, as Egerton and Callan- 
 der assisted to put her into her carriage. " Yes, dark as a 
 wolf's mouth," said Egerton. 
 
 ' ' The moon will be up later," said Callander 
 
 "Can I give you a lift, Mr. Egerton ? " 
 
 "A thousand thanks, no." 
 
 " Are you going ? " asked Callander. 
 
 "Yes, I want a smoke. Something stronger than a cig- 
 arette ; and, Callander, do you feel all right? You seem to 
 • me not quite yourself." 
 
 ' ' I have rather a bad headache, but I am subject to 
 them since I came home. A good night's rest will be, I 
 hope, a cure." 
 
 '' Then 1 wish you a very good night. Make my excuses 
 to Mrs. Callander," and Egerton set out into the soft dark- 
 ness of a balmy September night, and not long after the 
 lights disappeared from the windows of The Knoll, from all 
 at least save that of the nursery, where the caretul Mrs. 
 McHugh kept a shaded lamp burning through the silent 
 night watches. 
 
 The next morning broke fair and bright. Colonel Callan- 
 der rose, as he generally did, at cock-crow, and wrapped 
 himself in his dressing gown, sat making entries in his 
 
68 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 journal, and adding a few pages to a work begun ^on^ nf^o 
 some military subject. Gradually the sounds of movement 
 below told him tlie household was astir. Presently the 
 Colonel's factotum brought him his early cup of tea. 
 
 Colonel Calla-^der lai ^ Qr-wnhis r-en and slowly drank it. 
 He rose and w.. nr . .; ^ awards the cuor, when it was 
 suddenl;y larsu : i" ii ■•^'^ Mr,s. McHugh, her eyes wide open 
 as though s^aioed v, *h horror, her outstretched hand 
 shaking, her whole v. spec; 'sordered. 
 
 " Oh ! my God, sir! Come, come! My dear mistress is 
 lying dead, murdered in her sweet sleep, and us lying deaf 
 and dull and useless all abotu her" 
 
 " Womam, you are mad ; " exclaimed Callander, in deep 
 hoarse tones. 
 
 " Come and see. Oh, would ;0 God I were iu her place!" 
 and turning, she went rapidly away, followed by her in- 
 credulous master. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " AFTER life's FITFUL FEVER." 
 
 When Callander reached his wife's room he made at once 
 for the bed, where she lay upon her left side, with one 
 white hand slightly clenched outside the clothes. He bent 
 over her and looked intently into her face. 
 
 *' She seems to sleep," he said hoarsely to Nurse, who had 
 followed him. " But," touching her hand, " she is quite 
 cold." 
 
 " Ah I cold enough. Look, sir. Don't move her. Come 
 round here, Look where the villain struck her !" With a 
 trembling hand she pointed to a deep wound in the back of 
 the neck, just below the skull, from which some blood had 
 flowed — not in any large quantity — upon her nightdress 
 and pillow. 
 
 Callander uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and, 
 kneeling beside the bed, gently ci;rned back the clothes and 
 felt her heart ; then, with a wail of despair, " Oh! dead ! 
 dead ! dead !" he cried. " My beautiful darling ! my pearl ! 
 No evil can touch you now ; none can hurt you !" He 
 pressed his brow against the bedclothes and muttered, 
 " None to save her, though in tlio midst of those who would 
 have given their lives for her." He stopped as if choked. 
 
 " Ah, sir, it's plain enough how the wretches got in. 
 The window is open, and we used to leave the middle bit of 
 
 th« 
 aiA 
 th 
 
 ar- 
 te 
 ot 
 be 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 60 
 
 un ^onj: ago 
 )f movement 
 :esently the 
 f tea. 
 
 ly drank it. 
 ''hen it was 
 IS wide open 
 itched hand 
 
 mistress is 
 ; lying deaf 
 
 ler, in deep 
 
 her place ! " 
 by her in- 
 
 lade at once 
 le, with one 
 3. He bent 
 
 36, who had 
 he is quite 
 
 her. Come 
 !" With a 
 the back of 
 blood had 
 nightdress 
 
 bion, and , 
 jIoth.es and 
 Oh ! dead ! 
 
 my pearl ! 
 you !" He 
 
 muttered, 
 who would 
 f choked, 
 hes got in. 
 iddJ© bit of 
 
 the c.ter shutters open, with the bar across inside — she 
 aiwa rs wanted air. See ! the bar is hanging loose, and 
 the- is th 3 ladder they got across by." 
 
 C .Jander rose and foUowel ner to the window — there, 
 across the area whi^'i surrounded the house, resting on the 
 top of the bank at one side, and the window-ledge at the 
 other, was a ladder — a ladder which Nurse recognised as 
 belonging to the place. Callander dropped into a chair, 
 and, covering his face with his hands, moaned piteoualy. 
 " They have made a clean sweep," she continued, looking 
 at the dressing table ; " she laid her rings and watch an' 
 chain and purse there last night, for I brushed her hair tc\ 
 her, my poor, dear lamb, and they were there when I 1 c 
 her. Why, why did I ever leave that shutter open ?" •-' la 
 she wrung her hands. " What are we to do, sir ?" sir*- 
 Callander was past hcoding her. He rose, and again throw- 
 ij g himself upon his knees beside the bed, buried hi i^r 
 in the clothes, while deep sobs shook his frame. 
 
 By this time the whole household had crowded into the 
 room ahd stood with bated breath. 
 
 " Oh, don't stand there doing nothing," whispered Nurse, 
 iu great agitation, to Collins. " You run and tell the 
 police. Don't you see the poor master has lost his head ? 
 And no wonder !" 
 
 " I'll run, Mrs. McHugh, and fetch the doctor, too. 
 Here " — in a horrified voice—" Here's Miss Dorothy !" 
 
 " Ah, don't let her in, for God's sake !" but Dorothy was 
 in their midst while she spoke. 
 
 " What can be the matter ?" she asked, in her usual tone, 
 " every one seems running. " Oh, Mabel," interruping 
 herself, " Is Mabel ill ? Why, Herbert !" Callander never 
 moved. Before they could prevent her, Dorothy rushed for- 
 ward, and laid her head on her sister's brow ; then, draw- 
 ing back with a look of wild terror — " is she dead ? Nurse, 
 dear nurse, is she dead ?" 
 
 ' * Ah, my dear, it has pleased God to take her to Him- 
 self," said nurse, breathlessly, striving to keep the horrible 
 fact of the murder from her. " It was awfully sudden, but 
 we have sent for the doctor, and don't you stay. If you'll 
 look after the children a bit. Miss Dorothy, for I'll want 
 Hannah to help me." 
 
 While nurse spoke, she pushed her to the door. 
 
 " Why do you try to send me away ?" cried Dorothy. 
 '*There is something you do not want me to know." 
 
70 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 ,'/ 
 
 Breaking from the agitated woman, Dorothy caught sight 
 of the blood on the pillow. With a scream, she darted to 
 the bed, and, clasping her hands above her head, cried, 
 " She has been murdered — basely, cruelly murdered ! Oh, 
 my sister ! my sister ! was there no one to save you V 
 Oh, come back to me. Oh, Herbert, is she quite, quite 
 dead ?" Still Callander remained in a kind of stupor. 
 
 " We can't rightly tell till the doctor comes, and this is 
 no place for you, my dear young lady. I'll tell you the 
 minute I know what the doctor says. You can do her no 
 good. My own head is going round, and — Mary ! Mary ! 
 help me to hold her, will you ?" 
 
 The awful shock, the terrible sense that the dear, dead 
 woman might have been saved had any one of the house- 
 hold been near her, was too much even for Dorothy's strong 
 vitality. With a deep sigh she sank senseless into nurse's 
 arms, who was thankful to assist in taV.ing her back to 
 her own room, where she left her in cliargeof the children's 
 maid. 
 
 Then, the terrible silence broken, the women servants 
 burst into tears and exclamations. They called for justice 
 on the murderer, and bewailed the fate of their gentle mis- 
 tress. 
 
 But Colonel Callander rose from his knees, and at the 
 sight of his ghastly, horror-struck face, they retreated, dimly 
 conscious of being in the presence of a grief almost too 
 great for sympathy to touch. 
 
 The leaden minutes dropped slowly away in miserable 
 waiting. At last Collins drove up with the police inspector 
 and the doctor. 
 
 Dorothy came gradually to her senses, and as the dread- 
 ful knowledge of her sister's tragic death returned to her 
 she rose up and attempted to leave the room, 
 
 '•Oh, no, Miss Dorothy," cried the little maid, "Mrs. 
 McHugh said you were not to be let go down stairs. She 
 says you'll just be breaking your heart, miss, and you can 
 do no good. The police and the doctor are there now, and 
 Mrs. McHugh, she'll come up as soon as she has anything 
 to tell. Do, do lie down again." 
 
 " Ah, no; 1 can indeed do no good ! No one can do any 
 good," cried Dorothy, wringing her hands. " Who could 
 have hurt her ? She had not an enemy in the world. Was 
 it some wretch who wanted to rob her.'' 
 
 '•1 heard Mrs. McHugh say that all her Jewels were gone." 
 
ight sight 
 darted to 
 lead, cried, 
 Bred ! Oh, 
 save you ? 
 luite, quite 
 upor. 
 
 and this is 
 iell you the 
 do her no 
 ■y ! Mary ! 
 
 dear, dead 
 the house- 
 hy's strong 
 ito nurse's 
 ler back to 
 9 children's 
 
 9n servants 
 
 for justice 
 
 gentle mis- 
 
 and at the 
 ated, dimly 
 almost too 
 
 miserable 
 !e inspector 
 
 the dread- 
 led to her 
 
 id, ' ' Mrs. 
 airs. She 
 d you can 
 ) now, and 
 anything 
 
 n do any 
 
 '^ho could 
 )rld. Was 
 
 f ere gone." 
 
 BLIND FATE. fl 
 
 Dorothy walked to and fro, remembering confusedly the 
 events of the last few days — the painful scenes between her 
 sister and herself. 
 
 That the sweet sister she so dearly loved should besnalch- 
 de by violence from the diificulties and dangers out of which 
 Dorothy had hoped to deliver her was too agonizing a fin- 
 ale to the drama of which they had both been the centre. 
 Then the picture of the bereaved husband, of the mother- 
 less little ones, grew distinct to her imagination, but her 
 torn heart found no relief; horror was too strong for tears; 
 she was too stunned by the cruel tragedy to think clearly. 
 Life seemed at a standstill. She threw herself into a chair, 
 and sat with wide-opened eyes gazing at the -deep wound 
 which seemed still before lier. At last Nurse softly opened 
 the door and approache I her, her own eyes streaming, her 
 face haggard. " My poor dear," she said, in low, hurried 
 tones, " the doctor thinks she must have been dead these 
 four or five hours. The blow, he says,must have killed her 
 at once. It somehow struck the spine, thougli it looks as if 
 it were on the back of the head. He doesn't think she felt 
 any pain or fright. She looks like a peaceful infant. The 
 master — God help him ! — would let no one touch her but 
 himself. His face is set like an iron mask." 
 
 " The coroner's come now, and Mr. Egerton. Ah ! he has 
 a feeling heart ! I thought he'd have dropped when he came 
 into the room, for all he is a tall, strong man, he was tremb- 
 ling like a leaf, and his eyes looked like to start out of his 
 head. Oh ! what a day of sorrow ! My dear beautiful an- 
 gel of a mistress! To think of them foreign devils stealing 
 in on her sweet sleep to take her innocent life! and it will 
 be hard to catch them ! They say the ship was away at 
 dawn this morning, and no one knows where." 
 
 Here nurse utterly broke down, and sinking into a seat 
 threw her apron over her face, and rocked herself to and 
 fro. 
 
 " "Where are these blessed children ? Go, Peggy, my girl," 
 to the nursemaid, " go see to them, they'll be wanting some 
 bread and butter. Oh, here is Miss Oakley, thank God! " 
 
 It was indeed Henrietta, pale and tearful. Slie ran to 
 Dorothy, and kneeling down, clasped her arms round her. 
 
 " I have jUst heard. Dorothy, my dear Dorothy! Let 
 me stay with you. It is too — too cruel," and pressing the 
 silent, half-unconscious girl closely, she burst into hyster- 
 ical weeping — for once, Henrietta Oakley forgot her.-e i- 
 
',<'. 
 
 72 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 lier " part," her pretensions to orii^iiiality, everything, sav*? 
 the human anguish round her! Dorothy returned her em- 
 hrace mechanically, 
 
 *' Have they sent for Paul— Paul Standiah ?" she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 " I don't know, dear ; but Mr. Egerton is with Herbert, 
 and lie will do all he can." A convulsive shudder passed 
 through the slight form in Henrietta's arms, and Dorothy- 
 clung to her with a sudden movement. 
 
 " Oh, send for Paul ! Do not leave us defenseless here 
 without Paul Standish ! He will not have left London yet,' 
 and with feverish eagerness she pushed Henrietta froDL 
 her. 
 
 " Has any one telegraphed for Mr. Standish ?" she asked! 
 looking at nurse. 
 
 " I don't know, mis s," said the grief-stricken woman,, 
 " I'll go and ask." 
 
 "Telepraph for him at once." said Henrietta. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Collins knows his address," and nurse went 
 feebly from the room. 
 
 Alone with the dazed, terrified Dorothy, Henrietta was 
 alarmed at the wild distress of her tearless eyes — if she 
 could only bring her the solace of tears! 
 
 " Coma awa}^, dear, come to those poor little children^ 
 they will be so miserable shut up all this morning. Let 
 us go and keep them company. The nursemaid will never 
 stay with them when all this excitement i;^ going on." 
 
 Dorothy, whose will and full consciousnesE seemed to be 
 temporarily in abeyence, rose obediently and followed her. 
 
 The usiuilly neat nursery was in some disorder, the re- 
 mains of the children's breakfast were scattered on the 
 table, the little girl was kneeling on the window seat be- 
 side Peggy looking at the people coming and going, the 
 crowd which had collected about the gate and the police- 
 man stationed beside it to prevent any unauthorised person 
 entering, on tiie floor lay the baby boy laughing, and kick- 
 ing in the joy of pure healthy existence, and battering a 
 rag doll against the carpet. At the sound of the opening 
 door, the little girl jumped down and ran to cling round her 
 aunt. 
 
 " Where is Mammj- ? she has never come this morning," 
 cried the child, " and that naughty Peggy won't let us go 
 down stairs! I want to see dear jSlammy." 
 
 Hearing this demand, the boy began to repeat, ''Ma-maj" 
 

 BLIND FATE. 
 
 73 
 
 I'ng, save 
 |her em- 
 
 |e whis- 
 
 [Herbert, 
 passed 
 [I^orothy 
 
 5SS here 
 Ion yet,' 
 ia fromi 
 
 he asked 
 
 woman,, 
 
 *6 went 
 
 tta was 
 -if she 
 
 children, 
 S' Let 
 11 never 
 
 I." 
 
 id to be 
 'ed her. 
 ihe re- 
 on the 
 3at be- 
 ^g, the 
 police- 
 person 
 kick- 
 • ing a 
 pening 
 md her 
 
 ning," 
 us go 
 
 a-ma/' 
 
 most vigorously. Then the sweeter note of grief was 
 struck, and Dorothy clasping the motherless little girl to 
 l»er heart, burst into a flood of tears, her whole frame quiv- 
 ering with the violence of her sobs. 
 
 I" V •(■ 1» n* V 
 
 Many a page miglit be tilled with the sad details of such 
 a scene, the formidable police inspector unmoved by dis- 
 may and sorrow about him, made notes, and searching in- 
 quiries ; the doctor, who examined the fatal wound, the 
 coroner viewing "the body," the lingering crowd outsido 
 increasing every moment as the startling news spread, the 
 disorganised servants wandering about tearful and excited, 
 are they not all repetitions of what has been but too often 
 enacted before ? though to the immediate sufferers it all 
 seemed so harrowing and desecrating, this tearing away of 
 all that shields tlie sanctities of home from the rude eyes of 
 the outer world. To tiie policeman there is no holy of 
 holies into which he will not direct the vulgar glare of his 
 bull's-eye. 
 
 The extraordinary self-mastery of Colonel Callander 
 struck everyone. He let no hand save his own touch the 
 fair form he loved so well, wiien both doctor and coroner 
 made their examination. He seemed upheld by the mar- 
 vellous force and tenderness of love. He could not be per- 
 suaded to leave the presence of the dead. His stern com- 
 posure overawed the lookers on. Egerton was much more 
 unmanned. 
 
 He seemed scarcely able to support himself when he first 
 gazed at the sweet, calm marble face of the murdered 
 woman. He reeled like a drunken man to a seat, and ap- 
 peared to have almost lost consciousness. When he rallied 
 he was untiring in h attentions to the bereaVed husband, 
 in his thoughtful assi tance and suggestions to the police. 
 But it was evident what the effort to be of use cost him. 
 
 No one seemed to thinK of sending for Standish. Callan- 
 der's whole soul was centred in his wife, even the natural 
 desire for justice, that is vengeance, on her murderers 
 seemed merged in the tender care with which he paid the 
 last tribute of love and respect. 
 
 While Egerton went to and fro like a man but half re- 
 covered from a severe fall, Callander was rigidly composed, 
 and perfectly clear in his orders and directions. 
 
 As soon as a rumor of the fatal event reached Mrs. Cal- 
 lander, she was speedily on the scene of action. 
 
74 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 m\^ 
 
 ," 
 
 Dorothy was quite unable, and strange to say, her son 
 decidedly refused to see hor. This appeared to agitate her 
 greatly. Slio demanded an interview with Egerton, who 
 when he oame scarcely seemed to know what he was say- 
 ing. 
 
 It must be admitted that the hard husk of the worldly 
 old woman was pierced at last, and she showed more feel- 
 ing than the onlookers expected, though the idea of police 
 prowling about, of a coroner's inquest, of the details which 
 every newspaper would set forth with morbid elaboration, 
 WAS a source of bitter mortification. 
 
 After obtaining as much information as she could from 
 Mr,:'- McHugh, she drove back to her hotel, and spent the 
 rest of the day in the company of her reverend friends, who 
 were indefatigable in their efforts to comfort and console 
 lisr. 
 
 The emotion which this tragedy called forth in Henrietta 
 Oakley seemed to make a new creature of her ; the inner 
 depth of her nature, which had hitherto lain dormant under 
 tliemassof luxuries and frivolities with which it was 
 overlaid, was roused to activity, and for the moment her 
 dickering follies were quenched. Dorothy shrank from en- 
 countering her brother-in-law, ev3n tliough the shock and 
 horror of tiie morning, the recollectiou of his face and its 
 stony grief remained with her, and she feared to meet him 
 for both their sakes. She was so near and dear to his 
 niudered wife, how could he bear to look upon her? 
 
 But Henrietta had no such scruples, she went boldly to 
 him, and lie endured her presence, and answered her ques- 
 tions respecting the children. For nurse suggested their 
 being taken to their grandmother, as the house was not a 
 fit place for them. 
 
 Then she assisted (under Mrs. McHugh's directions) to 
 prepare them, and herself escorted the poor motherless 
 babies to Mrs. Callander, who willingly accepted the 
 charge. 
 
 it was a relief to Dorothy when they were gone. The 
 sound of their innocent laughter was too agonising when 
 she thought of the beloved mother lying in everlasting 
 silence -murdered — below. 
 
 The dreadful day dragj^ed through. Mrs. Callander 
 asked Dorothy to stay with her during tills ? id time, but 
 sbo refused, saying that so long as hor sister's lifeless form 
 was under thd roof she would not leave it. 
 
 til 
 
 Doi 
 gre^ 
 
 COT 
 
 Mr. 
 of 
 gri 
 hai 
 
 set 
 
^y, her son 
 [agitate her 
 
 ferton, who 
 [e was say. 
 
 je worldly 
 ' niore {eel- 
 [a of police 
 tails which 
 paboration, 
 
 could from 
 spent the 
 • leads, who 
 iid console 
 
 I Henrietta 
 j the inner 
 [lant under 
 ich it was 
 loment her 
 k from en- 
 shock and 
 ^ce and its 
 meet him 
 ar to his 
 r? 
 
 boldly to 
 
 her ques- 
 ted their 
 ^as not a 
 
 Jtions) to 
 otherless 
 Jpted the 
 
 ne. The 
 ng when 
 erlasting 
 
 'allander 
 me, but 
 'ss form 
 
 BLIND l^ATE. 
 
 75 
 
 ^m 
 
 '*I do hope Herbert's brain will not give way under this 
 cruel blow," murmured Miss Oakley, as she sat holding 
 Dorothy's hand in the deserted nursery, while the evening 
 grew darker and night stole on them. "He is wonderfully 
 composed, though there is something awful in his face. 
 Mr. E^erton is far more overcome. I only caught a glimpse 
 of him, and he really did not look sane. It is the intense 
 grief in Herbert's expression that effects me so. I can 
 hardly keep back the tears when I look at him. Have you 
 seen Egerton ?" 
 
 "Oh, no — no," cried Dorothy with almost a scream of 
 pain. "How shall I ever stand to be questioned if I am to 
 be dragged before these dreadful people to-morrow ? If I 
 could throw any light on " 
 
 "Miss Dorothy!" interrupted Mrs. McHugh, opening the 
 door hastily. "Mr. Standish is below, and the master 
 won't me him ! I went and asked him myself (the others 
 don't care to go near him), but he refused ; he was quite 
 angry when I persisted. Will you come and speak to Mr. 
 Standish, miss. He looks terrible bad." 
 
 Oh, yes, nurse ! I will come," and she rose with alacrity, 
 then pausing, slie asked tremulously. "Where — where is 
 Mr. Egerton ?" 
 
 "Gone away to his own place for a bit. I'm sure he 
 looks that wore out. I don't know what the poor master 
 would have done without him." 
 
 Dorothy was out of the room before she ceased to speak. 
 
 "Where is the Colonel ?" asked Miss Oakeley. 
 
 "Always in the same place, beside her," returned nurse, 
 sadly. 
 
 When Dorothy opened the door and saw her guardian 
 standiiig in the window of the dimly-lighted dining-room, 
 she forgot in Jier great sorrow all the womanly conscious- 
 ness which used to hold her back, and darting to him she 
 threw her arms around his neck as in her old childish days. 
 
 ** My poor child," said Standish, tenderly, " What is this, 
 liorror? I had Collin's telegram about three hours ago 
 and know nothing except that Mabel is dead — he says 
 murdered." 
 
 "Oh, Paul, thank God you are come! It is all too ter- 
 rible!" Siie brokenly recounted what had occurred — still 
 clinging to him. 
 
 " I cannot understand it. Burglars seldom murder, save 
 
 : v/ 
 
76 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 in self-defence," he exclaimed, " and poor dear Mabel could 
 be no object of fear to anyone." 
 
 " I don't know what to think, Paul. Dreadful conjee-? 
 turos thrust themsel yes upon me. Oh, if 1 could only stop 
 tliinkinjv ! " and she hid her face against his shoulder. 
 
 Stand sh gently turned her to the lamp, and his face 
 grew very grave. 
 
 '' You must not add imaginary horrors to the reality of 
 this dreadful affair, my dear Dorothy. It is too much for 
 you. Latej. on you can open your heart to me. What 
 could be th e object of this hideous crime ? " 
 
 " Nurse says *.hat her purse and the jewels whch lay on 
 the dressing-table are all gone," said Dorothy. " They 
 might have taken those; but why put her to death ? " — she 
 withdrew her arms from him but still held his hands in 
 in both hers, as if unwilling to lose touch with one strong- 
 er than herself — " and she seemed as if lying in peaceful 
 sleep, no look of terror or disturbance." 
 
 " Sit down, Dorothy, you can hardly stand," and he led 
 her to a sofa. " Tell me more." 
 
 " I know so little: but what cats me to the soul is that 
 in the night, I don't know what hour — something woke me 
 — I heard a noise — a dim, faint noiso, a little like metal 
 falling. I was so cruelly dull and sleepy that I was not 
 frightened, I did not think of getting up ; and they were 
 murdering her then — my own dear sister ! You know I 
 have the room over hers. Oh, Paul, I might have saved 
 her ! " 
 
 " Or been murdered yourself ! " said Standish, drawing 
 her to him as one might a sorrowful child. 
 
 " Better me than her," returned Dorothy, with trembling 
 Lps. " Wlio can replace her with her children, her hus- 
 band? Oh, Paid ! must I tell all this to-morrow?" 
 
 "At the inquest? Yes, my dear Dorothy. You must 
 tell the whole truth— the least omission might lead to the 
 failure of justice— and Mrs. McHugh's theory is that one 
 or both of the foieigu sailors committed this foul deed." 
 
 " Yes, she tliinks so." 
 
 " It is not in)i>vobable! some of them look equal to any 
 villany. My (iod ! they miglit have spared her life," cried 
 Standish with deep emotion. " I should not wonder if 
 Callander lost his reason after such a critical blow. Eger- 
 tou of course has been with him. Have you seen him ? " 
 
 "Oh: no. no! Do not ask me. 1 cannot— I will not," 
 
 she 
 him| 
 me, 
 half 
 
 StaJ 
 
 he 
 
 Bull 
 
 m 
 
 
 M 
 
 Pi 
 
 m 
 
BLmD FATE. 
 
 77 
 
 |>el could 
 
 conjee, 
 
 ^y stop 
 |er. 
 
 us face 
 
 ility of 
 ^uch for 
 What 
 
 lay on 
 " They 
 "-she 
 nds in 
 'trong- 
 eaceful 
 
 he led 
 
 is that 
 okeme 
 metal 
 IS not 
 were 
 low I 
 saved 
 
 •wing 
 
 bling 
 hus- 
 
 tnuat 
 
 3 the 
 
 one 
 
 Jed." 
 
 any 
 ried 
 p if 
 ?er- 
 
 M 
 
 she exclaimed, breathlessly, again hiding her face against 
 him. "You will stay with me, Paul. You will protect 
 me, you are my only friend, except poor Herbert, and I am 
 half afraid of him now." She trembled so violently that 
 Standish was almost alarmed. 
 
 " Poor little soul, the shock has been too much for her," 
 he muttered to himself. 
 
 ' ' I shall not always be a selfish coward," she whispered, 
 * ' I shall try and do what my hand finds to do diligently. 
 But to-day I am not myself." 
 
 " That's a brave heart," said Standish, softly. " I know 
 you are not a coward, Dorothy. You must think of the 
 children and their desolate father." There was silence for 
 a moment. Dorothy's small hands still clasped his arm 
 with more force than he thought they possessed. " I sup- 
 pose Callander will see me to-morrow," resumed Standish. 
 " I almost dread meeting him. I fancied he would be glad 
 to know I was here. But I suppose he is not at all him- 
 self. Poor fellow." 
 
 " I thought, too, he would be comforted in having you 
 near." 
 
 " Who have you to keep you company? " 
 
 " Henrietta Oakley. She is wonderfully kind. Oh, here, 
 she is." 
 
 In fact Mrs. McHugh had some difficulty in keeping her 
 from interrupting their interview long before. 
 
 Some further talk respecting the circumstances of the 
 tragedy which had befallen them. Then Standish said lie 
 would leave them. " I am going to see the doctor and hear 
 his account. Should Herbert express any wish to see me, 
 1 shall be at Egerton's hotel. I want to i ear what he has 
 to say." 
 
 When he named Egerton, Dorothy's hand closed on his 
 witli a convulsive pressure. 
 
 *' I trust in heaven she will get some sleep," he said, 
 looking at Henrietta. 
 
 * ' I asked the doctor to look in this evening, and prescribe 
 a composing draught," she returned. " I don't know what 
 will become of Dorothy unless she gets some sleep. Come 
 away, Dorothy." 
 
 " I cannot thank you enough for your kind care of the 
 poor child." 
 
 " You will come early to-morrow, Paul," said Dorothy, 
 letting him go with reluctance. 
 
!l 
 
 i 
 
 wl 
 
 78 BLIND FATE. 
 
 " Trust me," was his reply as they left the room. 
 
 CHAPTFR VII. 
 
 ♦* THE INQUEST." 
 
 Eastport had rarely, if ever, been so shocked and excited 
 as by the murder of the charming and admired Mrs. Her- 
 bert Callander. Though she liad not mixed much with the 
 local society, she was well known, and every one who 
 could liud standing room crowded to hear the evidence given 
 at the inquest. 
 
 The facts of the case, as succinctly recorded by the in- 
 spector, were first read over, and the doctor's evidence 
 taken ; then Mrs. McHugh was called. The deepest interest 
 was evinced as yhe advanced to the place vacated by the 
 doctor. Many persons recognised her, for her severely re- 
 spectable ligure and solid black silk gown was a familiar 
 object on pier and sands as she watched over her pretty, 
 well-dressed charges, accompanied by her humble satellite, 
 the nurse maid. 
 
 Not the most thrilling play ever mounted by Irving or 
 acted by Bernhardt can stir the pulses like a trial of this 
 description, where the question of guilt or innocence, the 
 materials for arrivmg at a conclusion, the hesitations, 
 fears, hopes, are actual realties. The m3^steryin the present 
 case was an additional fascination, for gossip was disposed 
 to reject the theory of robbery as too simple a solution. 
 
 Mrs. McHugh preserved a decent composure. She would 
 as soon have brushed her huir in public as shed tears and 
 dourished a pocket-handkerchief in the face of a jury. 
 
 She recounted very distinctly her having carried a cup 
 of tea to her mistress as usiial at 7 o'oiock, and was a little 
 surprised to see tlie blind unfastene'. It was Mrs. Cal- 
 lander's habit to leave one window op3n and also the centre 
 part of the outer sliutter. '£h? shutters were at once blinds 
 .md shutters ; ihey folded iv. two at either side and had an 
 .u( 11 '..ar which fastened within after they were closed. 
 Mxi. < 'r\llaLiu.er lay on her right side, and seemed just the 
 Fame a'* nsurl 
 
 As uei mJjti^^HS did uot stir, witness let down the tea, 
 ^%\v. sijooping over her, observed that there waa more than 
 ti.t) prUluiesfc of sleep ii. her attitude. She touched her mis- 
 tress -xh' fc. 'ul -i^o was cold and dead. 
 
 h| 
 al 
 bi 
 
 ti 
 
 
room. 
 
 , and excited 
 M Mrs. Her- 
 Jch with the 
 Py one who 
 'ideace given 
 
 I by the in- 
 ■'« evidence 
 ^est interest 
 ted by the 
 severely re- 
 ' a familiar 
 ber pretty, 
 '^e satellite, 
 
 i^ Irving or 
 ^ial of this 
 ocence, the 
 lesitations, 
 tbe present 
 ^« disposed 
 ution. 
 >he would 
 tears and 
 ury. 
 
 ied a cup 
 as a little 
 Vfi-s. Gal- 
 be centre 
 ce blinds 
 i bad an 
 'e closed, 
 just the 
 
 the tea, 
 >re than 
 ier rais- 
 
 .^ 
 
 KLIND FATfi. H 
 
 «♦ Did you go at once to Colonel Callander T* asked the 
 
 coroner. 
 
 " No, sir. I moved the clothes a little, intending to feel 
 her heart, when I saw blood on the pillow. Then I was 
 afraid to touch her. I went round to the other side of the 
 bed and perceived that her head was bent forward, and at 
 the top of the neck, just below the hair, there was a wound. 
 Colonel Callander was sitting at his writing-table when I 
 went in. He didn't seem to understand me rightly when I 
 told him ; but he went away sharp to the missis' room. It 
 was then I saw the ladder lying across the area, resting on 
 the top of the grass bank at one side and the windo vv-iedge 
 on the other." 
 
 One of the jury — " Was Colonel Callander's room next 
 his wife's ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; it was to the front of the house, and there 
 was a passage between the two rooms leading to a door 
 that opened on the stable-yard. Tliere is a gate leading 
 from it into the garden. Mrs. Callander's room was on the 
 left of the house, and one window looks out over the bay." 
 "Was the gate between the yard and garden kept locke'^ ?" 
 " I don't know, sir. I daresay it was not, as we had no 
 horses or carriage ; anyway it was wide open that morn- 
 ing. He forgot to shut it, 1 suppose." 
 " He ! Who V" 
 
 •' The murderer. He must have got the ladder from 
 the shed in the yard, where it was always kept." 
 
 *' I am told some sailors came to offer curiosities for 
 to your late mistress ?" 
 
 " They did, sir. I was with her while she spc 
 them." 
 
 •* Where were you when they camet"' 
 " In the hall." 
 " What passed ?" 
 
 " There were two of them, sir. One sp<A:e a li de Eng- 
 lish, the other, a tall, black-browed, wicked-looking man, 
 liad a bit of stone to sell. My mistress bought it. She 
 did not like to be left alone with them, so she went her- 
 self for her parse. She left her door open. The window is 
 right opposite, and a little table by it where her jewel case 
 stood. She took the purse and came back, leaving tledoor 
 wide open, J saw the black-looking fellow stare aioer her, 
 as if he'd draw the purse out of her hand and the rings oft 
 her lingers with his eyes." 
 
 the 
 
 ale 
 
 9 to 
 
I ■;!' 
 
 in; 
 
 80 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 " And you saw no more of those men ?" 
 " No, sir ; but Collins, the colonel's man, did.*' 
 Collins being called, said he remembered the day in 
 (luestion. He was in the pantry, which looked out on the 
 yard, and observed two men enter it from the garden — 
 queer-looking chaps. One, with a red cap, spoke broken 
 English. He (Collins) came out and asked them what they 
 wanted. The shorter of the two was very polite, and ex- 
 plained that they came through the garden by mistake, and 
 wanted to be shown the way out ; — thought it very strange 
 when he heard that they had been selling things to his 
 mistress in the hall, as the entrance to the lawn in front 
 was opposite the door. 
 
 Mrs. McHugh, recalled, said the last person who had 
 seen Mrs. Callander alive was the upper housemaid, Mary 
 Stokes. She usually attended to her mistress at night, as 
 she (Mrs. McHugh) did not leave the nursery after 9 o'clock. 
 Mary Stokes, who was tearful and confused, stated that 
 on the fatal night she nad, at her mistress' request, lit a 
 night-light. Mrs. Callander did not always have a night- 
 light, only when there was no moon, — she put it beside the 
 bed. The bed stood near the window, which was always 
 kept closed. Then Mrs. Callander bade her good-night. 
 '' And the dear, sweet lady never spoke again," exclaimed 
 the girl, with a burst of tears. 
 
 The coroner asked who occupied the room over Mrs. 
 Callander's. 
 
 " It is the day-nursery." 
 
 " The room next to that nearest Mrs. Cal'ander's ?" 
 "That's Miss Wynn's, the poor dear lady's sister." 
 Both Staiidish and Callander had done their best to spare 
 Dorothy the pain of being publicly questioned, but in vain. 
 The coroner said ho was bound to question all persons 
 who could throw the least light upon the terrible tragedy, 
 and possibly Miss Wynn had heard or noticed somc^thing 
 which might give a cluo. however faint, to guide the jury. 
 Trifles often led to strange discoveries. 
 
 It was a fearful trial to Dorothy. She heard the sup- 
 pressed murmur, the expecta^it rustle which ran through 
 the closely pai^ked room as she advanced, clinging to her 
 guardian's arm, and feeling scarcely able to support her- 
 self. Miss Oiikley accompanied her, but was not ailowed 
 to stand near. 
 
 Dorothy was deadly pale, the scared, grief stricken ex- 
 
 
^!^<|-: 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 81 
 
 »» 
 
 the day i,, 
 . out on the 
 
 [o garden 
 
 oke broken 
 what they 
 te, and ex- 
 f'stake, and 
 pry strange 
 >e:s to his 
 ^ in front 
 
 who had 
 •-id, Mary 
 niglit, as 
 
 ' 9 o'clock. 
 
 'ated that 
 est, lit a 
 a nig^ht- 
 eside the 
 
 ■-s always 
 
 od-ni^ht. 
 
 exclaimed 
 
 i^er Mrs. 
 
 • 
 
 to spare 
 in Vitin. 
 persons 
 t-a^redy, 
 
 i^^^hing 
 ^ jury. 
 
 > sup. 
 irou^h 
 
 her 
 her- 
 
 Jowed 
 
 1 eoc- 
 
 m 
 
 pression of her large, soft grey eyes, brought tears to those 
 that looked at them. Her voice was very low,and at times 
 seemed on the point of breaking; but she controlled her 
 emotion and answered clearly. In reply to a leading ques- 
 tion from the coroner, she said that on the night of the 
 murder she had retired to rest as usual, and, feeling tired, 
 soon fell asleep. After what seemed to her a long time she 
 awoke with a sort of confused idea that a sharp noise, as 
 if of some metal falling, had roused her. She had been 
 dreaming that her little niece was knocking the garden- 
 roller with a stone, for which she had had to correct her a 
 few days previously, and, thinking that — that it was all a 
 dream, she resisted her first startled impulse to call nurse. 
 " If I had done so we might have saved her," she added, in 
 a broken voice, with quivering iip. 
 
 '' You think the noise was real ?" 
 
 " I do. I believe it was the bar which secured the outer 
 blinds of — of my sister't.^ room." 
 
 " Have you any idea at what hour this occurerl '^" 
 
 ♦*I have not. I had no light, and, after the fir i moment, 
 I felt so sure that it was only a dream which had startled 
 
 me, that 1 soon went to sleep again, little thinking " 
 
 she stopped abruptly, and pressed her hands tightly to- 
 gether. 
 
 " It is unusual for a burglar to commit violence in try- 
 ing to secure booty, but I presume there could be no pos- 
 sible motive but theft to account for the crime? — no spite- 
 ful, discharged servant urged by morbid feelings of revenge 
 to ■" 
 
 " Oh— no — no!" interrupted Dorothy, somewhat losing 
 her self-control ; "every one loved her, she was so kind — 
 so good ! and she had all the same servants who have been 
 with us since she came home from India last year." 
 
 " Then you believe that tliese foreign sailors or some 
 other robber commitued the crime ?" 
 
 "What else can I think?" 
 
 At last she was relet.sed, and Standish, who understood 
 the anguish and effort in her every tone, led her quickly 
 away to tlie carriage whicii was waiting. 
 
 Colonel CaUandei" was next questioned. He had little to 
 tell, but told that little with a kind of deadly, hopeless calm 
 which gave the hea ers a profound impression of the depths 
 out of which he spoke. 
 
 The cook was then interrogated, and even the *' boy " 
 
'I 
 
 82 
 
 BLlxVD 1<^ATE. 
 
 )3«' 
 
 llli'M' 
 
 "fl. 
 
 who came diunially to clean boots and knives was exam- 
 ined respect inj; the ladder. 
 
 " It was not very long, " he said, "not long enough to 
 reach from tlie liag-stones, which surrounded the house at 
 the boLtoiu of the area, to the windows af the drawing and 
 dining rooms. He had tried when they wanted cleaning. 
 He should have said it was not long enough to reach across 
 from the bank to the window, but it was not laid from the 
 top tliou^h, the end of the ladder was forced into the grass 
 and mould, and sloped to the lady's window. 
 
 ''It must be difficult to approach the window in that 
 way '?" 
 
 '' Well, yes, rather — but not to a sailor; they can well 
 nigh dance on nothing." 
 
 The tloctor's deposition was clear and decided. He was 
 one of the best known practitioners in the place. He had 
 found, he said, a deep incision at the juncture of the spine 
 and skull, penetrating tiie substance termed medulla. 
 
 Deatn must have been inflicted while the victim slept, 
 fc r the sli^;htest resistance or movement on her part would 
 have frustrated the attempt to stab her in that particular 
 spot The cavity or opening at the top of the spine is well 
 defended by bone above and below ; it was probably more 
 accident tha'i knowledge that guided the murderer's knife 
 or dagger. 
 
 The instiuiu mt used must have been keen and narrow in 
 the blade, for the wound was small and clean cut. Very 
 little blood was drawii. — By the coroner: The deed was 
 probably done some four or five hours before its discovery 
 — that is about two or half-past two in the morning. Death 
 must have !)een instantaneous ; there was no sign of a 
 struggle. The room was undisturbed, the bedclothes 
 smooth and unruflled. 
 
 The wliolo of the evidence conveyed an idea of the peace, 
 kindliness, and harmony reigning in the fair home so cruelly 
 broken up. 
 
 Finally the coroner, having nothing further to elicit, 
 addressed a lew words to the jury, and they found the only 
 verdict possible was " Murder by some person "or persons 
 unknown." 
 
 It was a subject of some comment that Egerton liad not 
 appeared at the inquest. Of course the bereaved husband 
 had an older and closer friend to stand by him in his wife's 
 guardian, and it was rumored that Egerton, a very excit- 
 
-'V: 
 
 BLIND FATP:. 
 
 8. 
 
 was 
 
 exam- 
 
 enough to 
 ® house at 
 awing and 
 cleaning. 
 3ach across 
 ' ^i'om the 
 ' the grass 
 
 ^ in that 
 can well 
 
 He was 
 He had 
 
 he spine 
 
 la. 
 
 ^^ slept, 
 rt would 
 
 a-rticular 
 le is well 
 
 ^y more 
 's knife 
 
 irrow in 
 Very 
 ed was 
 scovery 
 • Death 
 n of a 
 clothes 
 
 peace, 
 cruelly 
 
 elicit, 
 > only 
 rsons 
 
 not 
 band 
 i^ife's 
 xcit- 
 
 able man, was too seriously afflicted by the blow that had 
 fallen on his friends to be al)le to bear the pain of listening 
 to the details drawn forth in the examination of witnesses. 
 
 All Eastport and Fordsea were dreadfully disappointed 
 and indignant at having to put up with a mere common- 
 place story of robbery with violence, instead of — well, 
 they did not know what. But tremendous revelations had 
 been expected, and when this "lame and impotent con- 
 clusion,"^ was arrived at every one felt him or herself shame- 
 fully cheated. 
 
 Many and various were the solutions suggested, and pro- 
 found were the theories respecting the Callander tragedy, 
 which supplied materials for many an interesting conver- 
 sation among visitors at Fordsea. 
 
 Standish was fortunately able to remain for a few days 
 with the sorrowful sister and husband, but the time when 
 he must leave was near at hand, and he could not make 
 up his mind to desert his young ward without finding 
 someone to protect and support her during his absence. It 
 was unfortunate that Egerton had raised the question of 
 their possible marriage, as it might make Dorothy re- 
 luctant to accept his assistance or derive comfort from 
 his society. It was strange that Egerton had absented 
 himself from the inquest. However, it would be well to 
 see him, and ascertain his readiness to aid his afflicted 
 friends. 
 
 Egerton was pacing his sitting-room when Standish 
 was shown in. His dark face was lividly pale, his large 
 black eyes looked sunken, his whole aspect that of a man 
 oppressed by horror as well as grief. 
 
 He seemed suri)rised, and not quite well pleased, when 
 Standish came in. 
 
 "As 1 did not see you yesterday, I have come to consult 
 you about our unhappy friends." 
 
 "Yes, yes ! In fact, I am so completely unmanned I could 
 not face the hideous vulgarities of the inquest," interrupted 
 Egerton. "Besides I could throw no light on the matter ! 
 I only know the facts from hearsay, like yourself," inter- 
 rupted Egerton, not heeding the hand Standish held out. 
 *'In fact, the horror of the whole affair has almost shaken 
 my reason. To think of that angel —but I must not speak 
 of it. Tell me, what can I do ."' 
 
 •'You can help me in various ways. First, Callander is 
 so completely prostrate that I cannot consult with him as 
 
84 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 <if. 
 
 to what steps ought to be taken to trace these Spaniards, 
 for there is strong prcbability that they are the murder- 
 
 » 
 
 ers. 
 
 »»It is quite as likely to have been English as Spanish 
 sailors. There are scoundrels of all sorts in such a town 
 as Eastport." 
 
 ''Granted, but these are the only men of whom we have 
 the slightest suspicion. Of course the absence of an ex- 
 tradition treaty with Spain would be an hindrance even 
 should we succeed in finding the men. Still, I know our 
 Foreign-Office people will do their best, and I know from 
 experience that the Spanish and Portuguese authorities 
 are by no means willing to screen a murderer. Now Mrs. 
 Callander— the mother, I mean," for Egerton started, 
 "wants to oifer a thousand pounds reward for any infor- 
 mation which may lead to the discovery of the murderer." 
 
 "Make it two," said Egerton, hoarsely, throwing him- 
 self into an arm-chair, and leaning his head on his hand 
 in an attitude of utter despondency. "I would gladly 
 give many thousands if we could punish — Oh, God, what 
 a fearful ending of so swset and holy a life." 
 
 Standish looked at him a good deal moved, and also sur- 
 prised. His incoherency, his extraordinary forgetfulness 
 of Dorothy, seemed as if he wore oil his balance. 
 
 "Yes," resumed Standish, after a moment's pause. "It 
 is too dreadful to bear thinking about. I am fearful o f 
 the effect the tragedy will have on Dorothy. It will be 
 long before she can shake off the impression." 
 
 This allusion to the girl he had frofessed such an ardent 
 wish to marry, did not seem to reach Egerton's sense, he 
 took no notice of it. 
 
 "I propose to send copies of this placard offering the 
 reward to our consuls in every port in Europe, the Levant, 
 and the Cape, with a description of the men wanted. Of 
 course, if the fellows can be taken anywhere, not in Spain 
 (in Hamburg for instance), we can bring them here, and 
 try them. 
 
 "What waste time and energy it all will be," exclaimed 
 Egerton. "We'll never find out the truth, and, if we did, 
 would it restore her V would it atone for our irreparable 
 loss?" 
 
 "Of course not ! Still, it is our boumlen duly to leave 
 nothing undone to bring the miscreants to justice. 1 shall 
 act for Callander almost without consulting him, and this 
 
'^■^■^^,,, 
 
 •"* 
 
 se Spaniards, 
 the murder- 
 
 ^-s Spanisli 
 such a town 
 
 horn we have 
 aco ofanex- 
 idrance even 
 » J know our 
 I know from 
 authorities 
 Now Mrs. 
 ''ton started, 
 f any infor- 
 9 murderer." 
 ■owing: him- 
 on his hand 
 ould gladJy 
 
 G^od, what 
 
 nd also sur~ 
 orgetfulness 
 
 •» 
 
 pause. <«lt 
 I fearful of 
 It will be 
 
 'f an ardent 
 's sense, he 
 
 [Bering the 
 tie Levant, 
 ^nted. Of 
 
 in Spain 
 
 ^ere, and 
 
 exclaimed 
 f we did, 
 reparable 
 
 to leave 
 
 I shall 
 
 and this 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 86 
 
 brings me to another point. 1 am seriously uneasy about 
 Callander. You know he has not been in too sound a 
 mental condition since his return, though immensely bettor 
 lately, and this frightful business may have a very fatal 
 effect. He sits for hours brooding in utter silence, he 
 hardly eats. He will not see the children, and hardly 
 notices Dorothy. His cousin, Miss Oakley, is the only 
 person wlio can do anything with him. His mother, who 
 is in great distress, is most anxious that he should be taken 
 away. Will you be so kind and self-sacrificing as to go 
 with him? he must not go alone." 
 
 "Why do you fix on me," cried Egerton, starting up, and 
 beginning to pace the room again. ''Why not go yourself 
 with him?" 
 
 "Because he has for some time shown anything but a 
 preference for my society ; now, he always liked you, and 
 enjoyed being with you. Then you are not connected with 
 his poor dear wife, or his first meeting with her as I am ; 
 so in every way you are the tittest companion for him, 
 especially as he was so ready to back you up with Dorothy." 
 
 'Dorothy — ay — Dorothy!" repeated Egerton, absently. 
 "You set me a dreadful task," he resumed, after a short 
 pause, "i should rather do anything else in the world. 
 Let me think. Oh ! if I must — I must, I suppose. It is 
 all awfully hard to bear ! When does Callander think of 
 starting V" 
 
 ' ' We'll try and get him off as soon as we can, after the 
 funeral — you know it is fixed for to-morrow, I suppose ?" 
 Egerton bent his head, and, pausing in his troubled walk, 
 stood staring at Standish with vacani eyes, which were 
 evidently filled with some very different image. 
 
 *' Arranging for the funeral is the only thing that has 
 roused Callander. He ordered that the ^^^ave should be 
 prepared in a little old burial ground in which, it seems, they 
 passed the day they drove over to Rookstone, you remem- 
 ber ? I wish to heaven they lad carried out their plan of 
 a trip to the Highlands or anywhere. She would have been 
 with us now, had she gone." 
 
 " How do know that ?" cried Egerton, almost fiercely. 
 " If it were her destiny, how could she escape ? What 
 puppets we are in the grasp of fate." 
 
 " I think you want to get away yourself, Egerton," 
 said Standish, a good deal surprised at his tone. 
 
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86 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
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 ii'" 
 
 " Can you expect anything else ? Was ever a more 
 tragic ending to a fair young life ? I haven't your Saxon 
 
 phlegm " 
 
 '* I wish I had a little more," exclaimed Standish, in a 
 voice full of emotion. " Bo you suppose it has not cost me 
 an effort to keep my head clear, my mind composed, among 
 such scenes as I have gone through for the last few days V 
 But these poor souls haven't anyone to guide or assist 
 them, save myself and— you— if I may count on your 
 friendship. By heaven ! I am almost unnerved when I 
 look at Callander, bowed down by speechless sorrow J at 
 Dorothy, chilled by the touch of such a horror in her sunny 
 youth. She will outgrow it, however. My deepest sym- 
 pathy is for Callander. We must do all we can for him.'' 
 
 Egerton sat for a moment without speaking, then he rose 
 and moved restlessly to and fro. " You are right," he said 
 at last, in a more collected tone than he had yet used. " I 
 ought to be ashamed of my unstrung nerves. It is woman- 
 ish to be overpowered as I am. I did not think I was such 
 
 a ;^ltroon. But the awfulness of " He stopped short 
 
 and shuddered. " Yes, I'll do what 1 can for Callander. 
 Only get him out of this as soon as you can. It is punish- 
 ment too much for the worst criminal (God ! I can think 
 
 of nothing but crime !) to stay here in this scene " he 
 
 stopped again — " the scene of our former happy life. 
 Settle what you like. I am at your disposal." 
 
 *' Thank you. I felt sure you would do your best for us. 
 Then we must get Dorothy away. It is pitiable to see her 
 sad, white face." 
 
 Egerton was too much absorbed in his thoughts to heed 
 what he said. 
 
 This indifference greatly surin-ised Standish. " Have 
 
 you seen her since ?" he was beginning, when Egerton 
 
 interrupted him — " No ; she absolutely refused to see m«, 
 refused most abruptly, and I shall not ask again. Did she 
 suppose that with the shadow of such a grief over us I 
 should have been in a mood to make love to her ?" 
 
 " If you loved her you would bear with her more pa- 
 tiently." 
 
 '' 1 shall never intrude on her again. I only want to 
 get away from this wretched place." 
 
 " I must leave you now," said Standish, rising. " We 
 shall met to-morrow, 1 suppose ?*' 
 
 " We must ; we must," returned Egerton, " I will be 
 
 1 
 
'er a more 
 our Saxon 
 
 dish, in a 
 lot cost me 
 6d, among 
 few days ? 
 e or assist 
 on your 
 d when I 
 3rrow ; at 
 her sunny 
 pest sym- 
 for him.'' 
 
 Bn he rose 
 , " he said 
 used. " I 
 s woman- 
 was such 
 ped short 
 Callander, 
 s punish- 
 5an think 
 — " he 
 >py life. 
 
 It for us. 
 ) see her 
 
 to heed 
 
 " Have 
 Egerton 
 see m«, 
 I>id she 
 '^er us I 
 
 lore pa- 
 
 i^ant to 
 
 "We 
 
 will be 
 
 BLIKD FATE. 
 
 9i 
 
 present." He compressed his lips as he spoke, and his brow 
 contracted with an expression of agony. 
 
 ♦' I have forgotten to tell you," said Standish, looking at 
 him with some compassion, " that as soon as 1 got the 
 telegram summoning me to the sad scene, I went to find a 
 very clever detective who has done some remarkable 
 things. I was just in time to catch him before he under- 
 took any other job. He is making as close an examination 
 of the premises as he can. I am anxious to hear his report 
 and will let you know what he says." 
 
 " A detective ! What is the use of letting one of those 
 fellows ransack the belongings of a delicate woman ?" 
 cried Egerton. " He will not bring her back to us nor find 
 out anything fresh. Who could have had the heart to 
 hurt her but a brutal ruffian, whose greed was excited by 
 the sight of her jewels ? Why, a detective will want to 
 turn everything inside out !" 
 
 " There is no reason why he should. He will only^ook 
 through the premises, and glean what can be learned out 
 of doors. I agree with you thai there is small chance of 
 
 his tracking the murderer " 
 
 '* Don't speak of him," said Egerton, half closing his eyes. 
 " Come and dine with me. You are not fit company for 
 yourself." 
 
 " Nor for anyone else," he returned. " Thank you, no. I 
 shall be calmer to-morrow." 
 
 Standish walked slowly away to the printer who was to 
 strike off the first supply of hand-bills offering the reward 
 of which he had spoken. He was strongly impressed by 
 the strange co idition of mind in which he had found 
 Egerton. 
 
 Well versed in the world's ways, and having more than 
 once discovered what dark depths can lie hidden under the 
 fair seeming of innocent and honest lives, he was a good 
 deal disturbed by the ideas which Everton's grief and agi- 
 tation suggested. 
 
 The man was suffering horribly. But how was it that 
 no thought for the girl whom a week ago he had eagerly 
 sought seemed to occur to him ? Had Mabel not been al- 
 most childlike in her guileless innocence, he might have 
 suspected some ugly secret— but, no, that was out of the 
 question. He turned indignantly from the base thought. 
 Egerton was sensitive and impressionable, his blood was 
 mixed with a fiery, eager strain— too strong for the Eng- 
 
8d 
 
 BUND FATE. 
 
 lishman within him to control or resist. Still, he was glad 
 that the handsony, attractive master of Netherleigh had 
 failed so signally to fascinate Dorothy— poor, dear, broken- 
 hearted little Dorothy. Dorothy deserved a different kind 
 of a mate from this grand, golden eagle. The gold for 
 her should be rather in the heart than in the pocket. 
 Then his thoughts turned to some of the many matters 
 which claimed nis attention, and, quickening his pace, he 
 soon reached his destination. 
 
 |ii:i',('''i'i, ■ 
 
 It was already dusk when Standish returned to the villa. 
 The burden of all that needed attention was upon him, and 
 he was eager to complete every arrangement, as the days for 
 which his chief had considerately spared him were slipping 
 away, and be ardently desired to see Dorotiiy and Callander 
 too removed from the scene of their cruel loss before he 
 himself left England. 
 
 Daylight, therefore, scarcely sufficed for all he had to do. 
 As he walked back from Eastport he thought over the ter- 
 rible event which had robbed Callander of his dearly be- 
 loved wife. How happy they had been together ! What a 
 simple, sinless life, full of kind thoughts for others, they 
 had led ! Then he looked back to a passage in his own 
 earlier days, when a beloved woman had been nearly all to 
 him that Mabel was to Callander, save that she ended by 
 marrying another. What would it have cost him had she 
 been wrenched from love and life as ruthlessly ? Could any 
 vengeance have satisfied him ? Yet poor Callander seemed 
 too unmanned by grief to be capable of seeking justice. 
 Weakened by illness, this blow had completely crushed 
 him. Then ^:he scenes of his own by-gone love story came 
 back to him freshly enough. Could he be the same being 
 who loved so passionately and suffered so acutely fifteen 
 or sixteen years ago '? Was it possible he had so complete- 
 ly outlived all the feelings of that remote period, which was 
 not so very remote after all ? Ah, it was a glorious time ! 
 but the awakening had been bitter enough. However, that 
 intense early fever had secured him a fair share of immxin- 
 ity ever since, and now, though almost middle-aged as re- 
 garded years, he felt absurdly young — perhaps dangerously 
 young. 
 
 " Beg your pardon, sir," said a voice at his elbow. The 
 speaker was a slight and rather d©lioat*-dookii% wah ot 
 
 » 
 
 t 
 
BLIND FATK 
 
 89 
 
 he was g;lacl 
 Brleigh had 
 iar, broken- 
 Eerent kind 
 le gold for 
 ;he pocket, 
 >ny matters 
 is pace, he 
 
 the villa, 
 n him, and 
 tie days for 
 re slipping- 
 . Callander 
 s before he 
 
 had to do. 
 'er the ter- 
 dearly be- 
 
 Whata 
 tiers, they 
 
 his own 
 krly all to 
 ended by 
 n had she 
 Jould any 
 tf beemed 
 
 justice. 
 
 crushed 
 ory came 
 nae being 
 'ly fifteen 
 X}mplete- 
 'hich was 
 >us time ! 
 ver, that 
 ' immxm- 
 d as re- 
 igerously 
 
 verj uncertain age, pale and freckled, with sandy hair ; 
 his quiet, almost sleepy, steel grey eyes were shaded by 
 reddish lashes, and brows of the same color overhung them 
 heavily. 
 
 He wore a very high, narrow hat, still glossy from its 
 silver-paper covering, whilst his clothes, also new, and of 
 superfine cloth, had a clumsy, solid, provincial look as to 
 cut and fit. He was clean-shaved, and his wide, rather 
 shapeless mouth had a soft smiling expression, suggestive 
 of innocence and credulity. 
 
 *♦ Can I speak with you a bit ? " He said " spake," but 
 as Irish matters, Irish members, Irish diamonds, Irish 
 properties generally are at a discount and out of fashion, 
 these slight Hibernian peculiarities of accent shall be left 
 to the imagination of the reader. 
 
 " Yes, by all means, Dillon. Come on with me to the 
 house. I have not had a minute to speak to you. What 
 have you been doing ? " 
 
 ** Not much, sir. I have been loitering about the old dock 
 inquiring if there is a decent public to be had at a fair 
 rent, and I have picked up a trifle or two not worth talking 
 about now — not, anyhow, till I can link them on to some- 
 thing more. The funeral's to be to-morrow ? " 
 
 " It is." 
 
 "After that, I can examine the room — every inch of it ? " 
 
 " Tou can." 
 
 " Then, Mr. Standish, sir, will you give strict orders that 
 no one is to touch it or clean it, inside or out, till I have it 
 to myself a whole day ? " 
 
 " Certainly, Dillon." 
 
 " I did make so bold as to talk to Mrs. McHugh, and she 
 promised that ne're a maid among them should lay a dust- 
 er, even on the outside of the door." 
 
 " You could not have chosen a better ally." 
 
 " She is a responsible sort of woman," said Dillon, re- 
 flectively, "and might be a help; but then, you see, the 
 ladies will talk, instead of letting people talk to them." 
 
 The two men walked on in silence. Then the detective 
 said :— 
 
 " The Colonel sent for me to-day, after you had gone out. 
 He asked me wliat steps I intended to take, and all to thar; 
 • — of course I couldn't tell him. I must make the steps be- 
 fore I take them. Then he ordered me to spare no expense, 
 and seemed too tired to speak any more. Ah ! lie's a broken 
 
90 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 m^. 
 
 m: 
 
 
 man, though I've seen widowers with one foot in the grave, 
 and despair in their hearts, rally and come round in a won- 
 derful way. This a bad case though; I never knew a worse. 
 It isn't like these burglarious fellows to murder; they know 
 it just sets every man's hand against them ; and with u 
 timid, real lady like this one, why, they might have gagged 
 her, tied her to the bed post, muffled up her head, or any 
 little thing like that, and made off with the booty; but to 
 stab her in her sleep (if she did sleep through the unfasten- 
 ing and opening of them blinds) ! There's something in it 
 that sets me a-thinking. I wish I could track the blood- 
 thirsty dogs ! — begging the dogs' pardon, I ought to say 
 wolves. But I'm afraid it won't be easy, they having been 
 away on the high seas before anyone found it out. Pray, 
 sir, who is the gentleman Mrs. McHugh tells me knew the 
 men whom she suspects — who talks their lingo ? " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Egerton. An intimate friend of poor Mrs. 
 Callander and her husband. He is frightfully cut up." 
 
 " Well, that's not to be wondered at. He might know 
 where these sailors come from. I'd like to have a word 
 with him and a look at him." 
 
 "Well, so you can. He will be at the funeral to-morrow." 
 
 "Thank you, sir. I am going to have a cup of tea with 
 Mrs. McHugh in the housekeeper's room, if you should want 
 to speak with me before I turn in for the night." 
 
 "All right," returned Standish, and he ascended the steps 
 of the entrance, while Dillon went round to the side door 
 before mentioned. 
 
 In the hall Dorothy awaited Standish. She was dressed 
 in the deepest black, which made her wan face look even 
 whiter than it really was. 
 
 " I saw you from the nursery window," she said, leaving 
 her hand in his. " Henrietta went out to Mrs. Callander's, 
 and I have been so awfully lonely. I get so terrified some- 
 times. It is weak and foolish. I m1^st resist this dread- 
 ful feeling." 
 
 " Yes, you must, my poor, dear little girl," saidStandish, 
 tenderly. *' You are trembling. You seem to be always 
 trembling." 
 
 " No, not always, but very often." 
 
 "Come into the drawing-room, and sit by the fire with 
 me, Dorothy. Tell me, how have you got through the day ?" 
 He drew a low chair to the tire for her, and, kneeling upon 
 the rug, put on some logs of wood. 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 91 
 
 )t in the grave, 
 
 ound in a won- 
 
 knew a worse. 
 
 der; they know 
 
 ; and with u 
 
 ht have gagged 
 
 head, or any 
 
 booty; but to 
 
 1 the unfasten- 
 
 omething in it 
 
 ick the blood. 
 
 ought to say 
 
 y having been 
 
 it out. Pray, 
 
 J me knew the 
 
 go?" 
 
 of poor Mrs. 
 y cut up." 
 3 might know 
 have a word 
 
 il to-morrow." 
 ip of tea with 
 u should want 
 t." 
 
 ided the steps 
 the side door 
 
 e was dressed 
 ice look even 
 
 said, leaving 
 . Callander's, 
 jrrified some- 
 t this dread- 
 aid Standish, 
 to be always 
 
 the fire with 
 gh the day?" 
 leeling upon 
 
 still kneeling beside 
 
 should 
 uncon- 
 
 ish 
 
 'St 
 
 •' I scarcely know. 1 havo been sevorai tiinos iv look at 
 her ! It comforts me to see her Icok so calm and l)oautif ul. 
 Paul, she could not have be3n hurt or frightened, or she 
 would not look like tkat." 
 
 " No, certainly not," he returned, 
 her chair. 
 
 " Death without fear or pa^ is not dreadful. I 
 
 not mind it! And after — Goals so good!" Half 
 
 sciously she stretched out her hand for Paul's, and clung 
 
 o it with both her own. ''Herbert spoke to me to-day," 
 
 e resumed. " He was walking to and fro in the dining- 
 oom, oh ! for hours, and when he passed me, he stopped 
 suddenly, and said, ' Poor child, poor child ! You have 
 been robbed of your best friend! But if I live, I will do 
 my best for you, and you — you'll be good to the babies for 
 her sake.' " Sh^ paused, and the sweet, sad mouth quiv- 
 ered. " I shall be better and stronger to-morrow. Oh, I 
 dread to-morrow !" 
 
 '' So do others. I have been talking to Egerton to-day, 
 and he " 
 
 " Is he coming too ?** cried Dorothy, starting up, and 
 grasping the mantel-shelf, the tension of her slender lingers 
 showing how closely she gripped it. " Oh, can you not pre- 
 vent him ? I want to be with my darling Mabel to the 
 very last! — but to have him, too, beside her, is more than I 
 could bear! Dear, dear Paul, do not let him come !" 
 
 " it is impossible to preveut it, Dorothy. But I do not 
 think you need fear his troubling you in any way." 
 
 " He ! he will trouble me no more! But 1 do not want 
 to see him." 
 
 " I will endeavor to keep hini out of your sight, my dear. 
 But by and by, when time has soothed your grief, you must 
 tell me the secret of your aversion to Egerton." 
 
 For an answer, Dorothy, relaxing her grasp of the mantel- 
 shelf, sank back in her chair, covering her face with her 
 hands, a shudder passing through her as though she had 
 touched some noxious thing. 
 
 " You have sorrow enough, my dear child, without let- 
 ting fancies afflict you," said Paul,possessinj4 himself again 
 of her hand. " Try and think of the little ones to whom 
 you can be so much." 
 
 Dorothy did not sjjeak tor a few minutes. Then she 
 asked in an altered voice — 
 
 " Who was that man walking by you?" 
 
92 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 m -.■ 
 
 ■Mi if'i' 
 
 1^:.;:' 
 
 \§ 
 
 " It was Dillon, the detective. If anyone can find a trail 
 and follow it like a sleuthhound, he is the man." 
 
 *» And what does he think i"' 
 
 "That it is a difficult case." 
 
 " Ah, yes, how difficult, he will never — never find out the 
 truth." 
 
 ' ' Have you any reason, any purpose in what you say," 
 Siandish was beginning? when Miss Oakley came in, and 
 the conversation turned on the children and their grand- 
 mother. *♦**♦* 
 
 The first act of this sad drama was closed next day by 
 the funeral of the fuir young victim. 
 
 It was loug since ^"'astpoit had such a sensation. Wreaths, 
 crosses, py • amids of flowers hid the coffin, everyone who 
 had an equipage and the slightest acquamtence with Col- 
 onel or Mrs. Callander sent their carriage to swell the long 
 procession. The bells tolled, and the streets through which 
 the cortege passed were crowded with onlookers. 
 
 It was a S'jf G grey day, as if Nature mourned tenderly 
 for the brief young life, so ruthlessly cut off for mere base 
 greed, in the midst of its bright morning. 
 
 The res tin -'.-place selected by Callander was the burying- 
 ground attached lo an old chapel on the hillside between 
 Fordsea and E-ookstone ; an ancient grey wall, breast-high, 
 and lichen grown, surrounded it ; great masses of gorse 
 breathed a perfume of their honey-sweet blossoms in spring 
 from the grassy slope above, while b«ioath spread out the 
 restless waters of the bay, with the towers and spires of 
 Eastport beside them. The fresh winds from sea and land 
 swept over it, and the blessed silence of the quiet country 
 seemed to keep all sounds hushed, lest they should trouble 
 the last sleep of those weary ones who found rest beneath 
 its grassy mounds. The spectators (and many had walked 
 or driven the dusty five miles from Fordsea) were greatly 
 moved by the scene, and deeply impressed by the dignified 
 self-control of Colonel Callander, by the deep despair of 
 his set face, as well as by the pallid grief of the friend who 
 stood beside him, whose unsteady step as he approached 
 the grave showed how hard was the struggle not to break 
 down. 
 
 Standish devoted himself to support Dorothy, but she 
 bore up better than he expected. 
 
 It was all over at last, and as Dorothy drove back, her 
 hand in Henri- tta Oakley's, she felt indeed alone— worse 
 
 M 
 
 ^■^ 
 
 
 ■/?* 
 

 can find a trail 
 
 lan. 
 
 >» 
 
 JiLlND FATE. 
 
 88 
 
 ihan alone— burdened with a secret conviction which for 
 pjtent reasons she must not speak, witli a bitter sense of 
 wrong for which she must seek no sympathy. 
 
 Jver find out the 
 
 what you aay,' 
 jy came in, and 
 md their grand- 
 ♦ * 
 
 led next day by 
 
 ation. Wreaths, 
 1, everyone who 
 ence with Col- 
 swell the long 
 through which 
 kers. 
 
 arned tenderly 
 for mere base 
 
 as the burying- 
 lillside between 
 ill, breast-high, 
 lasses of gorse 
 ssoms in spring 
 spread out the 
 8 and spires of 
 m sea and land 
 e quiet country 
 should trouble 
 tid rest beneath 
 ny had walked 
 i) were greatly 
 7 the dignified 
 3ep despair of 
 the friend who 
 he approached 
 :le not to break 
 
 othy, but she 
 
 rove back, her 
 i alone — wor.se 
 
 V 
 
 '»■- 
 
 ^.f 
 
 PART II. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DUST TO DUST. 
 
 Standish found the detective awaiting him on his return 
 from paying the last tribute of tender respect to the dead. 
 
 As soon as Colonel Callander, with a hastily expressed 
 desire to be left alone, had retired to his own room, the 
 two men, accompanied at Dillon's request by Mrs. M'Hugh, 
 began the examination which the former had been so 
 anxious to make. 
 
 " We have lost too much time," he said, in his peculiar 
 drawling nasal voice, with every here and. there strongly 
 Irish tones. " In cases of this kind, time is everything;. 
 It would have done the poor lady no har^i if I had rum- 
 maged about a bit while she lay there, she was past bein^ 
 disturbed." 
 
 " It would have been offensive to her sister, and to Colo- 
 nel Callander," returned Standish. 
 
 "And a day or two more or less don't matter," put in 
 Mrs. M'Hugh, " wlien tliem cruel devils have got clean off !" 
 
 " We are not sure yet who is guilty," said Dillon, 
 dryly, and walking to the window, looked intently at the 
 bank opposite. 
 
 " Come here," he said to Nurse. How was the window- 
 fastened when your mistress went to bed that niglit '?" 
 
 " It was Mary, thj housemaid, waited on her— not me," 
 
 " Call Mary." 
 
 Mrs. M'Hu^h went in search of her. 
 
 " The top of the bank is lower than this window," ob- 
 served Dillon, " and you see tne holes made by the ends of 
 the ladde- are a good bit lower still, the ladder sloped 
 enough „or a man to climb up easy." 
 
 •* I see that," returned Standish. 
 
 Here Mrs. M'Hugh returned with Mary looking very un- 
 comfortable. 
 
 ♦' Now, my girl, come along, tell me all you can remem- 
 ber about your mistress when you last saw her ?" 
 
 ■fi,t 
 
m 
 
 94 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 " Oh ! please sir, it puts me all in a tremble wheu I thinl; 
 
 of it." 
 
 " Never mind, tell me what time it was wnen tlie went 
 
 to bed?" 
 
 " It was close on eleven, sir, just after Mr. Egerton left, 
 1 had been shuttinjj; master's windows as look out to the 
 front, and t saw the light of Mr. Egerton's cigar when he 
 walked past." 
 
 " Which side did he pass?" 
 " Right, sir, by the Beach road!" 
 " Ha ! where did Mr. Egerton put up?" aaked I>illon. 
 " At the Beach Mansion Hotel," said Standish. 
 " Whereabout- is it?" 
 
 " At the end of Telford road, facing the sea." 
 " That's not to th e right ?" 
 
 " No, sir. I suppose he went for a turn while he smoked, 
 for when I went to put up the shutters to the side door (the 
 top part is glass), I saw the red of his cigar going down by 
 the sunk fence as if he were going round by the beach." 
 " Y(ju went to your mistress immediately after?" 
 ^' Yes! she rang the bell just as I was turning back from 
 the door." 
 
 " Did she seem the same as usual ?" 
 " Well, yes. 1 think she had been crying. Her eyes 
 looki^d like crying now and again, lately. She was weak- 
 like and poorly." 
 
 '• Do you know of anything to vex her ?" 
 "Bless you, no, sir. Everyone loved her, poor, dear lady 
 Everyone tried to please her, from the Colonel down," cried 
 the girl, tears coming to her eyes. 
 " Well, how did you leave her?" 
 
 " She had put on her dressing-gown, and said she would 
 not have her hair brushed, because she was tired. She told 
 me to light the night-light." 
 
 ' ' The night-light ? Where did you put it ? Could it be 
 seen from the outside?" 
 
 '' I don't know; I stood it here by the window," going 
 over to one which opened on the ea'^tside of the house. The 
 bed intervened between the place indicated and the window 
 by which the murderer had entered. 
 
 " If tiie light were visible from without, of course it 
 would have be.^n a guide. Put a similar light in the same 
 ))lace after dark and I will test it. Well, your mistress 
 
 told 
 
 yo\i ;...' li..,Ji! this wat(;h-liy:ht ?" 
 
BUND FATE. 
 
 95 
 
 le when I thinl; 
 
 when aha went 
 
 Ir. Bgerton left, 
 look out to the 
 oigar when he 
 
 isked Dillon, 
 idish. 
 
 sea." 
 
 rhile he smoked, 
 lie side door (the 
 p going down by 
 the beach." 
 |y after?" 
 rning back from 
 
 ying. Her eyes 
 She was weak- 
 
 poor, dear lady 
 nel down," cried 
 
 said she would 
 > tired. She told 
 
 it ? Could it be 
 
 window," going 
 I the house. The 
 and the window 
 
 it, of course it 
 ght in the same 
 , your mistress 
 
 " She says, 'Mary, I think I'll have a night-light, 1 feel 
 ■o Mervous and feverish,' says she, ' and open a bit of the 
 Tolets' (that's what she called those shutter-blinds), 'as 
 irell as the windows,' says she, ' I don't feel able to 
 IbMaihe.*" 
 
 •* And you opened them ?" 
 
 " I did. Tou see the middle piece folds back, and I set it 
 li tiny way open, fastening the bar across the inside. You 
 iae it goes right across. I'll show you " 
 
 " Stop !" cried Dillon, grasping her arm as she made a 
 atep towards the dressing-table ; " don't touch thai. Has 
 it been touched or stirred since the murder ?" 
 
 " No, not that I know of," said the girl, a little frighten- 
 ed by his vehemence. Mrs. M'Hugh kept the key of the 
 room ever since the coroner came,and would never let none 
 of us come next or nigh it." 
 
 " I did that, sir," added Mrs. M'Hugh, " for Mr. 
 Standish warned me you wanted to see the place as it 
 
 was." 
 
 " Bight, ma'am, Ah !" gping carefully to the side of the 
 dressing-tabla " There is not much room for a man to 
 eome in here without moving this? How came the outer 
 blinds open if this," touching the table, " has not been 
 moved." 
 
 "I made Collins open them from the outside," said 
 Nurse. 
 
 • Dillon then looked carefully at the carpet, the portion of 
 the painted flooring left uncovered, along the side of the 
 bed where the murderer must have stood ; he even stooped 
 down and felt all the edge of the carpet which lay beside 
 it. Standish saw that one of his hands was closed as he 
 rose up. 
 
 " Have you found anything ?" he asked. 
 
 Dillon shook his head. 
 
 '♦Only a pin," he said. "I always remember that he 
 who sees a pin, and lets it lay, may live to want a pin an- 
 other day." 
 
 " "Well, that's true," said Nurse, emphatically. 
 
 For some minutes Dillon continued to search under 
 wardrobe and chests of drawers, in corners, and all dim 
 nooks— every possible spot where the smallest article could 
 have been dropped or forgotten by the murderer or murderers. 
 
 " Now, my girl, I'll not keep you nor Mrs. M'Hugh any 
 longer; you've been ver> helpful, and I'm obliged to you." 
 
i'pl* 
 
 96 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 , m 
 
 " I'm 8ure your welcome," they said in chorus and i> 
 
 tired. 
 
 Dillon followed them to the door, and, moving it back 
 wards and forwards, ohserved : 
 
 " It goes easily and silently!" then, stepping over ti 
 threshold, he seemed Jjto look most intently on the otht 
 side, He stood in the opening so that Standish could no 
 
 pass. 
 
 "Ay," he said, "it has not heen touched. It's jus 
 thick with dust," and drawing out his pocket-handkerchiei 
 he rubbed it with some force ; finally, re-entering the room 
 he closed the door, and stood a moment, his thick eyebrow 
 almost meeting with a frown of intense thought. Then 
 looking up as if some gleam of light had come to him, he 
 walked again to the window, and, pulling the table aside 
 closed the outer shutters and put up the bar, leaving the 
 centre portion slightly open. 
 
 " Will you stay here, while I get the ladder and see if I 
 can enter without noise?" 
 
 Standish nodded. 
 
 He felt curiously affected by the exhaustive search Dillon 
 was making. He almost shuddered at the possibility of 
 his discovering some unexpected depths of horror greater 
 even than what was patent* 
 
 At last Standish heard the scraping of the ladder as Dil- 
 lon fixed it against the window-ledge. Next the shutter 
 opened softly, then the bar was lifted cautiously, and as 
 cautiously let down, but not without a certain amount of 
 noise. Dillon appeared at the window, and, stepping in, 
 came against the dressing-table. 
 
 '* There," he said, restoring it to its place, " 1 defy any- 
 one to unfasten that bar and let it down without making 
 enough noise to waken a light sleeper. Tlien the dressing- 
 table would be another source of disturbance. As to get- 
 ting up here on the ladder, it was perfectly easy, but I am 
 amazed to think the fellows left it there," 
 
 " They were so sure of getting awy-y early next morning. 
 I suppose they were reckless. Now, Mr. Dillon, what do 
 you think ?" 
 
 " Well, sir, I do not know what to think. It is quite 
 possible that a murderous thief might have got in that 
 way ; I wish to God the poor lady had had a bit of a noisy 
 pet terrier." 
 
chorus and i> 
 
 aoving it back 
 
 3ping over th 
 on the otlk 
 dish could no 
 
 ched. It's jus 
 it-handkerchiet 
 ering the room 
 thick eyebrow 
 hought. Then 
 some to him, he 
 the table aside 
 3ar, leaving the 
 
 der and see if I 
 
 i^e search Dillon 
 
 e possibility of 
 
 horror greater 
 
 e ladder as Dil- 
 ext the shutter 
 itiously, and as 
 •tain amount of 
 id, stepping in, 
 
 e, "1 defy any- 
 'ithout making 
 m the dressing- 
 ce. As to get- 
 easy, but I am 
 
 7 next morning. 
 Dillon, what do 
 
 k. It is quite 
 ve got in that 
 a bit of a noisy 
 
 BMWB FATS. Wl 
 
 " Ah, I understand. Well, it so happens there is no dog 
 about the premises. What do you propose to do next ?" 
 
 Dillon stood silent, in deep meditation. Then, looking 
 up straight into his interrogator's eyes, he said: 
 
 " I've a bit of a plan forming in my mind, sir, but I don't 
 ]Uke to talk about it yet. Will you trust me for a while, 
 
 d ask no questions ? Ay, and trust me with a goodish 
 it of money, for I may have to cross the Channel and dis- 
 
 ppear." 
 
 Yes, Dillon, I will." 
 
 Thank you sir. Might I speak to Miss Wynn — the 
 young lady as heard, or thought she heard, the bar fall?" 
 ; '' Of course — only I should like to be present." 
 I " Just as you like, Mr. Standish, but you must remember 
 ithat nobody ever speaks out so confidential before two as 
 before one, and I want to get her to speak out her thoughts 
 and impressions quite easy. To do this I just want to come 
 on her unawares, like — not to ask to see her formally. If 
 you are there, well and good, but I don't want to lose an 
 opportunity waiting for you." 
 
 " What is he at ?" thought Standish ; " ht does not wan 
 me, that is evident. " Oh, very well," he said aloud, " only 
 remember that Miss Wynn is in a terribly low nervous 
 state. Be careful not to sliock or startle her." 
 
 '' Bless your iieart, sir, do you think I never spoke to a 
 lady before "? When I got up all the evidence for the Hon. 
 Mrs. Handcock, she always " 
 
 •'It is a veiy different case," interrupted Standish, 
 sternly. 
 
 " That's true," returned the detective, relapsing into his 
 usual collected taciturity. He was seized with occasional 
 outbreaks of talk, but, the least check restored his self- 
 mastery. Loquacity was his natural tendency, but the 
 strong necessities of his profession taught him that silence 
 was golden. 
 
 " Have you studied the room sufficiently, or would you 
 wish it to be kept still untouched ?" asked Standish. 
 
 "I have learned all it can tell. I have quite done 
 with it." 
 
 '' Then come with me to my hotel. Miss Wynn has gone 
 to see the children, and I hope Miss Oaivl^y will keep her 
 all night. This terrible affair has been too much for her 
 strength." 
 
 " That is likely enough. They walked on a few paces 
 a 
 
98 
 
 BLIND FATB. 
 
 after they had seen Mrs. McHugh and given her the kfg of 
 
 the room. 
 
 At length Dillon said : " I have found the tavern those 
 foreign fellows used to frequent. It's a rough place. The 
 landlord has been a seafaring man, and looks up to cutting 
 a throat himself. He was, of course, full of the murder 
 and the suspicions against these men. He said their looks 
 was the worst of them, that they paid their way and spent 
 a goodish bit. They were all together— at least most of 
 them— the night before they sailed, at the Jolly Tar ; but 
 one, a tall fellow, very dark and glum, went away about 
 midnight, saying he had had enou h, A man they called 
 Guiseppe followed to keep him out of mischief, he said, but 
 they both went on board their ship, for another of the 
 crew came in soon after and said he had left them there." 
 
 ' ' That rather confirms our suspicion. Did this landlord 
 know what port the ship was bound for?" 
 
 " He was not sure. They spoke of Nantes and Bordeaux; 
 but I am not done w i«h him yet. I noed not trouble you 
 any further, sir. When do you think of leaving ?" 
 
 ^' In about a week." 
 
 " I am not sure how long I shall be here myself. But I 
 have your address in Town. Are you content to leave the 
 matter in my hands, Mr. Standish '?" 
 
 " After the proofs of ability and dexterity you have given, 
 I cannot hesitate to trust, but do not keep me in the dark 
 longer than you can help." 
 
 " I will not, sir." 
 
 '* Would you wish me to hold back the announcement of 
 the reward from the various consuls to whom we propose 
 to se^d them '?" 
 
 " No, by no means. It may save a deal of trouble. Good 
 
 eveni|ig, sir." 
 
 • ♦ ♦ * * * « 
 
 When Dorothy and the faithful Henrietta returned from 
 the funeral they drove to the hotel where the poor little 
 motherless children were staying, under their grandmother's 
 charge. 
 
 So long as her sister's inanimate form was in the house, 
 Dorothy could not bear to leave. But now she was deso- 
 lately free, and she pined to see little Dolly's face, to hear 
 the boy's joyous laugh. She longed, too, that the broken- 
 hearted father should be soothed, and won back to life by 
 their helplessness, their loving claims, their tender associa- 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 00 
 
 bis landlord 
 
 )uble. Good 
 
 tioQS with the past. Terribly shaken and unnerved as she 
 was, the salt of consideration for others kept her mind 
 sound and healthy. 
 
 She would nevertheless, uladly have avoided Mrs. Cal- 
 lander. Her unvarying harshness to Mabel was not to be 
 forgiven, and in her own mind Dorothy prayed that her 
 brother-in-law would not give his children into her care. 
 It would only be natural that he did, but it would cut her 
 off from her only chance of consolation and comfort in 
 acting a mother's part to her sister's children. 
 
 The hard old woman received Dorothy with unusual cor- 
 diality, and the poor little orphans with cries of delight, 
 but they wrung her heart by their demands to be taken 
 back to " dear mammy." 
 
 "With many a tear she tried to explain to them that 
 mother had been taken away by the angels to a beautifivl 
 place in Heaven, where, if they were good, they should go 
 too, and other soothing fairy tales. 
 
 When at last they were taken away by their maid, Mrs. 
 Callander began to talk of her own deep grievances. 
 
 I suppose my poor, unhappy son is not yet quite him- 
 self ?" she said, in a high complaining key. ' ' His mind 
 cannot be in a sound state, or he would not refuse so per- 
 sistently to see his mother. I must say it is an rnneces- 
 sary aggravation of this terrible affliction. Has he said 
 anything to you about it, Dorothy?" 
 
 " No, Mrs. Callander. He rarely speaks to me. He says 
 more to Henrietta." 
 
 ' ' Indeed !" returned Mrs. Callander, with a faint tinge 
 of complacency. "Well," she continued, "I shall make 
 another attempt to see him to-morrow, for I suppose he 
 will leave this dreadful place as soon as he can." 
 
 '• I know very little, but Paul Standish told me that Mr. 
 Egerton was going with him somewhere." 
 
 " Tiiat is or will bo the act of a true friend," said Mrs. 
 Callander, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. " I am 
 quite willing to keep the poor dear children with me for 
 the present." 
 
 Dorothy's lips quivered but she did not speak. 
 
 " Oh, aunty! they will be quite too much for you !" cried 
 xMiss Oakley. " I shall take ctre of them, and of Dorothy, 
 if she will let me." 
 
 " Very well, my dear," returned Mrs. Callander with un- 
 wanted complaisance. In truth, across the gloom and thick 
 

 'if. 
 
 § 
 
 I ml' 
 
 I ;',« 
 
 100 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 darknoRS of the last weok came the consoling idea that 
 after all, Henrietta, that poarlof great price, might replace 
 poor, paltry, insignificant Mabel, to the dowager's infinite 
 satisfaction, 
 
 " Yon liad better stay with me to-night, Dorothy," con- 
 tinued Miss Oakley. Tt would be well to be out of that 
 (In-adful iiouse." 
 
 " Thank you, dear Henrietta; but I do not like to leavp| 
 Herbert (juite alone. He might ask for me and find him- 
 self deserted, I am sure she would not like me to leave him, 
 and yon- you will stay with me?" 
 
 " Oh, of course! It is odd that Herbert cannot make u|j| 
 his mind to see Mr. Standish," said Miss Oakley. 
 
 " Can you wonder," retorted Mrs. Callander, quickly, 
 " when he declines to see his own mother?" 
 
 After some further conversation, Dorothy returned to 
 The Knoll, leaving Miss Oakley, who promised to follow 
 soon, still closeted with her aunt. 
 
 It was in truth a real comfort to be with Mrs. McHugh. 
 There was a degree of strength as well as tenderness in the 
 good old woman's nature that seemed to support the young 
 mourner in her hour of need more than anything else, al- \ 
 ways excepting Paul Standish. 
 
 Even to him siie could not breath the horrible suspicions 
 which ate into her soul, 
 
 The moment when she stood paralysed in the pretty 
 bright drawing-room, and heard Egerton's voice as he 
 avowed his mad passion to his sister unchecked, was per- 
 petually present to her, and the question always demanding 
 an answer was, " DidEgerton strike the fatal blow ?" Mabel, 
 who knew him best, was unmistakably afjaid of him — ab- 
 jectly afraid. He had never taken any notice of the appeal 
 she said she had written to him a few days before. Had 
 he fulfilled his own confession that he would rather crush 
 out her life than see her living happily with her husband ! 
 and she would have turned to her husband, all would have 
 been well had her sweet life been spared. 
 
 The daring outrage showed -to Dorothy's mind such 
 knowledge of the house, and the ways of the inhabitants, 
 that she marvelled no one perceived the improbability of 
 its being committed by a total stranger. Yet had not her 
 suspicion been roused by Egerton's own words, would she 
 not have believed wi'h the rest that it was a pure vulgar 
 robbery aggravated by murder V How ardently she wished 
 
BUNDFATB 
 
 101 
 
 she had never overheard that revolting confession ! It 
 seemed to have withered the youth in her heart. This vile 
 secret must weigh upon her for ever ! For her own dear 
 weak sister's sake she must never reveal it — she must 
 never bring the hated Egerton to justice. It would be 
 treachery to Mabel to revenge her death at the cost of her 
 reputation, of her husband's belief in her, of the fair fame 
 of the children's mother ! 
 
 But oh ! some day — when she was strong enough neither 
 to weep nor faint, when she had force enough to concen- 
 trate her passion of hatred and contempt for him in deadly, 
 scornful composure — she would meet Egerton face to face, 
 and hand him the letter she had never yet had the oppor- 
 tunity of giving him. She would tell him she knew he was 
 the murderer, that the consideration for his victim alone 
 kept her from crying aioud for justice, which, to her, meant 
 vengeance. 
 
 Sometimes she thought, Could he have bribed his wild 
 countryman to do the deed ? There was a strong associa- 
 tion in her mind between that fierce-looking sailor and the 
 soft-mannered, high-bred gentleman, the favorite of so- 
 ciety, the idol of manoeuvring mammas. Would he not be 
 more likely to employ the hand of another than to strike 
 witli his own the creature he professed to love so ardently, 
 ill her sweet, defenceless sleep ? 
 
 And she must never relieve her heart of this cruel load, 
 tUis mixture of rage and shame! 
 
 Thanks to the tender care of Standish, to the persistency 
 
 v'ith which Egerton had kept in the background, she did 
 
 not see him at the funeral, but the knowledge that he was 
 
 t here turned her grief to a fiery, galling,tumultuous agony, 
 
 •'Iraost too maddening to bear. 
 
 The conflict going on in her young heart seemed to have 
 ' xtinguished the dawning passion which had begun to de- 
 velop itself in her heart for Standish, the delicate conscious- 
 ness tliafc made her shrink from his rare brotherly caress, 
 his kindly familiarity. Now, shattered- aching in every 
 fibre of her being with poignant grief and bitter knowledge, 
 hftreft of her life's dear companion, alone without any near 
 (ie--she was once more the helpless child, always ready to 
 rty to shelter to his arms, her only moments of relief were 
 those spent beside him, her hand clasped in his. 
 
 When she reached the house of mourning, into which the 
 
 ■)i 
 
 ight, happy home of a week ago had been metamorphos- 
 
^t^ 
 
 m 
 
 If 'I' 
 
 i.f.r" ■ 
 
 1(1 1;;' 
 
 
 1'^::^' 
 
 
 102 
 
 BLIND FATK 
 
 ed, Mrs. McHugh met her with the words, ** The master 
 
 has b^du asking for you, Miss Dorothy." 
 
 " Indeed! I will go to him at once !" and, without remov- 
 ing her bonnet and heavy veil, she opened the dining room 
 door, saying : " You wished to speak to me, Herbert?" 
 
 He was lying back in a large arm-chair, his eyes fixed 
 on the fire which had burned low, beside him were writing 
 materials which he had been using, for some of the paper 
 was covered with straggling characters wery unlike his 
 ordinary clear, firm hand. 
 
 He turned his head and looked vaguely at her. " No,' 
 he said in a low, hesitating tone, " I did not want you, but 
 as you are here, I will speak to you. I am going away, you 
 know. This place drives me mad ! You and Henrietta can 
 do what you choose, and take care of the children ; you 
 must keep them, if i die." 
 
 " Do not speak oi dying, dear Herbert, think of those 
 dear little ones who have no ono now but you ? You must 
 live Cor them ! 1 am not old enough or wise enough to 
 bring them up without your help. Your boy will need a 
 father's guidance ! I Know how you must feel, but for her 
 sake——" 
 
 She stopped to regain her self-control. 
 
 " You must know that I am — that I cannot be of use to 
 any one. I am sore stricken ! My head burns when i try 
 to think — but I will try to do my duty — I have always 
 tried according to my light ! Perhaps 1 may find relief 
 in movement ! I am going to London to-morrow — I shall 
 see my lawyers — you know them. I tried to write, but I 
 could not say what I wanted. Then they and Henrietta 
 and you will manage for the best." 
 
 ** When do you go, Herbert ?" she asked, awed by his 
 strange, haggard look, 
 
 " To-morrow !" 
 
 " And will you not see your mother ? She feels deeply 
 for you, she will feel terribly hurt " 
 
 " No, I will not see her ? Hereafter, if I return ** He 
 
 paused, and then muttered something which Dorothy could 
 not mfke out. 
 
 ♦' You will not go alone, Herbert ?" 
 
 He laughed. It made her flesh creep to hear him laugh. 
 
 ♦♦ Your guardian is inclined to take care of me too. Eger- 
 ton is to be sent with me ; but they need not fear, I have 
 some work to do before 1 can afford to rer'" " 
 
BUND FATE. 
 
 103 
 
 **Tliema8tei 
 
 without remov- 
 le dining room 
 Herbert?" 
 his eyes fixed 
 I were writing 
 e of the paper 
 )ry unlike his 
 
 it her. " No/ 
 want you, but 
 
 ing away, you 
 Henrietta can 
 children; you 
 
 ihink of those 
 1 ? You must 
 se enough to 
 >y will need a 
 el, but for her 
 
 ot be of use to 
 ;ns when i try 
 have always 
 ay find relief 
 rrow— I shall 
 write, but I 
 knd Henrietta 
 
 awed by his 
 
 le feels deeply 
 
 turn ** He 
 
 frothy oould 
 
 fcr him laugh, 
 me too. Eger- 
 ' fear, I have 
 
 ' " But you will not go without seeing the children ? They 
 are asking for you to-day, and they are so sweet !" 
 
 " Do you want to drive me mad ?" he cried, fiercely, anft 
 starting up began to pace the room. 
 
 " Do not try me too much, Dorothy ! Poor little Dorothy! 
 — how foud she was of you! That is why it makes my 
 heart ache to see you ! so go away now. I will write to 
 you when I can, but go now ! I can bear to speak to Hen- 
 rietta better." 
 
 Dorothy took his hand in both hers, pressing it tenderly. 
 ' * God help you, Grod bless you," she murmured, and wen*^. 
 noiselessly away, to weep more gently and pitifully than 
 she had yet done. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 <i 
 
 n 
 
 ON THE TRAIL. 
 
 Luke Dillon was a rare specimen of his race, a money - 
 loving Irishman. As a woman is the most incurable of 
 drunkards, so an Irish Celt, whose nature is so perverted 
 as to think of to-morrow and develop a greed for gold, is 
 the most abandoned miser. There is no limit to his pas- 
 sion for accumulating. Scotchmen and Englishmen can be 
 reasonably stingy (save in a few cases of almost diseased 
 minds), and to a love of money unite some regard for re- 
 putation, some recognition that too avert "doing" of their 
 fellow-creatures, defeats their object and diminishes their 
 gains. But a miserly Irishman is often too much blinded 
 Dy an intense desire to grasp every possible penny to see 
 his own real interests clearly. 
 
 It was a flaw in a very shrewd, far-seeing intellect, but 
 as yet indulgence had not developed it to that degree of 
 intensity which dulls perception in other directions. A 
 few tastes still remained to Dillon not quite dwarfed by 
 the master passion, among them a certain pleasure in his 
 own keenness and such creature comforts as good food and 
 drink. 
 
 The circumstances of Mrs. Callander's death exercised 
 him a good deal. 
 
 He would have been rather disgusted to think that his 
 ta^k offered no gr»nter difficulty than tracing a coinuic u 
 seaman, a meie vulgar thief. For his own credid suk.' 
 
!' 
 
 mm 
 
 104 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 lie hoped and expected to find a far deeper, subtler motivr 
 below the apparent simplicity of the crime. 
 
 As to the guarantee of spotless character and blameless 
 life against the possibilities of hidden shame, and cruel 
 revenge, he gave no heed to such feather weights. No in- 
 iquity was too great for the weakness of human nature, 
 according to his philosophy. Nor was any human being 
 proof against the force of temptation properly applied; 
 the difference between the purest and noblest woman and 
 the most degraded of her sex was a mere matter of accident 
 — of her surroundings. 
 
 If he could find the sailor, the supposed murderer, and 
 prove him guilty, well and good, he would get a thousand 
 pounds. If he could find a more highly-placed assassin, 
 so much the better — he should unearth some disgraceful 
 secret which it would be of the last importance to conceal, 
 even at the price of immunity to the murderer. This 
 would mean a heavy bribe to insure his own silence. Two 
 thousand instead of one — ay more — with the possibility 
 of retaining fees for many a year to come. With this idea 
 Dillon applied all the force of his keen and, in some ways, 
 imaginative mind, first to invent probabilities and then to 
 seek proof of them, for he had often discovered very un- 
 expected truth while following the scent of a false theory. 
 Given a beautiful young woman, separated by many a 
 league of land and sea from a husband considerably older 
 than herseli, what more likely than a lover ? And, given 
 a lover, the amount of guilt and cruelty, deceit and treach- 
 ery, depended on the strength of passion, the di£&culties 
 and provocations of the position. "There must be a con- 
 fidante somewhere," mused the detective, as he strolled 
 along the common the day after the funeral. **I wish I 
 could find her — if it is a 'her' — I wish I coukl get a word 
 with that Mr. Egerton. He is a good-looking chap, a 
 snufE-the-moon sort of fellow, thinks no 'small potatoes' 
 of himself. I could see that in spite of his grief -Grad, he 
 looked as if he had lost everyone belonging to him ; when 
 I saw him get into the carriage yesterday morning he could 
 hardly stand— yet he has a determined face, sort of boss, 
 that could do pretty well what he liked with a woman. 
 I must have a talk with the young sister. If she knows 
 anything I'll get it out of her. It seems this Egerton was 
 her sweetheart. Who was the other's ?" 
 At this point in his meditations Dillon 
 
 came upon a 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 106 
 
 gentleman who was walking slowly along the beach, and 
 had crossed from the water's edge as if to mount some 
 steps that led to the low embankment. 
 
 Dillon recognised E;erton, and waited till^he was near. 
 
 "Beg your parcion, sir," he said, deferentially touching 
 his hat, "I want a word or two with you." 
 
 *'Who are you?" asked Egerton, haughtily. 
 
 "My name is Dillon, and I am in the employment of Mr. 
 Standish at present." 
 
 "Ah ! the detective," with a tinge of contempt in his 
 tone. "Are you sent from Scotland Yard ?" 
 
 "No, sir, 1 am not in any service except that of the 
 person who engages me temporarily. I am free to do as 
 my employer directs ; to press on to full discovery or to 
 hold my hand " 
 
 "What do you want with me ?" 
 I'd make bold to ask you a question or two, if I may, 
 
 ( t 
 
 »> 
 
 sir. 
 
 "Go on, we can walk while I speak. What is it ?" 
 
 "They tell me you spoke to th se men, the sailors who 
 are suspecud ot tlie murder. Now, I'd like to know what 
 your opinion is." 
 
 "I have none. They may have done it, but there are 
 base scoundrels of every nation who'd stab their mothers 
 for gold and jewels." 
 
 "Maybe so, but not their sweethearts, sir." 
 
 "What do you mean?" cried Egerton, his eyes lighting 
 up angrily, while a deep flush passed over his face, so 
 deadly white before. "Do you think this tragedy a fit 
 subject for vulgar jests?" 
 
 "God forbid, sir," gravely. "But you see rough men 
 like mo are not accustomed to touch things gingerly as 
 gentlefclks do. You see it's rather hard to hunt up men 
 that may be innocent, and waste a lot of time and money 
 into the bargain, without looking round a bit for any other 
 possible party." 
 
 " I think it is all wasted time," said Egerton, passionate- 
 ly. " We'll never catch the real murderer, though I'd givo 
 all 1 possess to stand by and see him die inch by inch under 
 the grasp of a torturer ; but I don't want you, or any like 
 you, to handle and dissect the simple details of a life like 
 
 There" stopping himself, " I am tolerably sure some 
 
 blood-thirsty thief stole in and silenced her forever, sonic- 
 wretch who will assuredly meet his punishment soonei- <.' 
 
'■'i;. 
 
 106 BLIND FATE. 
 
 later, who is perhaps . That i all I think about it. If 
 
 you want money to prosecute your search come to me— 
 there, tako that aud let me go, ] don't want to talk to you 
 again." He took out his purse and put five or six sov- 
 ereigns in Dillon's ready hand, then with a gesture of in- 
 finite abhorence turned from him and walked rapidly in 
 the direction of the pier. 
 
 ' ' Oh, I'm too dirty to be touched am I ? " muttered the 
 detective, lookiiifj, after him with an unpleasant grin. "All 
 the fitter to take the ' filthy lucre.' Drawing a small 
 leather bag from his pocket, he put the sovereigns into it; 
 cureiuUy twisting the string round it he placed the bag in 
 his breast pocket, and, quickening his pace, directed his 
 steps to The Knoll. 
 
 " There is something wrong with you, my fine gentle- 
 man," he mused. " A man's not always so wild with grief 
 about ills friend's wife, unless — he's not the sort of man 
 tiiough to stick a knife in a woman — unless he was riled to 
 that extent. Faith, jealousy and revenge have brought 
 fiaer gentlemen than you into ugly places. Che must have 
 been a regular beauty. Now let's see what's to be done 
 with the other one ? " 
 
 The upper hou-eniaid was the first Dillon saw on open- 
 ing the side door, lie rarely used the chief entrance. 
 
 "Is Mr. Standish in?" 
 
 " I don't knov/, sir. He was here about an hour ago, but 
 I've not been upstairs since. Maybe he's in the drawing- 
 room. Sliall I go and see, sir?" 
 
 The servants were rather in awe of Dillon. They credited 
 him with tlie power to turn them 'inside out' as cook expressed 
 it, and clap them into prison if he doubled their truthful- 
 ness ; moreover, they hoped and believed that his unerring 
 skill could not fail to track the murderer and bring him to 
 justice as they devoutly wished. 
 
 " No, thank you, Mary, my dear, I'll just go and look 
 myself. Where is Mr. Collins?" 
 
 " He's gone out to do some errands. He and the Colonel 
 go to tovv'n to-night." 
 
 ''Ay, be is better out of this," and Dillon went deliber- 
 ately towards the hall. 
 
 Dorothy iiad forced herself to sit down stairs in the 
 drawing room tliat morning to answer some of the many 
 letters wuicli had poured in upon her since the dreadful 
 Uouth of hor sister had been described by every newspaper 
 
I about it. If 
 come to me— 
 to talk to you 
 
 or six sov- 
 gesture of in- 
 Kl rapidly in 
 
 muttered the 
 int grin, "All 
 ^ing a small 
 3igus into it ; 
 ed the bag iu 
 
 directed his 
 
 ' fine gentle. 
 Id with grief 
 sort of man 
 
 was riled to 
 ave brought 
 le must have 
 
 to be done 
 
 *w on open- 
 Etnce. 
 
 our ago, but 
 w drawing- 
 
 'hey credited 
 ok expressed 
 ir truthful- 
 is unerring 
 ring him to 
 
 > and look 
 
 the Colonel 
 
 3nt deliber- 
 
 tirs in the 
 
 the many 
 
 B dreadful 
 
 newspaper 
 
 BLIND FATE 
 
 107 
 
 in Biifland and some abroad — chiefly hoping to exchange a 
 few words with Standish as he came and went. 
 
 It seemed that long years had passed since she had writ- 
 ten letters in that room last ; was it not hideously soon to- 
 be clothed and in her right mind, and able to resume any- 
 thing like her ordinary ways. Was life to go on just the 
 same without Mabel ! How was Herbert to bear existence 
 unless he could shake off something of the awful, silent 
 grief which oppressed him? ""ie was hardly master of 
 himself. Then when Standish went away, how appalling 
 her loneliness would be! 
 
 As she thought this with her elbow on the table, her 
 cheek on her hand, a voice, a strange voice, said : 
 
 ♦' Oh ! I beg your pardon. Miss." 
 
 She started, and, turning, recognised Dillon. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss," he repeated. ** I thought 
 Mr. Standish was here." 
 
 " He was here half-an-hour ago, and will return soon," 
 she sa'd, rising and looking earnestly at him ; something 
 in him repelled her, yet she had a curious wish to speak to 
 him. 
 
 " Thank you. Miss, I only wanted to ask him a question 
 or two, and maybe you could answer them as well." 
 
 "And they are ? " said Dorothy. 
 
 ♦•Just this"— he paused to invent them, "How soon 
 does Mr. Standish leave— leave England 1 mean ? " 
 
 " I am not quite sure — in a week or ten day**-" 
 
 "Ah I then I have the information I hope \ et in that 
 tima I should like to have his address there— where is he 
 going ? " 
 
 " He will be sure to give it to you ! and Mr. Dillon, do 
 you hope to get any clue ? " 
 
 " Well, miss, I may and may not. There are many 
 points to be considered. It's all very well to offer rewards 
 and himt up those foreign chaps, but it's just possible 
 others may have a hand in it. Things look black enough, 
 
 I grant, against those men, still " he Stopped and looked 
 
 down, as if considering deeply. 
 
 " Still, in what other way can you possibly account for 
 the horrible crime ?" asked Dorothy. 
 
 " As to accounting for it— why, that's not to be thought 
 of yet. Then, you see, there's a heap of crimes done from 
 spite and jealousy and revenge, besides the desire to grab 
 booty." 
 
106 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 " There could be no such motives in this case," returned 
 Dorothy, trying? to speak calmly, while her heart beat with 
 most painful violence at the corroboration of her own hor- 
 rible suspicions. " Who could be jealous of or wish to 
 hurt my sister, who only lived among her own family and 
 iiad no intimacies outside them 'i^ 
 
 '« Well, 1 suppose that's true, but you know, miss, 1 am a 
 stranger, and don't know nothin^i of how you and she lived. 
 Sometimes good, kind ladies manage lo offend spiteful 
 people, who don't stop at triiles ; if you could remember 
 now that she scorned anyone, or turned her back on anyone, 
 it might be a help, and, of coarse, you would like to bring 
 the villain to justice !" He kept his small, searching eyes 
 fixed on her while he spoke, noting how the swift blood 
 mounted almost to her brow, and then left her paler than 
 before ; how her eyes avoided his, and seemed to shrink 
 together. 
 
 " We have lived with true, kind friends, with faithful 
 servants, and I could think of nothing that could suggest 
 the evil thoughts or purposes you hint at." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure it's good to hear you say so. The world's 
 a cruel, bad place, and I have known queer things in it. 
 Now, a beautiful lady, if she's as good as an angel, can't 
 help bad people coming near her. Then, you know, the 
 better she is and the prouder she is, the more she's likely 
 to rouse the devil in some " 
 
 " How dare you suggest such fearful possibilities ?" in- 
 terrupted Dorothy, hardly able to retrain from screaming 
 aloud with terror. " You are thinking of wicked, uncivil- 
 ised people, not of English gentlemen and ladies ; these 
 vile motives do not exist here, and — and you ought not to 
 speak of them to anyone ! Don't you see what frightful 
 conclusions they point to ? What a cruel construction the 
 world we live in would put upon them. "You must not 
 speak in this way to anyone !" 
 
 " Trust me," he returned, with a hideously confidential 
 air— while he thought, ' ' She knows more than she chooses 
 to tell ; there's a tile off the roof here, somehow." " I have 
 kept many a curious story quiet before this I" he said 
 aloud. " If you t^st me, miss, and jusJi tell me every little 
 trifle, such as. of course, you wouldn't Speak out before a 
 low, vulgar policeman, who has neither discretion nor de- 
 licacy, I'll lay my hand on the miscreant, or," with strong 
 emphasis, " the real miscreant's tool." 
 
liLlAD FATE. 
 
 109 
 
 Dorothy was overwhelmed. How was it that this stranger, 
 this common man, had evolved STinpioions so like her own? 
 What clue had he gained ? How did he dare — her head 
 swam. She dreaded to think what inculpatory morsel of 
 writing either to or from Egerton might have fallen into 
 his hands — papers, notes, letters were so easily mislaid, so 
 dreadfully dangerous. She made a gallant effort to pull 
 herself together, for she felt he was trying to read her 
 thoughts with his sly, mean eyes. 
 
 »* I am so unnerved," she said, with sudden composure, 
 " that everything frightens me. Of course a man of your 
 experience must know much that seems impossible to me. 
 I can but hope your skill will bring the real felon to justice. 
 T'^ me, of course, it is clear that robbery and the fear of 
 detection were the only motives for the crime that has 
 robbed us of one so dear." A sob choked her words, 
 
 Dillon stood respectfully silent. 
 
 " It was only foolish nervousness that made me speak as 
 I did," she continued. '' I am sure you know best what to 
 say as well as to do, and my dear sister's life was so simple 
 so kinaly, so innocent, that I have no fear whatever of any 
 construction being put upon it. You need not think of my 
 foolish words." 
 
 " She's a plucky one," thought the detective, while he 
 said aloud, •' No, of course not, miss ; but I'll be careful, 
 all the same, and you may be sure I'll do my best to find 
 out the real truth." He suddenly raised his eyes as he ut- 
 tered the last words. Dorothy could not resist a shiver ; 
 there was, to her ear, a threat in his tone. " Now,' he re- 
 sumed — when to Dorothy's delight the door opened to admit 
 Standish, who cama in quickly, saying — 
 
 " You here, Dillon ?" 
 
 He stopped beside Dorothy. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I just came in, thinking you were here, and 
 was about to ask her a question or two about that bar " 
 
 He stopped, looking at Dorothy, who made no reply. 
 
 " Well, ask them," returned Standish, somewhat im- 
 patiently. " Miss Wynn looks very much exhausted. The 
 sooner we can leave her to rest, the better." While he 
 spoke, Dorothy, as if unconsciously, slipped her arm through 
 his, and drew close to him, so that he felt the beating of 
 her heart, the tremor that occasionally ran through her 
 slight frame. 
 
1' 
 
 j 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 I'/ 
 
 110 
 
 HLIND FATE. 
 
 '' Ail ri«ht, sir. On the ni^'lit of the 20th September, 
 tiien you woke np with a sound iiiie metal falling ?" 
 
 "Something woke me. I was dreaming, and am not 
 sure wiietlier my dream did not suggest the i.oise." 
 
 •' Or tlie noiae might have suggested tliu dream, missV 
 Well, it was a bold ruffian that dared to con^e in at that 
 window, not knowing but tliat lie'd find the Uolonel there, 
 with a revolver under his pillow." 
 
 »' It is extraordinary," said Standish, " but probably the 
 fellow did not know it was a bedroom." He felt Dorothy 
 cling closer to him as he spoke. 
 
 " Ay, that might be! and the light in the room might 
 have attracted him (I had it lit last evening, and it can be 
 been faintly outside). Well, miss, did the noise frighten 
 
 you?" 
 
 "It startled me ; but everything was so quiet after that 
 1 thought it could only be the impression of my dream." 
 
 " You haven't any idea of what o'clock it was ?" 
 
 " Not the least. If I had only gone down stairs " 
 
 She stopped with a sob. 
 
 " You would have been murdered too, very likely.' 
 
 " This is enough," said Standish, sternly. "Miss Wynn 
 has ' old all this before. You are distressing her unneces- 
 sarly» I do not see your drift. Go into the next room and 
 wait for me. I am quite willing to be cross-examined." 
 
 "Very well, sir ; I am sorry I disturbed the young lady." 
 With an abrupt bow and a satisfied smile he left the room, 
 thinking, " She couid tell a good bit if she chose. She was 
 in a proper fright when I hinted at jealousy. I suspect I 
 sailed pretty close to the wind. She does not want his 
 high mightiness there to know what I was driving at. She 
 spoke up pretty quick when I began about the bar. I fancy 
 I have a fine job in liand. She is an uncommonly pretty 
 piece of goods. I would not mind her cuddling me up as 
 she does that guardian. But, Lord! a big bag of sovs. is 
 worth all that moonshine." 
 
 Meantime Standish, looking kindly into Dorothy's eyes, 
 exclaimed, " I was afraid that fellow's questions would 
 only open your wounds. I wanted to be with you when he 
 came. You are looking so pale and worn, Dorothy. I must 
 get you away from this." 
 
 Doroihy withdrew her arm from his and sat down, be- 
 ginning to put her papers and letters together. 
 '' I shall be pleased, too. The sight of this rooBU, of every- 
 
MJKDFATK 
 
 m 
 
 tkiii|{, tke rec<^ection of our happy days it insai^sort- 
 aUe.** 
 
 "I have hoen consulting with Miss Oakley. Mrs. Call- 
 ander wants you all to go to her house in London — at 
 least, till you can get settled in an abode of your own. 
 Miss Oakley proposes to take a house and reside with you, 
 for the winter, at least. What do you think of this? She 
 is kind and human." 
 
 " I should like to be with Henrietta, but not with Mrs. 
 Callander. You must save me from Mrs. Callander, Paul." 
 
 " I will as far as I can, my dear child. Do you know, 
 she has just gone in to pay her son an unexpected visit ?" 
 
 "Indeed!" cried Dorothy, dismayed. "I am sorry — it 
 will irritate him, and he may woimd her. His dislike to 
 the idea of seeing her almost alarms me. It is so unnat- 
 ural, it is so unlike him when he is himself." 
 
 '* I imagine that her unfriendly feeling to hig sweet wife 
 was a source of annoyance to him, and now she is gone 
 he resents it as he never would have done during her life 
 time." 
 
 Dorothy bent her head but did not reply. 
 
 "Then I have your permission to arrange so far your win- 
 ter abode, at least with Miss Oakley ?" 
 
 "Yes, dear Paul. Shall you be long away ?" 
 
 " As short a time as I can manage — a month, perhaps. 
 Indeed I must come back to look after you and the child- 
 ren, for poor Callander seems to shrink from me — from us 
 all. He told Egerton he would leave a power of attorney 
 with his solictors, and would lodge money for current ex- 
 penses in their hands, as he wanted to stay a long time 
 abroad. He will, no doubt, return sooner than he expects. 
 The first cruel keenness of his grief blunted, he will long to 
 see his poor children." 
 
 Here a sound of voices and "teps outside attracted their 
 attention. The door was partly open and Dorothy heard 
 Mrs. Callander's voice saying very distinctly, "No; I shall 
 leave at once. It is insupportable." 
 
 Dorothy looked interrogatively at Standish. 
 
 "I would not go if I were you,'' he said, answering the 
 glance. " She can come in here if she likes." In another 
 minute the noise as of a carriage driving away was heard, 
 and at the same time Miss Oakley came in looking rather 
 .cared. 
 
 "Isn't it unfortunate?'' she said, throwing herself into a. 
 
112 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 chair. " He would not allow her to stay or even to sit 
 down." 
 
 '' Who ? Jifibert ?" asked Dorothy. 
 
 "Yes. When lus mother went in (quite against my ad- 
 vice) he stood up looking perfectly awful, and said, "I did 
 not ask you to come hert.' " 
 
 " I know that!" she returned, quite subdued, "but I 
 could not keep away, 1 longed to see you, my dear son — to 
 see " 
 
 ' ' I may see you hereafter," he said in such a strange 
 choked sort of voice. " But here, while all is fresh, I will 
 not. You were the one enemy she had on earth. You only 
 distrusted and disliked her, you made her shrink from you 
 and 1 will neither see, nor speak with you, till God has 
 given me grace to forgive." 
 
 "Poor Herbert," continued Miss Oakley, weeping and 
 w.ping her eyes; "he was always a religious man. I was 
 sorry for my aunt, too, poor old tiling, I wanted her to come 
 in here and sit down, but no, she was too hurt and offended ; 
 she has gone back, and! really think 1 must go after her." 
 
 "Do, dear Henrietta. She was cross and disagreeable, 
 but this is a terrible punishment — to be rejected by her own, 
 own son ! " 
 
 " Yes, and Mr. Egerton was with me this morning, and 
 says Herbert does not wish the children to be with her. 
 We must try and smooth him down." 
 
 " It is a relief to me that Egorton is going with Callander. 
 This dreadful blow seems almost more than his brain can 
 stand. Still, he was always just and reasonable, Change 
 of scene will no doubt restore his balance, and his extra- 
 ordinary antipathies will fade away," said Standibh, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " I wish, I do wish you were going with Herbert," said 
 Dorothy, wringing her hands in her earnestness. There was 
 a tone of anguish in her voice that struck Standish. 
 
 "My dear Dorothy," ne said, .seriously, --you have 
 always been a sensible girl, you must not let yourself brood 
 over imaginary trouble now, when you have so terrible a 
 grief to contend with ; you will fritter away your strength, 
 which has been sorely ti-ied. Egerton is an excellent com- 
 panion for Callandei-. 1 do not understand your piejudice 
 against him." 
 
 "Nor 1," added Miss Oakley. "I am sure he has been 
 like a brother to Herbert, only a great deal more brotherly 
 
BLIND PATE. 
 
 113 
 
 sit 
 
 ad- 
 did 
 
 >j 
 
 than a brother. Now, I must go to my aunt ;" and Hen- 
 rietta, who, though truly sympathetic, was in a way ex- 
 hilarated by having so much to do — real work, too — went 
 quickly away. 
 
 " I cannot bear to leave you, my dear girl," said Stan- 
 dish, leaning on the back of Dorothy's chair. *' I fear the 
 effect of all this on your health. Come, you must be 
 brave for all our sakes. You must be a mother to those 
 poor litile children, and you must not distract me, for if I 
 leave you in this hopelessly nervous state I shall have no 
 heart for my work, and you know my future depends on my 
 work and how I do it. If I am haunted by a picture of 
 Dorothy, encourao;ing imaginary terrors till she is hyster- 
 ical and useless, I shall be restless and miserable about 
 you." 
 
 "Ah, Paul, you do not understand," cried Dorothy. She 
 was, indeed, sorely tried. Paul's approbation was infinite- 
 ly precious to her, yet she knew how well founded were her 
 apprehensions, though she could not bring herself to betray 
 her dead sister's weakness to this high-minded gentleman — 
 not now, later, perhaps — and then she would show him 
 the letter of entreaty and remonstrance which poor Mabel 
 had left in her hands. Besides, God only knows what line 
 of conduct Standish might consider it his duty to pursue, 
 perhaps to trace home the crime to Egerton and punish 
 him,however cruel che exposure of the shameful episode she 
 was so an xious to hide. It was all like an exaggerated 
 story in a "penuy dreadful." Oh, at any cost, she would 
 preserve her sister's name and memory from the degrading 
 notoriety of a criminal investigation. 
 
 It was a tremendous ordeal for ?o young a creature, but 
 she nerved herself to meet i'. At present it must be her 
 task to divert suspicion rom Egerton. As it was, that 
 terrible, formidable detective was on the real scent — she 
 would do nothing to help him. These thoughts flashed 
 quickly through her brain ; then, trying to speak calmly, 
 she went on — 
 
 '*Imust seem weak and silly to you, but I will prove 
 that I am not. You shall tiud me not unworthy of youi- 
 goodness and friendship. 1 will try to be strong." 
 
 She rose and walked over to the window, through which 
 the fatal words had come to strike with deadly knowledge 
 
114 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 iiifr . 
 ¥'■'■ 
 
 the serenity of her youthful innocence. Then she returned, 
 and placed her hand on her guardian's shoulder. 
 
 " You shall see what a good girl I will be ; you know, I 
 always kept my promises to you long ago." 
 
 " Yes, Dorothy, I know your heart is in the right place. 
 Write to me often ; tell me everything, and when I come 
 back I shall find time, youth, and beneficient nature doing 
 their healing work. Life is too precious to be expended on 
 grief, though yours is a heart that will not soon forget. 
 Now, my sweet little ward, will you not say good-bye to 
 Egerton before he starts '? He asked if you would not see 
 i u. He deserves so much consideration from you." 
 
 As he spoke, he felt Dorothy's fingers close tightly on his 
 shoulder. She did not answer immediately ; then, speak- 
 ing in low tone, she said — 
 
 "I know it is, perhaps, unkind, but will you explain to 
 Mr. Egerton how painful it would be to us both to mt '^t ? 
 When the first bitterness is past I will see him — yes, and I 
 will speak to him then. I will always try to do what you 
 wish me, Paul." 
 
 *' Thank you; you are a capital girl," said Standish, 
 taking her hands in both his own. '' I will not ask you to 
 tax your strength too much. Gro and find Mrs. McHugh 
 and bring her to me. I want to know when she can pack 
 up and start for town, The sooner you are out of this the 
 better. I should like to escort you and Henrietta Oakley 
 back to town, and help you to find an abode. Mrs. McHugh 
 can bring the children after. There is no reason why we 
 should not go the day after to-morrow." 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 MRS. CALLANDER REBUFFED. 
 
 Mrs. Callander was deeply wounded and humilated by 
 her son's refusal to hold any communication with her. 
 
 To her such conduct savored of insanity. She could 
 not see anything in the past to justify such an insult to 
 so admirable and devoted a parent as she had been. She 
 had only warned Herbert, from motives of the highest 
 prudence and principle, to pat some restriction on the too 
 intimate intercourse between his wife and that Mr. SUn- 
 dish, of whose trustworthness she was doubtful, and 
 whose views were those ol a mere worldling, carel^ of 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 115 
 
 all religion, as the Rev. Mi. triimore observed. She (Mrs. 
 Callander) had only done her duty in speaking plainly on 
 the subject ; and to think that it had rankled in her son's 
 heart! That this unfortunate wife should be a source of 
 disunion even in her premature grave! 
 
 Her first care was that no one should suspect the es- 
 trangement. For this object, under the advice of her clerical 
 counsellor, she resolved to winter abroad, somewhere on 
 the Riviera, where it might be supposed Colonel Callander 
 would join her. 
 
 She spoke frankly to Henrietta Oakley, but to no one 
 else. The sympathetic feeling for Dorothy, for her grand- 
 children, which seemed to soften and humanise her at first, 
 hardened into her usual imperious coldness. Why should 
 she distress herself about her sister and children of a 
 woman wiio had so turned her son against her that the 
 desperate grief of the mourning widower refused consol- 
 ation from his own mother ? 
 
 Miss Oakley found her aunt surrounded by her com- 
 panion, her maid, and her right-hand man, who always 
 travelled with her, and filled the double office of butler and 
 courier. Miss Boothby was administering "sal volatile," 
 while Mrs. Callander was issuing her orders. 
 
 "You had better lose no time, Harris,'' she was saying 
 as her niece entered, "You may miss your train, and I 
 wish everything to be ready for my arrival about seven to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Are you going, then, aunt ?" cried Henrietta. 
 
 "I am. There is nothing to keep me here. Go, Miss 
 Boothby, go, Mitchell ; you can be packing and arranging 
 with hotel people. There is plenty to do." 
 
 "I am so sorry," said her niece ; "but, indeed, aunt, you 
 ought not to mind poor Herbert. He is changed towards 
 every one. He will hardly notice Dorothy, or " 
 
 "I thank you for putting me on a level with his pert, 
 empty-headed chit of a sister-in-law ?" said Mrs. Callander 
 in deep wrath. "Considering all 1 have done, all I have 
 endured, for Herbert, 1 think I deserve different treatment. 
 I forgave his most unpardonable marriage, and bore with 
 his infatuation. I even hoped to influence that poor un- 
 fortunate young woman for good, and 1 should have done 
 so, for since Mr. Egerton somewhat corrected the over- 
 weening presence of the guardian (^a nice kind of guardian), 
 Mabel was much more ready to be my companion. But 1 
 
116 
 
 hUSD FATE. 
 
 kii'jw the marriage would end badly, and yo\i see it has." 
 
 "But, auntie, you don't mean to n&y that this horrid 
 murder was the just and liaiuial punishment of what 
 you consider an irnxn-uuent marriage f " exclaimed Miss 
 Oakley. 
 
 "I am not going to measure my words to please you, 
 Herrietta,'' said Mrs. Caiiander. •'! iiOpe that no sub- 
 tleties on the part o, Miss Dorothy Wynn will turn you 
 against one who ha.s been your uest friend. I am always 
 
 willing to be on affiiCtionaty terms with you, but "' Siie 
 
 paused and presaed her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 ••You and Miss Wynn had better mnke what arrange- 
 ments you can about the children. Of course, my son 
 would not wisli them to remain with such a mounter as he 
 fancies his own mother to be, and i have a good deal to do 
 — letters to write — I will not, therefore, detain you." 
 
 '•Good gracious, aunt! Do you intend to turn me out?" 
 
 "1 repeat that I am engaged," returned Mrs. Callander, 
 stiffly. 
 
 "1 declare it is all too iieart-breaking," cried Henrietta, 
 Ijursting into tears. "I am sure you will not be so angry 
 when you come to think." 
 
 "1 will try to act like a Ciiristian w^oman, but you mast 
 remember 1 iiave a good deal in my power," .said Mrs. 
 Callander, coldly. At this threatening speech poor Hen- 
 rietta was at her wit's ends, and thinking of nothing better 
 than to kiss her aunt rather violently, thereby disarranging 
 her cap, and leaving the room aln-uptly, returned to the 
 Knoll hoping to be in time to catch Staudish. 
 
 She arrived in time to see Colonel Callander set out with 
 his faithful follower, Collins. As Dorothy excused herself 
 from the pain of seeing Egerton. the travellers were to 
 meet at the station. 
 
 Callander bid both Henrietta and his sister-in-law fare- 
 well with more composure tiian they expected. He thanked 
 them briefly for their kindne.'ss, and prom.sed to write 
 from time to time. 
 
 When he was gone, the two weeping womv3n took counsol 
 
 with Slandish, Henrietta des<;ribiiig the dowager's un- 
 friendly aspect. It was then decided thai Dorothy should 
 take up her abode with the cliildien, as su^jn as Mrs. Cal- 
 lander had left the hotel, while Miss Oakley went up to 
 town, and, with the help of Staudish, should dnd a suitable 
 house for the winter, as Henrietta Oakley's la.st original 
 
BLi.NJj f AlE U7 
 
 idea was to dtivote herself to " that dear Dorothy and 
 those sweet, motherless pets!" To'Standish she was quite 
 confidential, and remarked, with her usual amiable candor, 
 " Of course, London is the best place for us. If Herbert 
 comes back, he will, of course, comt- to London, and if I 
 want a little change, I can easily go to and fro. Then Mr. 
 Egerton, after the first wretchedness of this terrible affair 
 is past, will probably renew his attentions to Dorothy, who 
 had much better marry him ; and London is the best place 
 for a trousseau." 
 
 " You are looking very far ahead," returned Standish 
 almost amused at her practical view of things, in spite of 
 her sincere sorrow. 
 
 " It does not strike me that Egerton has much chance. 
 Dorothy never liked him much, and now this cruel grief 
 seems to have turned her in some inexplicable manner 
 against him." 
 
 " How very foolish and unrea-^onable." 
 
 "Yes.it seems so. Where are vou going to put up, 
 Miss Oakley ?" 
 
 ^' Oh, in Dover street, for I shall not ask Aunt Callander 
 for hospitality, I assure you. I do want to get settled be- 
 fore you leave, Mr. Standi-h. I do not know what wesluJl 
 
 do without j'ou." 
 
 * ****** 
 
 Ready money is the true Aladdin's Lamp. Before its 
 potent touch, mountains remove themselves, and difficulties 
 melt away. 
 
 In two days Miss Oakley had found a suitable furnished 
 house large enough for her needs, and somewhat old-fash- 
 ioned, in a street leading from Kensington Gore, near 
 enough to Kensington Gardens to ensure the children air 
 and exercise, and sufficiently removed from the noise of the 
 main roadway to be quiet. 
 
 All this movement was absolute enjoyment to Henrietta. 
 She fancied >!ie was developin. a first-rate business faculty. 
 and con-tantiy called on btandish to admire her skill in 
 arranging this, that or the other. Then she svould remem- 
 ber that sne was forgetting her grief, and treat him to an 
 outburst of surrow- 
 
 But Standish was a keen observer, and saw that her 
 little affecrations were uiL-re surface assumptions, but thai, 
 honestv was deep-rooted in lier somewhat whimsical nature. 
 
 Miss'Uakley was solacing her.seif with a cup of tea after 
 
118 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 a long day's shopping and transacting various business 
 connected with the house she had taken, when Standish, 
 who had been with her in the forenoon, was ushered into 
 her sitting-room. 
 
 " What has happened ?" was her question as soon as she 
 looked in his face. 
 
 " Callander has given them the slip. He is off by him- 
 self to Paris. I found a note from his man of business at 
 my rooms when I returned after leaving you at the house 
 agent's this morning, and, on :,^oing there,|heard that he 
 had started this morninii;, leaving very distinct directions 
 respecting money matters, letters, etc. He had spent many 
 hours with them the day before yesterday. He had a short 
 codicil put to his will, and regulated some affairs. Among 
 other things he directed that in what concerned Dorothy I 
 was to be consulted. Dobson, the head of the firm, quite 
 laughed at the idea of his not being able to take care of 
 himself. He said that, though terribly crushed and de- 
 pressed, he never saw a man in a more thoroughly sane con- 
 dition. Calland .r left an address in Paris, and will write 
 from thence. >ie sent off old Collins to Fordsea. Dorothy 
 will be horribly frightened when he arrives." 
 " And Mr. Egerton, what does he say ?" 
 *' Egerton seems in a bad way. I r^ent round to see him, 
 and found him veiy queer. Callander sent him a note say- 
 ing that he wanted no companionship. Egerton could 
 not, I think, have accompanied him. His man, a German, 
 says he caught a severe chill, at any rate he is in a high 
 fever, and more in want of control than poor Callander." 
 
 " How very dreadful !" cried Miss Oakley. " That poor 
 Mr. Egerton has really too much feeling. One would not 
 have expected it from him. Who is with him ? He ought 
 to have some one to take care of him." 
 
 " He has resolved to go into a hospital— into a private 
 room, of course. He says he will be guarded there against 
 prying relatives. He lias no very near relations, but he 
 seems nervously anxioas to be shielded from them." 
 
 " How very strange ! Surely he has bome old house- 
 keeper, some faithful old nurse, who could come to him." 
 " Probably, but not in London ; he has no town house, 
 you know." 
 
 " It is all so dreadful. Nothing but misfortune seems 
 to follow us. I am quite frightened at the idea of Herbert 
 ^•oing off alone." 
 
 i 
 
 hi 
 
 as 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 119 
 
 " I am not sure after all that it may not be better for 
 him to depend on himself, to be away from all who are 
 associated with this terrible tragedy." 
 
 " I will get away as early as 1 can to-morrow, for I am 
 sure poor dear Dorothy will be dreadfully distress ^d when 
 Collins returns." 
 
 This was not, however, the effect produced on Dorothy's 
 mind by the sudden appearence of Callander's old servant ; 
 she was supremely thankful that, anyhow, Egerton was 
 prevented fron accompanying her brother-in-law. 
 
 With her suspicions, it seemed too painful an anomaly 
 
 that Egerton should be selected as the consoling friend of 
 
 the bereaved husband. 
 
 * ♦ « 4c « ♦ ♦ 
 
 It was with a sense of relief that Dorothy at last found 
 herself back in London, away from the scene of death and 
 horror that had stamped itself so indelibly in her imagin- 
 ation. 
 
 The neighborhood selected by Miss Oakley was new to 
 her, as the house occupied by her sister duringthe previous 
 winter was at the other side of the park, near the ponder- 
 ous mansion of the dowager, in one of the Tyburnian 
 squares. 
 
 How strange, how heart-breaking it seemed, this settling- 
 down to life again without Mabel. The children, too, had 
 almost ceased to ask for "mammie;" this saved some pangs 
 yet how cruel it was that the sweet mother should be for- 
 gotten. 
 
 "When they are older I will talk to them about her - 
 and help to keep her memory green," thought Dorothy. 
 
 Miss Oakley was occupied with her new attempts at 
 housekeeping, and took much counsel with Mrs. McHa'^h. 
 She was also profoundly concerned about Egerton. 
 
 She called or sent every day to inquire at the hospital 
 where he had insisted on being taken. His illness was ac- 
 vereand prolonged, for a week there was little hope, and 
 Miss Oakley more than once reproached Dorothy with her 
 indifference to the clanger of a man who had loved her and 
 ■^hown even greater sympathy in the family sorrow than 
 Standish. 
 
 " 1 don't think you care a straw about whether he live- 
 '.. dies," she concluded one day, about a week after Paul 
 had gone to Berlin. 
 
120 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 #- 
 w 
 
 "I am not indifferent. Henrietta," saidDorothy, in a low, 
 r.n'.mulous voice. ''God only knows all I feel,*' and she 
 hastily left the room, to commune with her own heart. 
 
 " Does she really care for him?" thought Miss Oakley, 
 looking after her in some surprise. "Is she concealing her 
 liking for some absurd romantic reason? If he recovers 
 and she loses him for a mere whim, how bitterly sorry 
 she will' be by-aud-by." 
 
 Dorothy was indeed deeply moved by the judgment 
 which seemed hanging over Egerton. Profoundly as she 
 dreaded and liated him. it was too painful to think of his 
 being hurried into erfirni'v vviLli this terrible unrepeuted 
 guilt upon his soul, if he had a soul! For how could any 
 remnant of the divine— the immortal — linger in a man 
 whose conscience would permit hira drst to use his psychic 
 force, his powers of attraction, to draw a simple guileless 
 creature like Mabel from the husband she really loved, and 
 then, failing in his diabolical treachery, to destroy the life 
 he could not pervert. Every particular of Egerton's con- 
 duct since her sister's cruel death pointed to his guilt. 
 Even the detective, without the key she held to the mys- 
 tery, had gathered enough information to suggest the idea 
 of jealousy as a motive, and havin^^ gained so much he 
 would surely come to the true conclusion. Yes ; for all 
 their sakes, especially for Mabel's sake, it would be better 
 that Egerton died. Yet she dared not wish it. She under- 
 stood why he insisted on «;oing into a liospital to benursed 
 by strangers! He feared betraying himself in the ravings 
 of delirium. What might he not say ? To what extent 
 might he not implicate Mabel? 
 
 Haunted by these tormentin'^ thoughts, Dorothy's soft, 
 dark-grey eyes grew feverishly restless for want of sleep, 
 her hands were dry and burning. Noticing these indica- 
 tions of mental distress. Miss Oakley changed her mind 
 and decided tliat far from bein^- liearrlessly indifferent to 
 Egerton, Dorothy was dyinii; of anxiety about him; she 
 therefore brought the daily report of him with much ina- 
 pressment to her young friend, and often tunded the con- 
 versation on him, his delightful qualities, his large fortime 
 hia good looks, his position, &c., till Dorothy was alnaost 
 compelled to cry aloud for mercy, while Miss Oakley set 
 her down as a silly sentimental ' .t quite ridict^uB with ber 
 unreasonable prick 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 121 
 
 A few days after Paul Standish had left for Berlin, Dor- 
 othy' was busy writing to him (it was the on ; occupation 
 which gave her pleasure), when a card was brought to 
 her — 
 
 ' ' Mr. L. Dillon," below which was written in pencil, 
 " Portland Hotel." 
 
 '' Show him in," said Dorothy, with an odd sensation of 
 sickness. 
 
 "I thought you had left England," she said, when he had 
 made his bow and stood silent before her. 
 
 " I found one or two little things to detain me," he re- 
 turned in a humbly polite tone, his eyes fixed on the ground 
 "and I made so bold as to call before starting for Paris." 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ?" asked Dorothy, civilly. 
 She felt such a coward before this man who might hold in 
 his hand the issue:; of life or death. 
 
 " Not much, miss. I only thought I'd make sure of Mr. 
 Standish before 1 went. Is he still in the same place?" 
 showing her his Berlin address in his note book. ■'! may 
 have to pass through, and I'd like to call if he is still 
 there." 
 
 '■ Yes, as long as he is in Berlin he will be in that hotel ; 
 but what can possibly take you to Berlin ? What can you 
 find there '?" 
 
 " Not much of your affair, miss, but I am working in 
 another matter with it, so I hope to make one thing help 
 the other." 
 
 " Is there, then, a connecting link between crime and 
 crime, however wide apart ?" asked Dorothy, sadly. 
 
 " I don't know for that, miss, but it is right down cur- 
 ious how often lookin^ for one thing you light on another. 
 I was sorry to hear Mr. Egerton was so bad," he went on, 
 with a change of tone, " he must be a real tender-hearted 
 gentleman." 
 
 " He is," said Dorothy, with a degree of steadiness that 
 surprised herself. " I suppose being upset and distressed, 
 the chill he got took greater effect on him." 
 
 ♦» Oh, it was a chill, was it ? Well, they did not say so 
 when I called at the hospital to inquire." 
 
 " Did you see him ?" asked Dorothy, quickly. 
 
 " No— no ; they would not let me see him, though he is 
 a trifle better this morning. I suppose, with all the care 
 he has, he will recover ?" 
 
 ^* It is hard to say." 
 
122 
 
 BUND FATE. 
 
 If^^i 
 
 " Weil, I will not troub.e you, miss, any longer, aa you 
 think Mr. Standish won't go anywhere else till he come> 
 back, and wiicn rnay that ho V" 
 
 '• In a fortnight or three weeks." 
 
 *' Then I'll wish you good-morning — but stay — maybe 
 you'd tell rne if you ever saw anything like this before ?'* 
 
 He took from his pocket a very small parcel in brown 
 [taper ; within was sornetning foldeu in silver-paper, and 
 when that was op»'ned, the detective placed upon the palm 
 of his hand a fiH;/niynt of chase I silver ; it was like half a 
 .scallop hhtjll, very- thin and blackish, and in the centre was 
 part of the hole, through which it had been rivetted to 
 something. 
 
 Dorothy looked at it intently ; she had a dim recollection 
 of having seen sou^ething like it somewhere. It was cer- 
 tainly not strange to her, but she would not give this 
 dreadful man a clue. 
 
 " No." she said, steadily ; " I have never seen it before. 
 Where did you find it V" 
 
 " Well, miss ; for the present you must excuse my 
 answering that que«tion. It mayn't be of any value ; if 
 you had rwognised it, why, it might have been a link. It's 
 foreign workmanship, this, hut I don't know exactly where 
 it comes from. It might be the ornament of a dagger ; a 
 thing they stick on the scabbard to make it look pretty." 
 
 " Pretty !" echoed Dorothy, with a shudder ; and then, 
 looking straight at him, she said, quietly, " I really know 
 nothing about it." 
 
 " Then you can say nothing. Sorry I troubled you, miss." 
 
 " Do not apologise. Of course I am anxious to give you 
 what help I can," said Dorothy, civilly. 
 
 " Are you now ?" he returned. Suddenly uplifting his 
 oyes, he sent a glance of such intense searching inquiry into 
 hers, that she felt as if a shaft of strongest light had 
 pierced into the innermost recesses of her heart, and re- 
 vealed all her miserable doubts and suspicions, and terror, 
 lest her darling sister's weak tampering with evil, and its 
 terrible outcome of crime and death, should be dragged 
 forth before the pitiless gaze of the law and all lookers-on. 
 With a degree of strength that surprised herself, she 
 answered, calmly : 
 
 •' Can you doubt it ?" 
 
 " Well, uo J i suppose not," he said, with some deliber- 
 
liLlND FATK. 
 
 ';23 
 
 at ion, as he folded up the morsel of silver, and put it carti- 
 fullj' in his large note-book. 
 
 " I hope Mrs. McHugh and the children are well, miss ? 
 Beautiful little creatures ; it's enough to make even a hard- 
 ened man like myself ready to break his heart to look at 
 ihera." 
 
 •• Thank you ; the children are quite well. Mrs. McHugh 
 is a good deal shaken, as, indeed, we all are" 
 
 '• Small blame to ye," said Dillon, heartily, and he took 
 his hat from the chair where he had placed it. '• You may 
 trust me, miss. I'll not leave a stone unturned, not one ! 
 to Mnd the villain — the real villain, I mean — that took the 
 dear lady's life." 
 
 Another long, sea ching look, and he left the loom. 
 
 Tlit're was more of threat than assurance in his tone, 
 Dorothy thought, as she sat down again to her writ.ng- 
 table. Resting her elbows on it, she covered her face with 
 her hands, and thought— thought with all her mind viiere 
 she had seen that morsel of silver ornament before. 
 
 It must have been some time ago since she had seen it. 
 Was it among a variety of daggers, pistols, yataghans, 
 arms of various kinds and countries, that E.'erton had 
 shown them — one happy afternoon she had gone with Mnbel 
 and Standish to tea at Egerton's chambers iu the Aibriny ? 
 Yes ; it must have been there she had seen som'^ curious 
 daggers with ornaments on their scabbard- both in brass 
 and silver ; was it there she had seen someri^iing like the 
 fragment presented by Dillon ? She hoped, pa.^sionately 
 hoped she had said nothing, admitted norliintc, that men 
 could twist into evidence against Ei^erton. Had Ej^erton 
 been her nearest and dearest, sue could not more ardently 
 have desired to shield him. 
 
 Why was this man Dillon going away abroad when 
 Egerton, whom he evidently suspected, was in Loudon, 
 and likely to remain there? Prouabiy other business 
 called him away, and he wished to mix up matters, hO that 
 ne might appear to be occupied about thnjCaih-nder ':ragedy 
 as Weil as others. Would the day ever coine wh.-n she 
 could look back with a simple, tender grief, unmixed with 
 terror lest the shameful secret, known only to herself, 
 shotild leak out. 
 
 After thinking in profound stillness for many minutes 
 she pulled herself together, and taking her pen added som»i 
 lines to her letter : — 
 
w:-' 
 
 p« 
 
 '■ i ■ 
 
 124 
 
 BJ IND FATK 
 
 i ■ 
 
 I i' ' 
 
 
 "I have just had a visit from Dillon, the detective. He 
 wanted to know if 3'ou would stay in Berlin all the time 
 you were away. He thinks he may be going there. I 
 cannot say how much I dislike and distrust this man. I 
 wish this sad affair were in other hands, but you know 
 best. Henrietta tells me that Mr. E^erton is a shade 
 better to-day. We liave not had a line from Paris since 
 Herbert went there. I must say I am horribly uneasy 
 about him. The children are very well, poor little dears. 
 When are you coming back? I feel unutterably lonely 
 when you are way, though H(3urietta is kinder than 1 
 can say — quite wonderfully good. I daresay this is a 
 stupid letter, but I am very miserable, and misery is 
 selfish.— Always your afieotionate ward, 
 
 "Dorothy Wynn. 
 
 "P.S. — Do take care of Dillon. 1 somehow feel sure 
 that if any one offered him money enough he would, and' 
 perhaps could, prove you or me or any one guilty." 
 
 This signed, sealed, and posted, Dorothy felt a little more 
 at ease, and responded favorably to Henrietta's request 
 that she should come out and drive. 
 
 "So you have had that clever detective here to-day?" 
 said Miss Oakley, as they crossed the park intending to 
 inquire ftr the dowager Mrs. Callander. "I wish I had 
 seen him. They say he is extraordinary — can absolutely 
 read your thoughts." 
 
 "1 wish I could read his," returned Dorothy. "He is 
 quite inscrutable." 
 
 "For my own part I do not believe that one man is so 
 much cleverer than others," said Miss Oakley. "Why 
 should he be so ? I fancy it all depends on the circulation 
 of the blood." 
 
 Mrs. Callander was at home, and graciously pleased to 
 admit her niece and Dorothy. She was in a state of pre- 
 paration for an early .start next day, and was very, very 
 cold, collected, and taciturn. 
 
 She did not ask if Dorothy or Henrietta had any news 
 of her son, which showed that he had not communicated 
 with her. 
 
 She said she was going to Nice, and hoped later to be 
 joiuftd by the Rev. Thomas Gilmore, whose overtaxed 
 frame and mind needed rest and relaxation. 
 
 "It is in moments of mental anguish one can appre. 
 
BLIND FATE 
 
 126 
 
 ciate the good counsels of a truly Christian friend," she 
 added, with that indescribable •'l-am-better-than-you'* 
 tone peculiar to the exclusively relij^ious world. 
 
 '*I can only wish you both knew where to look for peace 
 and comfort," was her concluding sentence, spoken severely, 
 with a stern look at both her visitors. 
 
 "I am sure, aunty, I am not a bad sort of a young 
 woman," returned Miss Oakley, with something of her 
 former flippancy (of late her speech had been more soft 
 and low), "and as to comfort, can't I read my Bible as 
 well as you ?" 
 
 "Is that a becoming answer to a woman so sorely tried 
 as I am?" returned Mrs. Callander, with dignity. 
 
 "No, it is not," cried her niece, penitently. "I am so 
 stupid and hasty." 
 
 "Try and rule your tongue, Henrietta ! Dorothy Wynn, 
 I trust you will prove worthy the ciiarge my son preferred 
 •ntrusting to you rather than to me. Do not let any 
 youthful volatility divert you from the duty you owe to 
 your sister's motherless children. 
 
 "Ah ! Mrs. Callander, do you think I can ever feel young 
 again ?" 
 
 "I do not know you well enough to judge." 
 
 After bidding them an icy farewell, Mrs. Callander dis- 
 missed her visitors, who were very glad to return home. 
 
 Here they found a letter awaiting them from Colonel 
 Callander. It was brief, but clear, and fairly well written. 
 
 He was leaving Paris next day, he said ; though late in 
 the season he thought of travelling in Norway and Sweden. 
 They should hear from him again, and lie would send an 
 address where letters might reach him. He hoped to have 
 good news of the children, he desired his love to Dorothy. 
 He had nothing to report of himself. He was the same 
 as when they parted, and would be always. 
 
 The letter was addressed to Miss Oakley, 
 Dorothy wept over it. There was an echo 
 in it infinitely touching. 
 
 Both she and 
 of desolation 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ANOTHER STRAND IN THE ROPE. 
 
 Egerton did not succumb to tiie fever which brought him 
 near to the gate of death. He paused before its fatal thres- 
 hold, and slowly, certainly, remounted the ascending steps 
 
126 
 
 BLI^D FATE. 
 
 to light and life. His German valet wept tears of deligl)te<l 
 surprise when the dccLor declared he had taken an unex- 
 j»ected turn for tho better. 
 
 '' The Eiij^lish must have ♦"rp.nries and brains of iroji," 1m>. 
 said, "afier sucli wild raving, such mad self-accusauons, 
 such pliysicai sufferinji, such desperate remedies— to re- 
 cover both health and sense, it was bej^ond belief! His 
 master liad been a little off his head before he left Fordsea," 
 he told liie 'lootor who was most closely in attendance. 
 
 " The day before we came away," added the valet, " my 
 master went out in an open sailing-boat, alone, it came on 
 to blow witii sudden heavy showers, and he was drenched 
 thiough. T;ien, instci d of coming in and changing his wet 
 clothes, he walked away -a long way somewhere. He took 
 a chill tben, for he was feverish ever after. The doctor 
 must warn the Heir bis master to be prudent, no health or 
 strength could withstand another such illness." 
 
 The man was really attached to Egerton, who was by no 
 means bad to serve. Masterful and impatient, he was 
 generous and kindly to his dependents ; obey him and you 
 were sure of consideration; moreover he had the true in- 
 stinct of a gentleman, which made him courteous to those 
 he en oloyed, except when greatly exasperated, then he 
 flamed Oi-^t and let everyone know his innate conviction 
 that ihey \> "ve created for his convenience. 
 
 Once out of danger he recovered rapidly, and, after a 
 week or ten days in his chambers, he gathered strength 
 enouifh vo travel nortli to Netherleigh. 
 
 Here, 'o the siuprise of everyone, he invited a shooting- 
 party, id engaged a distant cousin — a well-known, but 
 somewi it impecunious sportsman — to act host, while he 
 himself only joined his friends in the evening. 
 
 The tttain and suffering he had endured had told upon 
 hiiii, men thid. When neither talking or laughing there 
 was intense gloom in his face, and a wild, distressed ex- 
 pression in his deep dark eyes. But he talked and laughed 
 a good deal. People seemed to understand, however, in 
 some occult way, that the Fordsea murder was not to be 
 spoken of, an«i, in spite of tirstrate s})ort, cooking accom- 
 modation -every vhing — the party was neither lively nor 
 jovial. 
 
 Egerton himself generally roused up at night and talked 
 a good deal. He had a positive objection to go to bed, and 
 did his best to in<luce sujiio iiiaii to sit up with him. The 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 127 
 
 guests wondered how he could stand these vigils when he 
 had so lately thrown off a severe illness. 
 
 " You don*t give yourself a chance, my good fellow, " 
 said his locum tenens, Captain Irving. "Yoamaysay 
 what you like about having a snooze while we are out, but 
 there's no sleep like night sleep, and you'll kill youri^elf, 
 turning night into day in this fashion. I don't want to 
 step into your shoes yet awhile, I assure you." 
 
 " You will, though, one of these days," returned Eger- 
 ton, thoughtfully. They were sitting over the library fire 
 one wet Sunday afternoon. " I mean you'll have all trie 
 land, but I'm not going to leave you more of my funded and 
 other cash than may serve to prove my good- will. I have 
 another destination for tnat." 
 
 " Pooh ! You'll probaby be married before this time two 
 years. Perhaps i shall be assisting at the rejoicings on 
 the birth of a son and heir by that time, and probably will 
 be presiding over tne coming-of-age dinner when roy parish 
 is ' burying me dacent,' as old O'Shaughnessy used to say. 
 Did you know O'Shaughnessy ? Lord ! what a cross-coT.a- 
 try man he was ! Such pluck, such judgment ' I bel leve 
 that sort of Irishman is dyin„ out." 
 
 " I never heard of judgment being associated with an 
 Irishman before," said E-erton, languidly. " I don't think 
 you have much yourself, Tom," 
 
 " No, I don't suppose I have," said Tom, complacently. 
 
 " What are you gomg to do with yourself this winter?" 
 
 " Do ? Well I don't know. It has been a very bad sea- 
 son with me, and I'm rather down on my luck." 
 
 " I shall be very glad if you will stay on here," said 
 Egerton, indifferently. " I propose remaining— how long 
 I don't know — but the house is at your service as long as 
 you like to stay. There are horses in the stable and birds 
 in the coverts." 
 
 " All right. I'm your man. Most of the fellows will bo 
 off by the end of the week. Are you going to ask any 
 others?" 
 
 " Yes, later on. I want to look after the estate a little, 
 ^vith the agent and bailiff, first.'' 
 
 " Well, Randal, take my advice, and go to bed at a rea- 
 sonable time. These late habits &.re positively insane after 
 such an illness as you have had. Nothing is so necessary 
 ;is rest foi a disturbed brain." 
 
 "My brain is quiet enough now," returned Egerton. 
 
1e- 
 
 128 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 Then he grew silent and abstracted, and his kinsniai 
 Feeing he was not disposed to follow the conversation, le[i| 
 the room. 
 
 '' Not bad quarters," he thought, "for a fellow so neaiiyl 
 cleaned out as I am; but Randal ain't exactly a lively coni' 
 ])anion. He's all wrong since that infernal fever. I wonder 
 if he would lend me a few hundreds? I'll try before 1 qui; 
 But I'll get the first part of my stay over first." 
 
 Egerton continued to gazo at the fire, his brows contract, 
 ed, an occasional quiver passing over his mouth. His sight 
 his thoughts, far away. What visions did he see? Wha; 
 pangs rent his heart? Was Conscience stretching hirao^ 
 the terrible rack she prepares for those who disregard her 
 warnings — who outrr-ge her laws? Was he living ove; 
 again those moments of delight when the sweet excitemeatl 
 of a new passion — stronger, deeper, l^eavenlier far than auy 
 he had ever known before, perhaps because more hedged Id] 
 with difficulties, more utterly forbidden than any he had 
 ever felt, gave fresh salt to life, more energy, more vitality 
 to his soul ''' Was he tracing|the course of that rising tide ol 
 overwhelming tenderness and desire which finally swep 
 him from all considerations of honor or loyalty, or true n 
 fc:ard for the happiness of its object? The triumph audd 
 light which swelled his heart when he found he could do. 
 minate her will, and hold her helpless i.i his mental grasp 
 Yet this did not suffice. He was never quite sure of he: 
 affection. She had, with almost childish simplicity, played 
 with the fire of his admiration, and showed an interest iii 
 all he said and did, but when he drew nearer still ! Why 
 did he not stop in time, why did he yi3ld to that terrible. 
 murderous jealousy of her husoand? It was so maddening 
 so blinding? If he could have persuaded her to leave thai 
 sullen, moody tyrant, all might htive been well. He would 
 have made her life like a fairy tale of love and happiness 
 Now all had ended with a hiedious crime, of which he onlj staying 
 knc*v th.3 secret- the Idack, damning secret! If only hf 
 had met her when she was free and unshackled, how fair, 
 and sweet, and gooc tViAiv lives would have been! " Am 
 to blame for what Fate has forced upon me?" he muttered 
 
 I cannot even look on her sweet face for the last horribli 
 memory that comes between me and it." He drew out 
 small portrait, which resembled tL: original closely, tool 
 one hasty glance, then, having kissed it passionately, li' 
 tore it from its case, and thrust it in the ^e. 
 
 a I mi 
 
 ♦Herat 
 Br eye 
 must 
 me ou 
 
 nd— ah 
 
 onday 
 
 ouse sa 
 
 "I wi 
 
 letters t( 
 
 If we wt 
 
 " No, 
 
 ihere, an 
 
 ilear ski 
 
 he oth( 
 
 ell-dir« 
 
 In spi 
 able to c 
 [guests ■w 
 eigh boi 
 shoot wi 
 gladly a'' 
 dog-cart 
 of fainti 
 
 Thevi 
 that Eg 
 vaiiized 
 again." 
 business 
 two tog 
 ser^^ed I: 
 
 In fac 
 in the w 
 
 ti 
 
 knew he 
 young V 
 
 Major 
 posed to 
 incredib 
 man. I 
 garrisor 
 formed 
 never w 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 129 
 
 nd Ills kinsniaJ 
 onversatioii, lefj 
 
 fellow so nearly! 
 rly a lively com" 
 fever. I woinler 
 ry before I nui; 
 irst." 
 
 brows contract, 
 auth. His sight 
 he see ? Wha; 
 retching himoi 
 10 disregard her 
 he living ove: 
 weet excitement 
 ier far than any 
 more hedged ii 
 lan any he had 
 jT, more vitality 
 at rising tide ol 
 ih finally swept 
 Eilty, or true it- 
 riumph and Je 
 id he could do. 
 s mental gras 
 ite sure of he 
 iplicity, playeiij 
 an interest i 
 er still ! Why 
 
 that terrible, 
 so madden in 
 )r to leave tha 
 ell. He woul 
 uid happiness 
 
 whicli he onl; 
 t ! If only hi 
 kled, how fair 
 jeec ! " Am 
 ' he muttered 
 e last horribli 
 He drew out ! 
 
 1 closely, tooi 
 assionately, tii 
 
 «« I must forget, or I cannot kve, ' he said, half aloud. 
 ' Here there are no memories of her, but she haunts me. 
 ier eyes, sweet, holy eyes, are always looking into mine. 
 must live it all down, For her &ake the truth must never 
 me out — never ! I will occupy myself, and never be alone, 
 nd— ah ! Darner, I heard you did not intend to get up till 
 onday morning ?" This as one of the men .staying in the 
 ouse sauntered into the room. 
 
 1 wish I could have fulfilled the intention, but I have 
 
 etters to write. The glass is at rain, and it looks to me as 
 
 |lf we were going to have beastly weather." 
 
 " No, I don't think so. There's a haze on that hill over 
 here, and the keepers will tell you tliat tliore are always 
 clear skies and sunshine when old North fell wears his cap.*' 
 The other drew his chair to the fire, and Egerton, by some 
 well-directed queries, set him talking. 
 
 In spite of his ghastly looks Egerton declared himself 
 able to carry a gun next day, and accompany those of his 
 guests who preferred the moors to the " meet.'* For Nether- 
 leigh boasted both moorland and preserves, but he did not 
 shoot with his usual skill, and before the day was over 
 gladly availed himself of his ccjsin's suggestion that the 
 dog-cart should be sent for, as he felt himself on the verge 
 of fainting from exhaustion. 
 
 The visitors told each other in corners out of earshot 
 that Egerton was *♦ devilish queer." " Looks likb a gal- 
 vanized corpse, bj' Jove!" " Would never be the ^ameman 
 again." •' If the chill hadn't come on the top of tha*^^ awful 
 business at Fordsea, he would have been all right, but the 
 two together were more than most men could bear," ob- 
 served Irving. 
 
 In fact Colonel and Mrs. Callander were so little known 
 in the world of gaiety and fashion, the latter led so home- 
 staying a life that few, if any. of Egorton's companions 
 knew how much time he had spent in the society of the fair 
 young wife and her piquante sister. 
 
 Major St. John, indeed, was aware that Ep;erton had pro- 
 posed to Dorothy, and suspected that he had been refused, 
 incrodible as it seemed; but he was not much of a club 
 man. Fortune forbade his visiting London fredjuently, and 
 garrison gossip was not very familiar to tlie men who 
 formed Egerton's society. Later the fact oozed out, but 
 never was fully believed. 
 

 130 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 i'' 
 
 >/i: 
 
 ife 
 
 Indeed, the Fordsea tragedy ran its usual nine days' 
 course, a little prolonged perhaps, by the reports which 
 cropped up at iutervais of attempts to find the foreign 
 sailojs who were supposed to have committed the outrage; 
 but a month, six weeks, two months passed, and they were 
 still undiscovered. 
 
 Gradually Egerton grew more like his old self, yet not 
 quite the same. He took more interest in the details of his 
 estate, and showed a greater regard for money. His tem- 
 per, too, was more irritable than formerly. If startled by 
 being suddenly addressed, Jie would turn with fury on the 
 intruder. His valet told Captain Irving that his delirium 
 was terribly violent and exhausting, though his ravings 
 were, on the whole, unintellii^ible -the impression of the 
 murder was evidently uppermost in his mind, so much so 
 that the poor gentleman repeatedly declared Jhimself 
 guilty of it. 
 
 In reply to this, Irving observed that if Egerton had 
 been an unfortunate beggar without a sixpence, he would 
 very likely have been taken up aiid tried on the strength of 
 his own wandering words. 
 
 Letters from Standish reached him occasionally, and af- 
 forded him much interest. Paul recounted the steps taken 
 and the communications made to the English consuls in all 
 ports, directing them to seek for two sailors belonging to 
 the Spanish brig Veloz, and announcing the large reward 
 offered should their arrest lead to the discovery of Mrs. 
 Callander's murderer. He a'so mentioned what stray items 
 of intelligence were occasinally received o! the Colonel's 
 movements, but Standish never mentioned Dorothy. 
 
 ♦♦ No doubt he hears from her often," mused Egerton, as 
 he folded up the last letter he had received > " She never 
 liked me. i wonder why. She did not know she ha«l any 
 reason to dislike me, poor little girl! How steadily she 
 refused to see me since. God knows, she i^ no t more averse 
 to meeting mo than I am to eucounter her. What does she 
 think? She cannot suspect ! I will face her some day, and 
 then her eyes will tell me the truth. She has wonderful 
 
 eyes— not like Mabel's though. Mabel ■" these thoughts 
 
 came clearly enough till he came to that name, and then 
 all was an agony of confusion, He locked away his let- 
 ter and, whistling to his dogs, walked away to the Rec- 
 tory, where he rejoiced the heart of the worthy Bectoress 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 131 
 
 t ) he var/ous benevolent 
 
 by munificent contributions 
 schemes patronised by her. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Standish was reluctantly oblif^ed to prolong his absence 
 beyond the time he had honed to return. Though the mis- 
 sion on which he had been sent was both difficult and deli- 
 cate, he managed to accomplish it satisfactorily, in spite of 
 the many wandering thoughts he bestowed on his ward. 
 However busy, he always contrived to answer her frequent 
 letters. They had become of the deepest interest to him. 
 She evidently poured out all her heart, all her mind, in 
 them, and he noticed with pleasure that care and affection 
 for her nephew and niece were giving something of color 
 and warmth to her life. The sayings and doings of the 
 children always filled a portion of the letter. " Little 
 Dolly was learning the alphabet, and sliowed great intelli- 
 gence. The boy was beginning to speak, which was much 
 sooner, Mrs. McHugh said than the generality of boys." 
 
 "Sue has a motherly heart," thought Standish. " She 
 will be an awful loss to those poor babies when she mar- 
 ries, as I suppose she will. Not too soon, 1 hope. It is 
 much better for girls not to marry till they are four or five 
 and twenty — that is, let me see, not for six years hence. I 
 wonder if Egerton will ever return to the charge. I hope 
 not, for he might win her ; perseverance does so much with 
 women, and somehow 1 do not fancy Egerton for my ^dear 
 little Dorothy." Then he smiled at himself. '' My Doro- 
 thy sounds rather absurd. I do not, certainly, feel like a 
 lather, and in no other but a filial sense will she ever be 
 my Dorothy. 1 alv'ays took to her most, but what a sweet 
 creature Mabel was ! i don't woiider that poor Callander 
 is nearly out of his mind at losing her so suddenly, so 
 cruelly--in the room uex( am, absolutely within his reach. 
 It is the most wonder tul case I ever knew. Thank God I 
 can get away n"xt week, i long to see my sorrowful ward, 
 and that good soul, Henrietta Oakley." 
 
 In the meantime Henrietta Oakley was trying the soul of 
 his ward by her restlessness and ennui. 
 
 While anything,- was to be done Miss Oakley was the most 
 considerate and sympathetic of frie ds, but to sit down 
 and " weep tear for tear," or share th ■ ([uiet oi^cupations, 
 the tranquil monotony, wliich was gradually calming Do- 
 rotliy's spirit, and helpiu-- lier to be resi-ned, was quite 
 impossible to her. So long as thei*^ was loud wailing, pro- 
 
h ' 
 
 \iv\ 
 
 132 BLIND FATE. 
 
 found indignation, active efforts for discovery or revenj 
 to ue done, Miss Oakley was ready to be foremost and 
 filing. But tills active phase over she must supply tkj 
 vacuum with some fresh activity. 
 
 Dorothy had perceived a change in her, an anxiety to inl 
 duce Jier depressed companion to go here and there just ioJ 
 a little variety, she said — that she was less interested iJ 
 the children tliau at lirst, though always kind to them. I| 
 was therefore no very great surprise to her wh^n A 
 Oakley camo in after an afternoon spent among shops cJ 
 Regent and Bond streets, one deary drizzling day early jJ 
 February, and after kissing her effusively, and describin)! 
 a lovely doll's house she had bought for Dolly, while sli| 
 took off her furs, she exclaimed quickly : 
 
 '^ I have been and gone and done something which wil 
 not vex you 1 hope, dear." 
 
 " What is it, Henrietta?" 
 
 " Weil, you see, I met Lady Brinkworth at Howell i 
 James', she is only in town for a few days, and as she was! 
 always so kind and attentive to me in Home, I could not| 
 possibly avoid asking her to dinner." 
 
 " No, of course, you have a riglit to ask who you like,l 
 need not dine with you. There is no reason why you should 
 not ask your friends to dine with you." 
 
 " But you must appear, Dorothy. I insist on it, it wilil 
 do you good. You are moping yourself to death, and yoiij 
 know it is quite six months since— since " 
 
 " Not six months, Henrietta. Oh, do not be vexed witli| 
 me or think me unkind, but I cannot meet strangers yet, 
 should be like tlie skeleton at the feast. It is quite natural 
 you should wish to see your friends, and I would not pre-l 
 vent you, for you have been so kind and good ; what shouldj 
 I have done without you V But do not ask me to sit dowul 
 with strangers so soon — so soon." 
 
 *' Butv I>orothy, this is all so morbid and unwise ; youl 
 are absolutely killing yourself ! You do not know howl 
 ghastly you look. Mr. Standish will think I have not takeol 
 any care of you when he comes, and he will be here soonJ 
 from what he says in his last letter. I hear that Major ^\ 
 Joim is ih town, and I shall ask him. Then old Major 
 Tredenis called the other day ; he knows the Brinkworthi,! 
 so that - ill make a nice little ^.arty of six. I really feel 
 must sue some one 1 In this quiet, friendly, impromptuj 
 wa|r there can be no diaorespect." 
 
icovery or reveii 
 
 foremost and 
 
 ' must supply t^ 
 
 BLIND FATEj 
 
 133 
 
 an anxiety to in 
 md there just foi 
 
 less interested 
 kind to them. Iij 
 her wh?n Misj 
 
 among shops. 
 ling day early i. 
 
 , and describifl) 
 
 Dolly, while sh 
 
 Not the least, dear Henrietta, from you. From me it 
 Irould be quite different. Do not mind me at all, I can have 
 Ba with the children and a tough book after they have 
 
 [one to bed ; nothing draws me out of myself like a really 
 )ujih book." 
 
 How extraordinary ! When I am miserable nothing 
 jmforts me like a thrilling novel — with lots of love in it 
 -a delightful dangerous desperado of a hero, ready to kill 
 
 kff everyone who stands between him and the object 
 
 hi " 
 
 ' Oh, hush, Henrietta I" whispered Dorothy, raising her 
 
 ands before her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful sight. 
 
 " What a stupid, heedless wretch I am to mention such 
 
 thing which willB-l^i^SS ^° y*^"» ™^y P<^^^ d®*^ • ^^ forgive me ! It mugt 
 eem so heartless!" embracing her. •' You shall do what 
 ou like about the dinner ; only I shall be miserable with- 
 ut you. Now I must look out for a sixth, and there is 
 carcely a soul in town." 
 ome, I could noil " ^^^ wi^l ^^^ somebody, no doubt." 
 
 " I must try. Oh ! I had a letter from Mrs. Callander 
 just now. She writes rather graciously. Some friends of 
 hers met Mr. Standish in Berlin. He was facing to leave 
 almost immediately. She asked if we have any news of 
 Herbert. I really do not think he is acting properly to- 
 wards his mother." 
 
 " No, he is not ; but one is inclined to forgive him any- 
 I thing. I am quite sorry for Mrs. Callander." 
 
 Though Dorothy was too just to feel angry wuh Miss 
 Oakley wishing to entertain her friends while the shadow 
 of a tragic crime still lay upon herself and her immediate 
 relatives, the idea was shocking to her. 
 
 It seemed to her that she, herself could never again be as 
 she had been, that the weight could never be lifted off her 
 heart, the nervous horror from her spirit. The idea that: 
 had she roused herself when the clang of metal, real or un- 
 real, penetrated through her sleep, she might have sa\ ed 
 her sister never left her. This, and the horrible belief that 
 she knew the murderer— that she must not denouncfi him 
 though doubly dyed in guilt, haunted her night and day. 
 Her sleep was broken by distressing dreams. If her resn 
 was tolerably calm, she lived over again her childish days 
 of loving dependence on Mabel, and awoke, only to weep 
 freshly bitter tears over her cruel bereavement. 
 
 th at Howell. 
 
 , and as she was 
 
 who you like, 
 
 I why you shoull 
 
 3ist on it, it will 
 
 3 death, and yoj 
 
 » ' 
 
 >t be vexed witj 
 Jtrangers yet, 
 is quite natiira 
 [ would not pre-j 
 'd ; what shouHl 
 me to sit dowiil 
 
 i unwise; youl 
 not know hoivf 
 have not takeJ 
 
 II be here soonj 
 ' that Major tit, 
 hen old Major 
 3 Brinkwortti,! 
 
 I really feel 
 Uy, impromptu I 
 
ill' 
 
 
 134 BLIND FATK 
 
 As in the day time she was quiet and uncomplaining. 
 Henrietta Oakley — the keen edge already worn off her sin 
 cere sorrow— fancied she was recovering her composure, 
 and that soon she would be able to resume her former ways 
 of life. 
 
 The day that Miss Oakley was to receive her friends. 
 Dorothy went out with Nurse and the cliildren, keepin^^ 
 away until it was almost dusk. Then to their great de 
 light she shared their nursery tea, and assisted to put them 
 to bed. Finally, she established herself in a small room on 
 the ground floor dignilied by the uamu of the -' library," a 
 pretty comfortable apartment, with soft easy chairs, and 
 lit by a moonlight- looking lamp, she drew a seat to the 
 fire, and took a volume of Essays, but could not fix her at- 
 tention upon it. 
 
 The footsteps of the servants as they came to and fro 
 serving tiie dinner ; the idea that life, even the life that 
 touched her own, was returning to its old channels, that 
 the waves of the world were closing over the memory of 
 the sister she loved so well, and soon that dear, gentle being 
 whose every act showed kindness and consideration for 
 others would be forgotten by all save herself, that to the 
 children she would cease to be anything save a dream, and 
 not even that to her son. 
 
 How long she sat there thinking in deepest melancholy 
 she could not tell ; suddenly the door was opened by Col- 
 lins, who, with a brighter look than he had worn for many 
 a day, exclaimed : 
 
 " Here is Mr. Standish, Miss Dorothy." 
 
 Whereupon her guardian entered looking more embrown- 
 ed than usual. He was in evening dress, which became him 
 as it does well-made men, and besides his air of high breed- 
 ing he bad that indescribable alertness and decision of 
 moverient wnich is the outward and visible sign of inward 
 strength of character. Tiiere was a look of pleasure in his 
 eyes which lent them light and depth of color, and he seem- 
 ed to Dorothy an embodiment of vital power sent to draw 
 her from the gloomy depths of sorrow in which she was 
 sunk. 
 
 ** Oh, Paul; dear Paul!" she cried, starting up and 
 Stretching out her arms to him. " i thought you would 
 
 never come. 
 
 M 
 
 1 came as soon as I could, mv dear child," he returned, 
 
BUND FATK 
 
 135 
 
 omplaining, 
 
 off Jier sin 
 
 composure, 
 
 ormer ways 
 
 ler friends. 
 en, keepin^f 
 r great de 
 to put them 
 all room on 
 
 library," a 
 liairs, and 
 eat to the 
 
 fix her at- 
 
 to and fro 
 e life that 
 nuels, that 
 memory of 
 entle beinj^ 
 >ration for 
 that to the 
 Iream, and 
 
 melancholy 
 led by Col- 
 1 for many 
 
 ! embrown- 
 ecame him 
 'gh breed- 
 ecision of 
 of inward 
 ure in his 
 i he see lu- 
 t to draw 
 she was 
 
 ? up and 
 
 'ou would 
 
 returned, 
 
 arawing her to him and gently kissing her cheek. ** Let 
 me look at you. Why, Dorothy, you are but a ghost of 
 yourself! My dear, you look tenfold worse than when i 
 left you. Your very hands are thin, and your poor eyes are 
 worn with weeping. This will never do." 
 
 He laid his hands on the braids of her glossy, wavy hair, 
 and pressed back her head while he looked into her eyes 
 with grave, compassionate tenderness. 
 
 " Oh, Paul! I cannot help it; I am so wretched," she 
 said, but even as she said it a soft glow seemed to revive 
 her heart, a sweet warmth caught from his eyes, and some 
 faint color came again to her cheek. 
 
 " You must not let your life ebb from you, Dorothy," he 
 continued, pressing her hand in both his own. " We want 
 you, my dear little girl, your guardian most of all. What 
 would life be to me without a wilful ward to take care of ?" 
 
 " It is a sort of haimting fear as well as sorrow that 
 takes all life and energy from me, Paul. In the day I can 
 bear it, but at night " — she shivered — " I wake constantly' 
 and listen for the sound of that falling bar. i dread that 
 the children may be hurt, or — or you," and she drew closer 
 to him as they still st<"Dd together in the full light of the 
 lamp. " I scarcely know what I fear, but — shall I ever feel 
 safe again, Paul? ' 
 
 " Yes, Dorothy; you must. Time will soothe these ter- 
 rors," he said, pressing her hand unconsciously a;j;ainst his 
 heart. (How strongly it beat, she thought.) " You have 
 someone with you at night, have you not ? You ought not 
 to be alone." 
 
 ' ♦ Oh, no ! I could not be alone. Henrietta is so kind 
 as to sleep in my room ; but she sleeps so soundly. It is no 
 use to speak to her; indeeJ, it would be cruel to rouse 
 her." 
 
 Standish did not speak for a moment, then he said, 
 " Now tell me all your news," and led her back to her seat 
 by the fire, drawing his own chair close. He had loo much 
 sense to attempt arguing about the folly ot her fears ; the 
 best remedy for them was to change the current of her 
 thoughts. 
 
 " I wrote so much to you, Paul, that I do noc think there 
 
 is anything left to tell. There has been but litthi variety." 
 
 " Yes, you were a good girl. I looked for your letters, I 
 
 assure you. It was most annoying my havini^- been sent 
 
i:*) 
 
 hi AS I) FATE. 
 
 Mr' 
 
 
 l#. 
 
 on to Vienna, but had 1 ^>^5en able to return 60oae. I couM 
 have done norhm^ for yoii.' 
 
 " YftH ; you could nave talked come." 
 
 " Htandihh smiled. 
 
 •' And you have no further tidings of Callander?" 
 
 Dorothy .shook he head. • We on!y know ue is alive, 
 hwauHe Henrietta calle'i at hi.s lawyers' ana tind.-* that his 
 ohoqueH of quite re^;ent dates have been cash-i in different 
 j)lacoH. He wan at Munich last — about a foruii^ht a^o." 
 
 " PerhapH he is noiuir to join Mrs. Callander at Nice, He 
 ha.s never addressed a line to ine ; but I have heard from 
 K(^erton, who has burif;d hiiiiSfclf in iiis own place."' 
 
 Dorothy turne^l her fa^'^e sligj tly from him and looked at 
 the fire while he said this. - Htj seems disposed to stay 
 there, and wants me to run down and see him."' 
 
 " Shall you j^o ?" she a-ked, aimo.st in a whist:»er. 
 
 " No, certainly not for a considerable time. So Henrietta 
 Oakley is t^ivinj^ a dinner V" 
 
 "■ Hardly that. Sfie has two or three intimate friend.-^ 
 who happen to \>e passing through town." 
 
 " Even that is rather soon." 
 
 " Oil, Paul, it seems dr(;a Ifui to me. But 1 know Henri- 
 etta. »She cannot live without company or excitement. It 
 is not that she is unfeeling, but nothing- no emotion last.-^ 
 long with her. She is, I believe, very true to Jier friend- 
 ships, but she could not grieve long. Then she did not 
 know and love Mabel as 1 did." She stopped suddenly, her 
 lij[>H quivering. 
 
 " Jt IS wise and generous to think in this way, Dorothy," 
 remarked Srandish. -'Now — would you not like to hear 
 what I have been doing?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed i should,"' and he began to describe someuf 
 his ex{)eriences, which interested Dorothy and drew her 
 from her ordinary groove of thought. 
 
 She was glad to feel at ease with him once more, as of 
 old, that his rare, gentle, brotherly caresses did not move 
 her to draw back and tremble as they used. She was always 
 ashamed of the strange, uneasy feeling which had begun 
 to develop in her heart, her pulses, towards this kind friend, 
 so superior to herself, who treated her as a petted child, 
 and who would no doubt have been surprised at the un- 
 worthy emotion he had unconsciously called forth. 
 
 Now tlie storm of .-,(jrrow and terror which had " beat 
 vebermentiy " uix>u hur had i»wept ail that disturbing fever, 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 137 
 
 and Paul was once more her dear, good friend and guardian, 
 to whom she could tell everything, and under whose tender 
 protection she could feel safe and at rest. 
 
 The moments flew while Paul spoke. Then suddenly 
 Henrietta flew in. '• They are all gone, thank goodness ! 
 Collins never told me you were here till this moment, Mr. 
 Standish. I am so delighted to see you. When did you 
 arrive T' 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 " ON THE BRIKK." 
 
 The presence of Standish in London made a considerable 
 difference in the lives of both Henrietta and Dorothy. 
 
 He devoted himself to them, especially the latter. He 
 spent nearly every evening with them, and whenever he 
 could spare an afternoon from his work, insisted on taking 
 her to Witlk or drive. 
 
 Doiothy was amazed to find how great a change this con- 
 stant in:ercGurse witii a mind stronger and broader, but not 
 less \^ armly sympathetic than her own, created in her 
 views and feelings. Life seemed possible to her once more, 
 and she began to see that she might even enjoy it, while 
 with joy or grief, action or repose, the loving thought of 
 her dead sist-r laight be intertwined. Her whole existence 
 mi.'ht be •• ,^acied to the memory " of the beloved one, and 
 yet its dutie.- might be cheerfully fulfilled, its troubles 
 bravely bornr?. its rewards gratefully accepted. Besides 
 sLe must live to be a mother to Mabel's dear children. 
 
 The one source of bitter, implacable distress was Eger- 
 ton. The idea that he should go unpunished, threw her, 
 when she thought of it, into a paroxysm of fury and de- 
 spair. 
 
 No: even to Standish must she confide a syllable that 
 would lower her sister in his estiraation. 
 
 Tq is suppression on one subject gave a somewhat puzz- 
 ling variation to her moods and mani.er, which both exer- 
 Cise«l and interested ^t^indish. There were -jome depths in 
 this young creature, wnom he had -.een grow up, which de- 
 fies! his penetration. There was mixed with her delightful 
 frankness, a dainty reserve, like the cool sprinkling of a 
 silver fountain over the half open blossoms of a fair gar- 
 den. The contrast ot;:-,vecu Ler iranjiueaa and Henrietta's 
 
1^1 
 
 138 
 
 BLIND FATR 
 
 
 outspokon expanMiveness, two extemes of the same quality, 
 would have amused Srandish, had not the atmosphere of 
 {borrow which enwrapped his sweet ward forbidden such a 
 tenciericy. 
 
 Miss Oakley never hesitated to say everything. Utterly 
 indulged from her youth up, slie would have been unendur- 
 able had not beniticient Nature endowed her with a sound, 
 kind heart. The sentence on <?ood Qiieen Bess might have 
 been reversed in its application to Henrietta, for the 
 instincts of her heart went far to correct the follies of her 
 liead. 
 
 Tlie cold bleak days of March were now upon them, and 
 Dillon had made no sign for several weeks. 
 
 His communications had been few and far between, and 
 •Standish felt a good deal in the dark as to his proceedings. 
 
 Dillon had avowed that he intended to work in another 
 search with the hunt for Mrs Callander's murderers. What 
 it was he of course kept to liimself. Standish was inclined 
 to think that he was spinning out the job, with a view to 
 tilling his pocket; he meMiioned this to Miss Oakley, who 
 was always eagerly on the looivout for some surprising- 
 discovery. Indeed. Standish avoided the past and its tragic 
 memories as much as possible when with Dorothy. He 
 was careful to kee;* her thoughts in smoother channels as 
 much as possible. 
 
 About til is time, however, a communication from the 
 English Consul iit Palermo reached Standisli. 
 
 The Spanish ship Veloz, answering to the description in 
 the bill or manifesto offering the reward beforo mentioned, 
 had put into that port, aud the Consul had interviewed the 
 captain, who seemed a res, (-ctable man, and bore a good 
 character with the firm whi ;h occasionally employed him 
 to ply between Palermo and Cadiz. He very willingly gave 
 what iniormation he could respecting the two men who 
 had been among his crew when they lay at Eastport — one. 
 the cook' Guiseppe, had left liim to go on board an Ameri- 
 can steamer at ISjrdiaux, and he knew no more of him. 
 The other must have been, he thought from the description, 
 a man from the South, called Pedro, ho did not know his 
 other name. Ho was a tierce, quarrelsome fellow, and had 
 left at tlie end of his voyage to go into the country and 
 see his people. 
 
 The caiitain was not inclined to think Guiseppe the sort 
 of man to commit a murder. He was quiet, steady, givi-Q 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 119 
 
 to making money, »ncl to keep clear of scrapes. H" : infor- 
 mant, the Consul added, did not know the name of the 
 steamer to which the cook transferred his services. 
 
 This information, scanty as it was, Stand ish thought 
 right to tell Dorothy. She received it with an apatliy that 
 amazed him. 
 
 " 1 must say," he observed, •' that 1 should like to bring 
 the scoundrel, whoever he was, to justice. It is infamous 
 that the perpretator of such an outrage should escape." 
 
 "Yet he will," said Dorothy, looking fixedly at the fire. 
 "Why are you so sure about it, Dorothy?" asked Miss 
 Oakley. 
 
 " I cannot tell, but I feel he will." 
 
 "These instinctive convictions are not to be trusted. 
 This certainty of yours, Dorothy, really arises from your 
 impatience for justice, or rather revenge — which is wild 
 justice," said Standish. 
 
 " Can you wonder ?" she returned. " Yet when I think 
 that no discovery, or justice, or revenge can bring her back 
 it sometimes seems not to matter " 
 
 " It is of the last consequence that he should be brought 
 to justice, and he shall be! I am in correspondence with 
 our Consul at Valencia, from which province, I daresay 
 you may remember, Egerton said this fellow came. I have 
 written to Egerton to stir up some relatives he holds inter- 
 course with occasionally ; they might give us important 
 assistance, but he is slow in answering." Standish spoke 
 with sharpness and decision. 
 
 Dorothy looked up at him with a curious expression, a 
 sort of compassionating desiondency, as though she knew 
 his efforts would be all in vain. 
 
 This conversation took place as they sat round the fire 
 one stormy night in Miss Oakley's pleasant drawing room, 
 to which her ornaments, books, pictures, and plenty of 
 ferns, broad-leaved eastern plants, and hot-house flowers, 
 had given a home-like aspect, very unlike the ordinary 
 " furnished house" look. 
 
 Standish had come in after dining at his club, as he 
 often did, to tell the latest talk, political and literary, the 
 whispers of changes at home and abroad — anything to 
 draw Dorothy from her thoughts— to interest her in the 
 world without her. 
 
 Henrietta went out occasionally to intimate friends, and 
 
140 
 
 BLIND FATfi. 
 
 m 
 
 Jig 
 
 m 
 
 ri'r 
 
 [I • 
 
 in a very quiet way, not thereby interfering in any 
 with Dorothy, aid Standish often found his ward aloi 
 when their talk took a graver, deeper tone than when Hi] 
 Oakley shared it. Dorothy could then speak unreservei 
 of her increasing anxiety about Callander. It seemed 
 her unnatural, his prolonged absence, his indifference i 
 his children; but Standish always said he thought taati 
 terrible a shock as he had sustained, when weakenec' 
 had been by previous bad health, was sufficient to aceou 
 for any eccentricity. 
 
 On the present occasion a short silence had follows 
 Paul's last remark, and then Miss Oakley said, as if omj 
 her thoughts : " Perhaps Mr. Egerton is coming to to\ 
 
 " He has said nothing to me about it," returned Standii 
 
 " He mentioned something about being in town aftj 
 Christmas," she replied. ''He has written tome twoi 
 three times, chiefly to ask for Dorothy, but as she doosni 
 seem to care about hearing of him, I have said nothin 
 When he does come I shall be very happy to see him.'' 
 
 " No one could have snown greater feeling in our mistoj 
 tune than Egerton," said Standish thoughtfully. "Isii 
 cbrely wish he had gone with Callander. Consentiig to| 
 his companion was a real act of friendship." 
 
 '' Why did he not follow him then ? " cried Dorothy, i 
 though she could not keep back the wr.rds. 
 
 '*When Callander literally ran av^ay, Egerton con 
 hardly follow him," returned Standish, looking at Dorotlj 
 as if surprised at her enmity to h )r admirei. 
 
 '* Well, foi" my part I lik*» Mr. Egerton — I always dil 
 He has shown himself to be full cf good feeling ani refin| 
 ment. He sees that he is not acceptable to Dorothy, so 1 
 keeps out of the way," said Miss Oakley. " Now, I thin 
 Dorothy is a goose ; what she wants I can*t imagine. 
 Egerton is quite fit to be the hero of a novel — and so wel 
 off i If he ever comes forward again, I shall be very vexej 
 if you do not accept him. I nm sure you'd be angry will 
 her too, Mr. Standish ? " 
 
 " I," exclaimed Standish, smiling ; I should not dare 
 intertere. You do not know whbt a small volcaiu) l^oij 
 othy is." 
 
 Sue did not speak. Her pale cheek flushed, than gre^ 
 whiter than before. 
 
 '' I am very tiied,** »h«said ; **my eyes ache. I must 9*J 
 
ering in any., 
 d his ward alo] 
 ne than when Hj 
 3T;eak unreserve! 
 3r. It seemed , 
 lis indifference, 
 ao thought taati 
 en weakenec' „,, 
 ifficient to accoui 
 
 nee had follow,, 
 '■ said, as if outi 
 ; coming to toi 
 returned Standij 
 ing in town afo 
 ten to me two 
 ut as she doss &j 
 ive said nothii 
 f to see him.'" 
 
 ing in our misfo 
 ghtfully. " 1 9)1 
 ConsentiLg toi 
 p." 
 
 >ried Dorothy, 
 
 I. 
 
 , Egerton cou 
 oking at I)orotli| 
 ei. 
 
 — I always dil 
 Jeling ani refin) 
 o Dorothy, so 
 " Now, I thin 
 *t imagine, 
 rel — and so wel 
 ill be very vexij 
 d be angry will 
 
 >uld not dare 
 1 volcaiu) Porj 
 
 hed, than gre^ 
 
 le. I must 9*4 
 
 BLIND FATE 
 
 14] 
 sleepy it 
 
 .night. If I can only go to sleep while I 
 
 be delightful.'' 
 
 lerose, and left the room without further farewell. 
 
 IWhat a curious, implacabh little thing she is," said 
 Oakley, looking after her. " I do wonder what h^r 
 
 jtion to Mr. Egerton can be ! Is she in love with any- 
 
 else?" 
 
 |How can I tell? " exclaimed Sandish impatiently. "You 
 
 mure likely to know than I am! — at least she is more 
 
 ly to confide in you than in me. I suppose it does not 
 
 ritably follow that, because a man happens to be good- 
 
 cing, smooth-tongued, rich, that he must be irresistible 
 
 11 women." 
 
 Perhaps not to every woman, but to a large majority. 
 
 not think you like Bandal Egerton somehow, your- 
 
 Mr. Standish." 
 
 'I certainly do not dislike or like Kim, Miss Oakley, and 
 
 ive been a good deal struck by the kind feeling he has 
 ^wn poor Callander. But I have met fellows that are 
 Ire companionable to me." 
 
 r There is no accounting for taste," returned Miss Oak- 
 [, in a philosophic tone; " now, i confess that if Mr. Eg- 
 
 )n were to make love to me, I don't think I should be 
 hard-hearted to him." 
 
 Shall I tell him so? " asked S^andish, laughing at her 
 idor. " It is a pity he should lose a chance." 
 ['Oh, nonsense," said she, good-humoredly. '*Mr. Egerton 
 
 ' never lose a chance he cares to seize. I am not his 
 He. Now, he is, or was, really fond of little Dorothy. 
 
 rould be such an excellent settlement for her. Her poor 
 
 Iter's death has broken up her home. I don't fancy 
 
 pert will settle anywhere. He will go back to India. 
 
 lay marry. She hates Mrs. Callander, who wouldn't 
 
 |ve her at any price. You are not old enough to set up 
 
 isekeeping with her, and ii you marry, your wife would 
 
 I sure to hate Dorothy, so ^" 
 
 I" What a string of impossibilities," interrupted Stan- 
 Jh,with a rather forced laugh. "According to you there 
 jno refuge for Dorothy but marriage with Egerton." 
 "Not a bad alternative," cried Henrietta. 
 I" As to myself," continued Standish, "As soon as I cai. 
 
 a few weeks' leave, I shall go to Spain myself. I can- 
 K sit down quietly wiiile the blood-thirsty villian that 
 bbed us of Mabel is ut liberty. I don't allow mysell to 
 
142 
 
 BUXD F^TE. 
 
 speak of him or of th errible catastrophe before Dorothy 
 bat notViin^ in my whole life has cut me up as this hrj 
 She was an angel, the sweetest soul that ever breathed ! i 
 wonder poor Callander can know a moment's rest till he ha; 
 had the murderer hung. Ki.^ extraordinary apathy proves 
 he is not in a normal conlition. After him, I am his wife's 
 nearest friend, and I feel that the duty of tracking tue mur- 
 derous devil devolves upon me." 
 
 « ♦ ♦ 41 * * « 
 
 The first lengthening days of spring have a saddening; 
 effect OTi those who have suffered. To Dorothy, and. indeed 
 to her affectionate friend. Henrietta, it was a melanchoiy 
 period. The little ones iiad ceased to ask for '-Papa,'" or 
 "Mamma," and her t^uardian's visits were the only bits of 
 sunshine in Dorothy's life. She watched with almost 
 motherly interest the growth of the baby-boy, the ir... 
 folding of the little girl's intelligence. But the supremv 
 solace was the warm, thoughtful sympath}^ of Standish 
 Their (VDiiversations were always a source of tranquil pleas- 
 ure, but when he did not come for two or three days, Ler 
 b8n.se of desolation was almost insupportable. 
 
 Meanwhile, Standish found his position improved, his 
 prospects brightening, since his successful conduct c ' the 
 business contided to him in Berlin and Vienna, also the 
 amount of work he had to attend to was greatly increased, 
 80 the time he could place at his ward's disposal was less 
 than formerly. 
 
 Hastening, one dim afternoon, up Pall Mall, and look- 
 ing out for an empty hansom, he came face to face with 
 Egerton. 
 
 He knew the figure and bearing, but was almost uncer- 
 tain as to the identity of the face, so changed was it in 
 many ways. 
 
 The large eyes were sunken, and had a pained, haunted 
 exfjTossion. The cheeks looked hollow, the clear olive tint 
 had become a dusky pallor, a large mustache hid his mouth 
 and altered him still more. 
 "Why, figerton !" 
 
 "SLaudish ! I was on my way to leave my card at your 
 lodgings to let you know I was in town." 
 
 'I am very glad to see you. When did you come up?" 
 
 "Yesterday. I am put^.iQg up at Long's. 1 have given 
 
 up my rooms in thH Albany, lam thinking of tryiutr » 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 143 
 
 [all, and look- 
 3 to face with 
 
 Du come up! 
 
 little alephant-shooting in Africa if Callander does not 
 want me. I had a letter from him a couple of days ago. 
 "Which way are you going ? I will come with you." 
 
 'Dorothy had a few lines from him, too, last week," 
 said Standishf as they walked on. '-He has been to see 
 his mother at Nice, and spoke of returning to England." 
 "So he does to me. He iy, for the first time, anxious to 
 know what success has attended our efforts. I trust he 
 will return quite himself." 
 
 There was an ind'.-scribable melancholy in Egerton'a 
 voice that struck Stiindish, and he felt some surj^rise as 
 well as increased interest in his companion. 
 
 "How is Miss Wynn?" continued Egerton. "I have 
 heard of her now and then from Miss Oakiey, and 1 should 
 greatly like to see her before I leavo England, if she will 
 see me." 
 
 Thia ^as said in a constrained voice, with pauses and 
 breaks, as though he forced himself to utter thy words 
 mechanically. 
 
 . "Just now I am sure that Dorothy will not see you or 
 any one. The boy is <:atLer seriou.-,ly ill with bronch.ti.->, 
 rather a bad business for so small a chap. Hi aunt never 
 leaves him. It would he aD awful shock to Cailnnder to 
 arrive and find nc ::on. It is all very havd on such a mere 
 girl as Dorothy. But she has more of a backbone than 
 
 her sweet, pretty sister had " 
 
 ''Yes, yes," interrupted Egerton, hastily. "Tell me how 
 is it that flighty Mists Oakley has stuck so steadi.y to her 
 role of comforter ?" 
 
 "Her heart is better than her head." returned Standish. 
 ••Henrietta Oakley has proved her.-^eif a capital woman ; 
 I have grown ^uite fond of her. Sne would make an 
 admirable wife to any man who knew how to manai,'e her. 
 ••Oh, indeed," with a languid smile. ••Tell me more 
 about the report of that Consul of wiiich yo a wrote to me. 
 1 don't understand why they have not raad'i more diligent 
 search for that 'ellow you all susf^ect — P^.-dro." 
 
 ••We suspect? Don't you? Com: ar 1 iiae with me 
 at the club to-nig .t. and we will discuss it all, now I 
 must go on to Miss Oakley's. I have not heard how the 
 
 boy is to-day " . ^ , 
 
 "Let me come with vo; , I must nee them a^^ain. -it 
 seemed to Standi;sh fron the tone of hii* voice that th- 
 necessity wa** not an a^^r^ieabie one- 
 
144 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 If 
 
 m. 
 
 "Come by all means," he returned. They were soon 
 1 iQwling along towards Kensington. 
 
 Miss Oakley was not at home when they reached hhe 
 house. But Collins, who remained as the factotum, pro- 
 tector, and semi-dictator of the joint household, said that 
 >he would ftoou be in. 
 
 The gentlemen were therefore shown up to the drawing- 
 room, where a tea-table was set ready for the absent mis- 
 tress. 
 
 ''I will go and see Dorothy, if you don't mind, Eger- 
 Lou," said Standish, after moving somewhat restlessly to 
 and fro, looking at the i^apers and periodicals that lay 
 about. "She generally mounts guard about this time 
 when the nurse — you remember, Mrs. McHugh," Eger- 
 ton nodding his head ^vith a slightly impatient movement 
 — "goes to tea." 
 
 "l)on't mount me," returned the other. 
 
 Standish had hardly left the room, when Miss Oakley 
 entered it ; she was richly dressed, with abundance of 
 black fur on her cloak and round her throat, and looked 
 very handsome. 
 
 "Oh ! dear me, Mr. Egerton, I am so ^lad to see you. I 
 could hardly believe my ears when Collins said you were 
 here. But do you know you are looking frightfully ill ? 
 You don't mind my saying so, do you? You ought to go 
 away to some warm, cheerful jlace. Really the gloomi- 
 ness of winter in England is quite suicidal, don't you think 
 so?" 
 
 *' I cannot return the compliment, Miss Oakley! You 
 arelookiug remarkably well! It is an age since we met. 
 I am sorry I cannot see Miss Wynn, and for the cause — 
 the little boy, Standish tells me, is seriously ill?" 
 
 " He is, i-ideed, but he is a jhade better, to-day. Dorothy 
 
 has been so Uiihappy about him. It would have been ter- 
 rible if Herbert had returned to find no baby-boy, and aunt 
 Callander would have been sure to say he died from ne- 
 glect I ann very fond of Aunt Callander, she has many 
 good points, but she does fancy such queer things ! I am 
 dying to see Herbert again! Of course, it has been an aw- 
 ful blow, but men don't grieve for over. He is really a 
 young man, and ought to throw himself into his career. 
 And he is such a good fellow ! You know my deep iuterewt 
 in him is of old dale; won't you take a cup of tea?" 
 
BLilTD FATE. 
 
 145 
 
 Int 
 ie- 
 
 >»t 
 
 " No— no thank you," and Egerton, who had started up 
 and gone to the fire-place while she spoke, now sat down 
 and kept very still while Henrietta insisted on gi, ing him 
 some tea, and cross-examined him as to his health, his life 
 at his country seat, and a dozen other topics, while he 
 answered in monosyllables and looked as if he were on the 
 rack. 
 
 Meantime, Standish mounted the stair to the day nursery 
 where he had generally si)oken to Dorothy during the boy's 
 illness. The little fellow had taken a severe cold, which 
 turned to bronchiits. 
 
 *' Oh, Paul, he is tetter! " exclaimed Dorothy, from the 
 inner room, as soon ac sha heard his knock at the door. 
 
 " That's right, I thought the little fellow would pull 
 through, he is a regular Trojan." 
 
 "He was in great .anger yesterday, but the night was 
 better, and now he breathes much more freely." 
 
 "And now, 1 hope you will take some care of yourself, 
 Dorothy ! You look as if you had not slept for a week." 
 
 " Not so long as that, but I should like a nice, quiet sleep 
 without dreams," and she sighed. 
 
 "Are you still so frightened at ni„ht?" asked Standish, 
 looking down into her eyes with a glance so wistfully com- 
 passionate that Dorothy felt the delightful sense of his af- 
 fectionate sympathy send a thrill of pleasure shivering 
 through her. 
 
 "No, I am less frightened, but I dream continuously. 
 
 " I have left a visitor with Miss Oakley," resumed Stand- 
 ish, placing a chair for Dorothy, while he stood by the 
 high fender. "A visitor who wishes to see you." 
 
 Dorothy looked up with a startled expression. ** Who 
 is it?" 
 
 " Egerton ! I met him just now by accident, and he 
 came on here with me." 
 
 Dorothy rose, and came beside Standish before she replied 
 then she said in a low rapid tone, "I cannot see him, Paul, 
 you will not ask me, it is quite — quite impossible." 
 
 " I shall not ask you to do anything you don't like, Dor- 
 othy, but later on you must really get over this prejudice. 
 You must see Egerton some day." 
 
 " I will try," she said, with a kind of slight shiver, "but 
 you must give me time." 
 
 " You will tell me your reasons, for it is quite unintell- 
 igible this reluctanoe of yours to meet him." 
 
143 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 'I 
 
 I 
 
 "You see," she continued, looking down and drawinu 
 her handkerchief nervously through her fingers, " he would 
 remind me so of everything, and 1 never did like him, not, 
 at least, after just the first " 
 
 "He was very fascinating' at first, certainly," said Stand- 
 ish, with a faint smile. "I remember your comparing him 
 to various heroes — let me see — Don John of Austria, Sir 
 Philip Sidney, and " 
 
 "Oh, do not talk of that time, Paul, it was too— too 
 happy," 
 
 " Forgive me, dear Dorothy," taking her hand, " I will 
 not tease you to do any tiling you do not like; promise to 
 come for a long walk with me to-morrow, if the boy con- 
 tinues to hold his ground. You must not play trickft with 
 your health, you are not exactly a giant, my dear ward." 
 
 Dorothy made no reply, she stood very still, her hand in 
 that of Standish, while he looked with grave, thoughtful 
 consideration at the slight girlish figure, the half-averted 
 pathetic face, the sweet quivering mouth. It was sad to 
 see the traces of sorrow on so young a creature, especially 
 as there was some element in her sorrow which he could 
 not quite make out. Standish sighed a short deep sigh, at 
 which Dorothy started from her thoughts, and withdrew 
 her hand. 
 
 " I suppose I must go," said Standish. "If it is fine to- 
 morrow, you will be ready for me at two ? We will have 
 a ramble round thn gardens." 
 
 " Very well, thank you. You are very good to me, Paul. 
 Can I ever show you how grateful I amV" 
 
 " Don't talk of gratitude. There can be no question of 
 such a thing between us." 
 
 " Q-ood-bye, for the present, Paul — till to-morrow." 
 
 Dinner passed heavily enough. Whatever subject Stand- 
 ish started Egertou let drop, though occasionally he seemed 
 to spur himself to talk. It appeared to Standish the long- 
 est meal of which he had ever partaken. The waiter had 
 placed the dessert before|them when a Lelegram was handed 
 to Standish, who, glancing over the lines, of which there 
 were several, exclaimed with some excitement, "By Heaven! 
 we may get a clue at last! It is from Eastport. 'Some im- 
 portant evidence offered by a newly-arrived sailor. Come 
 if possible.' " 
 
BLliSlD FATE. 
 
 147 
 
 r&S too — too 
 
 luestion of 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ** A VOICE FROM THE SEA." 
 
 When Standish finished, Egerton did not speak for a 
 moment or two. He stared at his companion in an odd, 
 bewildered way, and crumbled the bread which lay beside 
 him, as if unconscious of what he was about. 
 
 " I wonder what this fellow can have to tell ?" he ex- 
 claimed, at last. "I suppose he is some pal of the suspected 
 Spaniard, turning King's evidence." Egerton poured out 
 a glass of wine, and drank it off as soon as he had spoken. 
 " I should like to hear what he has to say, and judge for 
 myself. I shall r^m down to Eastport to-morrow." 
 
 '* So shall 1," returned Standish. "There's a crain at 
 eight-thirty. It will land us at Eastport Dy eleven to- 
 morrow morning. I'll telegraph to Briggs to have the man 
 at his office to meet us." 
 
 '•' If you cannot get away easily, I'll do the best I can 
 and report to you," said Egerton, glancing sharply at him, 
 and dropping his eyes again. 
 
 ** I think I can manage it. I shall look in at Lady R's 
 
 to-night, and say a word to my chlei:. I shall seo Sydney, 
 
 too, a man who sometimes takes my work. Lord R is 
 
 greatly interested in this business, and there is nothing 
 very special going on. I can be very well spared." 
 
 " If it is necessary, then, for both to go " 
 
 "I think it is decidedly necessary," interrupted Standish. 
 " In Callander's absence I am the nearest friend to the 
 murdered woman." Egerton did not reply for some min- 
 utes, during which Standish called Tor and filled in a tele- 
 gram form. " Send it at once. It will be delivered at 
 cock-crow to-morrow if it be too late to-night. Mew, Eger- 
 ton, I must write a few letters, and excuse myself to Do- 
 rothy Wynn, with whom I promised to walk to-morrow. 
 The poor little soul is fretting her life out. I shall not 
 give her the least clue to the real reason why I am obliged 
 to leave town to-morrow. 1 must say i am fiercely anx- 
 ious to ascertain what this man's revelations may lead up 
 to. I wonder what has become of Dillon. 1 wish we could 
 ■-lip him at the new witness." 
 

 I 
 
 I 
 
 148 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 -p .ii, 
 
 " He was in town a day or t wo ago. He called at my 
 looms, but I had not come to town. Bauer, my man, was 
 there, (I sent him on first, to have things ready), so he 
 ii;.id liim a visit, and seems to have inspected t lie premises, 
 for Bauer was much displeased ; he said he liad no business 
 to pry and ask questions about a .i.;entleman like me. But 
 ! t,old him it was only tin? force of habit." 
 
 " 1 think 1 will send him a line ""O h:s uddress. I should 
 like him to be with us tomorrow. He is an amazingly 
 shrewd fellow, but .» hf.^'e an unpleasant feeling that an 
 o;)i)Osite party, if thei'e were an opposite party, could gen- 
 erally induce him to see what they wisli( d, by th"} applica- 
 iion of a golden yalve to the palm of his liand-" 
 
 " You think so V" asked Eyjcrton, gravely, 
 
 " Yes ; 1 may do him injustice, but that is my im- 
 pression." 
 
 Egerton thought for an instant, and then said, " I will 
 leave you to youi letters, Staii.lish. 1 want to write some 
 myself before 1 go to bod. We'll meet, then, at the Water- 
 ' .0 to-mc.row morning. But, should anything occur to 
 prevent you, I shall go on alone." 
 
 " Oil ! I'il be there." 
 
 " By the way," resumed Egerton, " as 1 have Dillon's ad- 
 dress, why should 1 not look him up ? I can explain mat- 
 tors, and arrange for him to accompany us." 
 
 '• You might try," said Standish, " but 1 fancy it is not 
 easy to find him in, nor do 1 think he likes following the 
 trail in company." 
 
 Egerton took the card, and put it in his note-book, then, 
 nodding gowd-uight to his host, went awuy with a r^pid 
 step. 
 
 " 1 am sorry to disajipoint Dorothy," thought Standish, 
 us he placed i)ai.or and ink before him on the library-table. 
 " Life would bo very dull to me without her and Henrietta 
 Oakley. What an improvement a touch of real ft^eling has 
 been to Honrierta— -even phisicaiiy. She looks uncommonly 
 handsome sometimes," and he applied himself to his letters. 
 
 M * ♦ * * ,|t 
 
 The next morning wis wild and gloomy, with bursts of 
 wind and lashes of suddcMi, heavy rain. Egerton did not 
 fail to join Siaiidish ai W,:.t<'vloo, and they accoraidished 
 tlie journey almost '.n silence, alter the latter had informed 
 him tha.t he hud faded to du I H.llon. The portei at the 
 hotel faformed him that DiUou had beeu there th.-u morn- 
 
BLIND FATE 
 
 149 
 
 ing, and would probably call the next, but l.»is corairiL; and 
 going were extremely urioerLain. Egerton had therefore 
 left a note for him. 
 
 When they reached Eastport, the well-known common 
 was half hidden by thick sheets of rain sweejiing before a 
 wild southeaster, while the heavy, leaden-colored, threaten- 
 ing waves thunderec? along the ])each. 
 
 Neither uttered the thoughts which the sight of the 
 familiar place conjured up in both. Once a sigh so deep 
 as to be almost a moan, broke from Egerton, and he said in 
 a hoarse tone, " what an ending to it all." 
 
 After a short halt at the hotel, they drove to the office of 
 the lawyer who had been instructed to act for Colonel Cal- 
 lander, should his offer of a reward i)roduce any result. 
 
 Mr. Briggs was a short, dumpy man, with whiskers 
 meeting under his chin, and a round, jovial face. He rolled 
 somewhat in his walk — indeed, gave strangers the impres- 
 sion of being a " sea-going solicitor." 
 
 He was a little exalted in his own estf^em by being mixed 
 up with such swells as Standish and Egerton, and by the 
 sort of halo the whole business had cast around him. He 
 received Lhem cordially. 
 
 " Very glad to see you, gentleman. The man —Tom Rit= 
 sen -about whom I wrote, has not come yet, but he wi'' 
 be here presently. 1 doi't know that wiiat lie has to te' 
 of much importance. Step into ruy private ofHce." 
 
 As he threw an inner door open, a sailor of ord'najy 
 type preset! Led himself at the entrance of the office. 
 
 '' Oh, there you are, Ritson ! Come along." 
 
 They all went into thr; private oilice, where Standish at 
 once took a chair. Egerion remained standing, and the 
 lawyer retreated to his usual fortress, the arm chair behind 
 the knee-hole taljle. 
 
 The sailor, holding his cap in both hands somewhat 
 nervously, but with an air of some importance, kept rather 
 near the door. 
 
 " Come, Ritson," said the lawyer, "tell these gentlemou 
 your story." 
 
 Ritson shifted from one foot to the other. " Well, ^sir," 
 he began. " this was the way of it. You see, I'm an East- 
 port man, and I shipped aboard the Miic. Ionia, ono of the 
 Commercial Steam Navigation Cumiiany's ship:, in Lmdon 
 'lock on Septemljer iast. We put in her»! for a day and a 
 night, and 1 had leave to go .aid hee HOiwi of my frimds as 
 
150 
 
 BLIXD FATE. 
 
 % 
 
 live out Westdene way, but I was to be at my post at seven 
 m-x.1 rxioruiiig as we were to sail witii the tide."' 
 
 Kgerton muttered a lialf-inarticulate exclamation of im- 
 patience, and Bngf^s said aioud, '• Come, get on, my man." 
 - '* 1 mubt teii it you all from beginning to end," he said, 
 "or 1 can't do it no way." 
 
 "Give him his head," murmured Standish, in a low tone. 
 
 " .So," continued liitson. aa my aunt's husband was a 
 jovial, hospitable ciiap, I thoagiit I'd not stay there all 
 night, for mayue I'd drink a drop too much, and oversleep 
 myself. We sat talkin' and chattin' till past midnight. 
 Tnen 1 says goodbye, and started to walk into Eastport. I 
 had a drop, but only a drop. I knew what I was 
 about. It was dark when I set out, but by an' by the 
 moon rose, and by the time 1 struck the top of the common 
 there was plenty of light, though every now and then a big 
 cloud would coiue sailing across the moon. When 1 got 
 alongside a pretty bit of a house, the first you come to after 
 crossing the sand-hills from Westdene, 1 thought how quiet 
 and comfortable everything looked, aud thought there was 
 a faint glimmer of light in one of the lov/er windows nigh 
 the near end of the house. While I was looking and think 
 ing, a figure comes out of a gate at the side of the house, 
 carrying a siiort ladder on his shoulder. He put it down 
 and stood with one arm vound it, through the rungs, as if 
 thinking what he'd do next. There was something so 
 quiet and steadfast in his way that it never struck me he 
 could be after any mischief, tliough it did seem a bit queer 
 his being there with a ladder at that hour. Just then the 
 East port clocks chimed out three-quarters — 1 guessed it 
 must 1)6 quarter to two, and that I had best make for the 
 town as la^t as I could. When I got a few paces off, I 
 turned and looked back, but not a sign of the man or the 
 ladder could 1 see. 1 got into the old Mermaid Tavern, and 
 to bed. Next morning we sailed." 
 
 " Do you remember the date of this occurrence ? " asked 
 Briggs. 
 
 '' 1 do, sir. It was the twenty-second of September, and 
 the birthday of my aunt's youngest boy, so we drank an 
 extra glass of grog to his health. Of course I thought no 
 more about it. We had an uncommon rough passage across 
 the bay, and were obliged to put into Gibraltar to retit. 
 Then we went on to Constantinople, from that to Port 
 Said, and back, and I was left behind in hospital. Alto- 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 151 
 
 at seven 
 
 -tether I have been over six months out of England, for I 
 came home as third officer of a small sailing ship, and it 
 was terriblf slow tub." 
 
 •* When did you land here? " asked Standish. 
 
 " Four days ago, sir. Then I hear of the murder, and the 
 reward, so 1 came along here to tell what I had seen that 
 ui-ht. and you can take it for what it is worth." 
 
 " What was the man like — the man you saw with the 
 ladder?" continued Standish. 
 
 "A tall, straight kind of a chap, aDout " Ho paused, 
 
 and gazed hard at Egerton — "about this gentleman's height 
 and build." 
 
 Egerton drew himself up to his full stature, and looked 
 straight at the speaker, with a stern, set expression, as if 
 nerving himself to face some imminent danger. 
 
 " Look well," he said. '• Much may depend on the appar- 
 ent height and size of tlie figure you saw." 
 
 ''Yes." returned R'tsoii. -lowly. '-He was about your 
 height, but a tr'lie broader it seems to me now." 
 
 "How was h'3 dressed?" asked Standish. 
 
 •'In a longish jacket— something like a seaman's jacket ; 
 but what I noticed most was that h'i liad neither hat nor 
 cap on. Ciotlies and head and all looked dark. Of course 
 i could not see very clear — the light was shifty, and there 
 was the garden and strip of common between me and him. 
 
 ■• Did he look like a seafaring man ? '" ask d Briggs. 
 
 •• Well, sir. he warn't uulise one. You .see I didn't take 
 'ime to look much, for, as I said before, it didn't strike me 
 as he hadn': a right to be tn-re — he moved deliberate like." 
 
 '•It sounds rather corroborative of our suspicions," said 
 >?:andish to Egerton. •• You are certainly like trial Sj^anish 
 -aiior in hei^iit and fi^rure. He would not have worn his 
 red ca:> on such an errand, either." 
 
 Egerton b-n: his head in acquiescence, but did not speak. 
 
 •' I h-ard te.l of ••hat Spanish chap," resumed Ritson. 
 • and I well remember passing a foreif^n-lookifig craft a 
 'JO'-iple o' hours after we weighed] anchor, Soe was on 
 much 'he same tacK as we were, but the r^^jeze had failed 
 ■'■ti\ and we soon showed her our heels. I read hhc name 
 ■I? we passe'i. Veloz." 
 
 •rm afra d we can't get much help out of this," said 
 Jtig^'s. as h^ made a not*-- or two on the paj,.';r before him. 
 • Xo: a: present, but i: may -ome in usefully liereafto;,* 
 j:^scrved S aud:sh. •• I snouid like thiu goo<i feiiow'.i. 
 
152 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 I'll'' 
 
 m 
 
 evidence taken down and duly sworn to, that it raavl 
 available in liis absence." 
 
 •' That is quite ri^ht, Mr. Staiidish. I'll see to it.' 
 
 " Can you remember anything else that migliL pcfesil] 
 lead to the identitication of this man ?" 
 
 " 1 don't think i can, sir. 1 did fancy, when he 
 turned half towards me, that there was something redilij 
 under his jacket or facing the jacket." 
 
 Egerton compressed his lips, and made a slight movema 
 as if going to step towards the speakers, but checked 
 self, and continued profoundly still. 
 
 " Ha !" cried Briggs, " 1 remember those vagabod 
 generally wore red bands or sashes under their jackets. | 
 think this thickens the case against the Spaniard." 
 
 " Yes, it looks like it," said Scaudish, thoughtfully, "jl 
 I hope and trust is that the poor girl never CHUgkl 
 glimpse of her murderer — that she never woke. God ! it| 
 too terrible to think of !" he added, with sudden, 
 emotion. 
 
 Egerton grasped the back of a huge high-backed ck 
 near him, saying, in a low, fierce tone, " And he 
 lives !" He drew out his purse, and put some money | 
 Ritson's hand. " That's for your trouble," he add 
 " Standish, there is no more to learn. You will find mel 
 the hotel," and hastily left the room. 
 
 " He's been pretty bad," said Mr. Briggs, looking a!l 
 him. '' 1 heard he had fever. He hasn't picked up mo| 
 since." 
 
 " No ; the winter is against him," said Standish. 
 arranging with Briggs to have Ritson's deposition prop 
 taken and attested ; also that he should inform the la\ 
 what vessel he joined, and her destination, invited Biid 
 to luncheon, which he was reluctantly obliged to declJ 
 so Standish departed, glad to be free to return to town tij 
 evening. 
 
 First, however, wrapping himself in his ulster, he f* 
 the rain and storm to walk round the pretty villa, where] 
 had spent such tranquil, happy hours. With a heal 
 heart he contrasted that picture and this. What weigW 
 most upon his mind was a strong conviction that soij 
 thing sadder was yet to come. He feared the effects of 
 terrible strain on Callander's nervous system. His loil 
 lonely wanderings would increase his natural depressij 
 The best chance for healing his wounds was in the re 
 
to, that it mav 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 153 
 
 rided by nature in the love and care due to his children. 
 iiiaish thought with infinite compassion of the bereaved 
 iband. He seeuiei to realise with extraordinary force 
 It the loss of a sweet, beloved wife must be. It would 
 jkimost impossible to bear up under such a trial. After 
 an old bachelor's life is almost unavoidably poverty- 
 
 Icken. Then he wondered vaguely what crotchet had 
 
 led Callander from the friendly, hearty contidence he 
 
 always shown to his wife's guardian, co tiie silent es- 
 
 igemenc of the last few months. On this puzzle he had 
 
 Bu meditated, and had as often been obliged to give it 
 
 I as inexplicable, 
 ^hen lie reached the hotel he found Egerton impatiently 
 
 laitiug him. He was walking up and down the room, 
 
 |ere luncheon was laid, and on the table stood a carafe of 
 idy, more than half empty. The sight of it reminded 
 
 bdish that he thought Egerton had drunk an unusual 
 
 lount of wine the night before. 
 
 I' We shall scarcely catch the train," said Egerton, as 
 
 ^y sat down to a hasty meal, of which he hardly ate any- 
 ig. 
 le was very silent during the hour which ensued, and 
 
 freely seemed to hear i;he comments Standish made on 
 
 tson's story, his assertion that there was but one man 
 
 )ut the premises. He only remarked abruptly, '* No ; I 
 
 m- thought tiiere was more than one in it, and 1 iear — 
 
 eel sure he will not soon be caught." 
 
 The hrst part of the return journey was passed in nearly 
 
 ^plete silence. Then Egerton, who had been looking at 
 
 Joiitineiital Bradshaw, exclaimed : 
 
 I' Standish, I will go to Spain, and hunt up this Pedro 
 
 )self." 
 
 ' Indeed ! Wha has " 
 
 1 have frequently thought of doing it," interrupted 
 lerton. " The fact is, 1 have not felt strong enough lo 
 Idertake the journey hitherto. But 1 am the right man 
 llook for him ; i speak the language ; and he is probably 
 ping in my mother's country. 1 knew most of the in- 
 itial families in Valencia when i was there not many 
 irs ago. They will not have quite forgotten me. Yes ; 
 luik i can get off the day after to-morrow. Too much 
 "lehas been lost already." 
 % dear fellow,'" cried Standish, " do not be rash, 
 ttsult your medical adviser. Even your success will not 
 
154 
 
 BLIND i'ATK 
 
 bring poor Mabel back to life, will not restore the charm of 
 
 his existence to Callander, nor " 
 
 " Give back the color and savor to mine," ''^terrupted 
 Egerton, impulsively. 
 
 i assure you, Standish, that in 
 my present mood I see lictle or no charm in life. If Icoulu 
 bring this There, I cannot talk about it. 
 
 You do not 
 
 dream of tlie extraordinary mixture of feelings which dis- 
 tract me." Ho stopped abruptly, and then .went on in a 
 forced tone, '• 1 am not quite an Englishman, you see. 1 
 feel more acutely, none of you consider me an out-and-out 
 Englishman See how Dorothy Wynn refused me ; she 
 couldn't hear me.'' 
 
 " The vv^him of a very young girl," urged Standish. 
 
 Egerton shook hio head. 
 
 There is wonderful ripeness and decision about Miss 
 Wynn," he said. •' She is more like twenty -nine than 
 nineteen. She disliked me with her intellect as well as her 
 heart. However, I shall never offend again in the same 
 way. Yes, I'll go to Spain. It has no associations with 
 the immediate past, and 1 shall go alone." 
 
 " You had better go with Dillon, i fancy he is free jusc 
 now." Egerton made no reply, nor d'd Standish press the 
 question. 
 
 They discussed Egerton's plans till they neared the 
 Metropolis, and Standish remarked how clear and defned 
 they were. They had 3vidently not b<^en thought out on 
 the spur of the moment. When they spoke of Callander's 
 probable return, Standish fancied he could trace a certain 
 loluctance on his companion's part to meet hi^ friend. 
 
 "He shrinks from the pain of seeing him," thought 
 Standish. ''It is natural enough, especially as he is 
 evidently weakened and depressed." 
 
 At Waterloo they parted, each going their own way. 
 Standish found various letters, invitations, and notes 
 awaiting him, amont,st them one from Miss Oakley. 
 
 "Do come and ;>ee us as soon as you can. We have 
 heard that you went down to Eastport, and are dying to 
 know the reason why. Have you found out anything? 
 
 "Imagine! Mrs. Callander is to arrive the day after to- 
 morrow. 1 had a letter horn Miss Boothby. The poor old 
 thiUi^- seems quite worn-out, lor riy aunt has been very 
 unwell, luid you may imagine what that meaas to her 
 attendants. 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 155 
 
 ) charm of 
 
 •" *:errupted 
 li, that in 
 If Icouiu 
 l^ou do not 
 \fhich dib- 
 nt on in a 
 /o\x see. 1 
 Lit-and-out 
 d me ; she 
 
 iish. 
 
 kbout Miss 
 -nine than 
 well as her 
 I the same 
 itions with 
 
 is free jusii 
 1 press ciie 
 
 leared the 
 ud def ned 
 jht out on 
 Jallander's 
 a certain 
 riend. 
 
 thought 
 as he is 
 
 own way. 
 and notes 
 
 We have 
 
 dying to 
 
 anything r 
 
 y after to- 
 e poor old 
 )een very 
 018 to her 
 
 »> 
 
 "If Mr. Egerton is with you, pray bring him. He is 
 more interesting than ever. -'Yours truly, 
 
 "Henrietta Oakley." 
 
 "I hope to Heaven Miss Oakley has not commuuicated 
 her knowledge or suspicions to Dorothy," said Standish to 
 himself, when he finished this epistle. "I do not want her 
 to be disturbed with any fresh information, she is in a 
 pitiable state of nervous depression as it is, I wish Hen- 
 rietta Oakley would take her and the children abroad, to 
 some place quite unconnected with the past. I must talk to 
 her about this." 
 
 Looking at his watch he found it would not be too late 
 to pieseut himself after dinner. 
 
 He felt somewhat uneasy until he had seen Dorothy, and 
 was certain the first glance at her face would tell him how 
 much she knew. 
 
 •'The ladies had left the dinner-table and were in the 
 drawing-room,'' Collins informed the late, but welcome 
 visitor, when ho opened the door. 
 
 Miss Oakley was at the piano when Standish was shown 
 ill, and Dorothy sitting on a low chair by the fire ; the 
 dancing light played upon the red golden brown of her 
 hair, the pale oval of her delicate pensive face ; she was 
 more dressed than he had yet seen her, that is, her black 
 dress was opened in a long V, an inner edging of white 
 crape almost filling up the space, her elbow sleeves showed 
 her slight white arms. Standish was almost frightened 
 to see how fragile, how fairy-like she looked, slie ought 
 now to be looking more like her own bright self. The 
 recuperative powers of youth ought to assert themselves 
 by this time. 
 
 At the firse syllable of his name, she started up and ran 
 to meet him. 
 
 "How good of you to come at once, 
 would." 
 
 "Mr, Standish ! This is delightful ! 
 what took you away to that wretched 
 Oakley, coming over to shake hands with him. 
 
 "Yes, Paul, tell us everything," echoed Dorothy, "bui 
 first for my piece of good news. 1 had quite a nice letter 
 from the (volonel. He will be home in a week or two." 
 
 "Ha! that is i,ood, indeed! Now 1 have a little, a very 
 little to tell you. it leads, well really to nothing, and it is 
 painful— do you still wish to hear it V" 
 
 Paul ! I knew you 
 
 I am dying to hear 
 place," cried Miss 
 
166 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 life' 
 
 lit' 
 
 
 
 [1-: 
 
 ir 
 
 »I do," said Dorothy in a stifled voice. 
 
 'Yes, of course we do," cried Henrietta, drawing a low 
 easy chair by the fire. Dorothy nestled into the corner of 
 a sofa whioli was partially in shadow, while Standi«h 
 placed himself on an ottoman at Miss Oakley's left. 
 
 He described the meeting with Ritson and gave a brief 
 summary of his communication. He could not well make 
 out what effect the narrative had upon Dorothy, as her 
 face was almost hidden from him, but when he came to 
 that part of the story where Ritson said the man he liad 
 seen with the ladder was about the same height and size 
 as Egerton, she uttered an inarticulate exclamation and 
 leaned forward as if startled. 
 
 "How extraordinary," cried Henrietta Oakley. "I call 
 this very important, it proves to me, that the deed must 
 have been done by that dreadful horrid sailor. He cer- 
 tainly was very like Mr. Egerton. It seems such a shame. 
 How dreadfully ill and worn he looks, poor fellow ! I feel 
 quite sorry to see liim. Do you know, 1 f^el so convinced 
 it was one of those blood-thirsty monsters who committed 
 the murder, that 1 have told Collins to take that wretched 
 parrot and sell it for what lie likes. Don't you remember, 
 Dorothy, how I exclaimed at the strange likeness to Mr. 
 Egerton? Dorothy, what is the matter, Dorothy? Oh, Mr. 
 Standish, what " 
 
 But Standish was already beside her. Her head had 
 fallen back among the cushions, her hands, cold and death- 
 like, lay helplessly at either side. 
 
 gone! She has fainted!" cried Standish, in 
 tones. "For God's sake, call nurse ! I don't 
 know what to do for her," and ho began to chafe her hand 
 gently. 
 
 Henrietta rushed first to the bell, which she rang furi- 
 ously, and then to the door, where she called loudly for 
 every servant in the house, till the room was half full. 
 
 ••Just stand back every one of you, and leave the room 
 this minute," cried Mrs. McHugh, authoritatively, "all she 
 wants is air — and quiet." 
 
 •'She is 
 desj)aring 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DOROIUY SPEAKS. 
 
 Dorothy's faintness soon passed away, an open window 
 and nurse's steady gentle fanning brought her to herself. 
 
BLIND FATB 
 
 167 
 
 "I wish to heaven you had uot. ^aid anything aboui our 
 going to Fordsea, 1 did iiut moaa to tell her, she cannot 
 stand any allusion to the dreadful shock she sustained 
 there ! Who told you we had gone ? " said Standish im- 
 patiently aside to Miss Oakioy. 
 
 " Collins did, he heard it from Mr. Egerton's man. Why? 
 Do you think it was that made her faint ? 1 believe it was 
 over-fatigue." 
 
 ' ' Hush ! " said Mrs. McHugh. The next moment Do- 
 rothy opened her eyes and asked feebly : 
 
 " What is the matter! Oh, nurse ! " — she stopped, puz- 
 zled to find her there. 
 
 " You have given us such a fright, Dorothy," exclaimed 
 Miss Oakley. " Mr. Standish was just telling us every- 
 thing and you " 
 
 A ferocious shake of the head from Mrs.McHugh arrested 
 her wcrds. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I remember it all now'" said Dorothy, a look 
 of fear and pain mixed passing over her faca 
 
 " I am weak and foolish. I am very sorry to give all 
 this trouble," — sne sighed, and passing her hand over her 
 brow, made a feeble attempt to put back her long thick 
 wavy hair, which had got into some disorder. 
 
 "Never mind it now Miss Dorothy, my dear. I'll put it 
 right, you come away to your bed — that will be best for 
 you — m sit by you till Miss Oakley comes up. A good 
 sleep will make you all right." 
 
 " You can't walk upstairs, Dorothy. Let me carry you," 
 said Standisa. " You know I've carried you many a time." 
 
 "Long ago, Paul!" she returned, a color coming into her 
 cheek. " I can walk quite well, and nurse wiil be with me," 
 rising and steadying herself with one hand on the end of 
 the sofa." 
 
 ** I will try and come up to-morrow afteiuoou. Good- 
 night, dear, good-night." D^rotiiy half turned to him, but 
 seemed so unsteady on her feet, that 8Landish, without 
 more word3, put his arm round her and supported her up- 
 stairs — followed by Mrs. McHugh. " fcJond me word how 
 she is to-morrow, nurse," he said kindly. " I siiall be very 
 anxious till 1 have your report." 
 
 "Never fear, sir," said Nurse, then b.s he went down the 
 stairs again, she looked after liiiu and added, as if to her- 
 self : "Athen! if there wore more like you in it, this world 
 
158 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 would be a better place. Come, now, get to your bed as 
 ([uick as you cau, Miss Dorotliy." 
 
 HeririetLa was dosing the piano when Standish returned 
 to the room. 
 
 " 1 really don't know what we should do without nurse," 
 she began immediately she had a listener. " She is a tower 
 of refuge in every emergency, but she is a bit of a tyrant 
 into the bs.rgain." 
 
 " These attacks are very alarming," said Standish, who 
 liad taken his iiosition on the hearth, and did not even seem 
 to see the lady of the house. 
 
 "Attacks ! she never fainted before, except indeed the 
 morning she touud herself face to face with her poor dead 
 sister, and that would have made even me faint," cried 
 Henrietta. 
 
 " Still, allowing for all the terrible shock, there is some- 
 thing not quite natural in her grief, considering her age. 
 She always seems oppressed with some dread and fear of 
 what is coming." 
 
 And Standish tried to calm the perturbation of his spirit 
 by walking to and fro. 
 
 " Not more than you might expect after all she has gone 
 througli. I think she has been terribly anxious too about 
 Herbert. Wiu^n he retains she will probably be more at 
 rest. Poor Herbert ! 1 am sure we are both ready to de- 
 vote ourselves to him ; but no doubt we shall find him 
 greatly recovered and in due time he will look out for 
 another wife. Men have so little constancy — Heigho! " 
 
 '' She was always a fanciful, imaginative creature," re- 
 sumed Staudirih, continuing his walk. ''As a child she was 
 much more distressed about visionary wrongs than her 
 
 sister, though she " 
 
 " Dear me, Mr. Standish, I wish you would sit down. It 
 worries me to see anyone 'walking the quarter deck' in a 
 room." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he returned, smiling, and sitting 
 down on the sofa beside her. 
 
 " 1 protest you are as anxious and watchful of Dorothy 
 as if she were the sole daughter of your house and heart," 
 coniimied Miss Oakley, with just a touch of peevishness in 
 her tone. 
 
 Standish lurned to her with .something of surprise in his 
 look. 
 
 'Do 1 seem such an old fogey to you, Miss Oakley i*" he 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 159 
 
 bed as 
 
 returned 
 
 t nurse," 
 
 a tower 
 
 a tyrant 
 
 ish, who 
 »venseem 
 
 deed the 
 )oor dead 
 It," cried 
 
 I is some- 
 ; her age. 
 1 fear of 
 
 tiis spirit 
 
 has gone 
 00 about 
 
 more at 
 ,dy to de- 
 tind him 
 
 out for 
 
 ho!" 
 
 »> 
 
 ture," re- 
 d she was 
 than her 
 
 Lown. It 
 eok' in a 
 
 d sitting 
 
 Dorothy 
 
 \d heart,'' 
 shness in 
 
 ise in his 
 
 iley?" he 
 
 asked. " It is a just rebuff to my conceit ! I Battered my- 
 self that I was not quite obselete in your estimation." 
 
 " Oh, I am not going to reveal what my opinion of you 
 is," she replied, holding up her fan and peeping over the 
 top of it, for Henrietta was ready for flirtation on the 
 shortest notice and under the greatest difficulty. 
 
 " Then I shall continue to flatter myself that I stand on 
 the iiighest pinnacle of your favor, and trouble you with 
 even more numerous visits then I have yet inflicted on 
 you, though I am now reluctantly obliged to say good-night. 
 I am tjure Dorothy will be looking for you. I can never 
 forget all you have been to my poor little ward." 
 
 " I am sure I am as fond of her as possible, sb^^ is a dear 
 thing. Must you go, Mr. Standish ? Will you come to 
 dinner to-morrow ? And oh, here ! here is Herbert's letter, 
 I know Dorothy intended to give it to you. G-ood-night. 
 
 "Till to-morrow, good-bye," said Standish. 
 
 " Really." mused Miss Oakley, as the door closed upon 
 him, " I think Mr. Standish is developing quite a fancy for 
 me. I am sure 1 have no objection, there is something very 
 attractive about him, he is so self-possessed and decidv^d." 
 
 Dorothy shook off her indisposition completely, indeed 
 she seemed to enjoy a walk with her guardian on the two 
 days succeeding her aitack of faintness. He had intended 
 making an attempt to draw from her the secret reason, if 
 any, of the kind of nervous dread from uhich she seemed 
 to suffer, but she baffled him by speaking more cheerfully 
 than usual on abstract subjects, the only personal matter on 
 which she dwelt was E<,^ertou's intention of goinj^; to Spain, 
 which seemed to give her a certain satisfaction. On the 
 third afternoon a few lines from Standish told her that his 
 engagements would not allow of his seeing her till late the 
 following day, so Dorothy went for a brisk walk with the 
 children in Kensington Grardens. 
 
 On her return, Collins told her that Miss Oakley was not 
 at home, so Dorothy went to take of her out-door garment 
 before entering the di awing-room. On her way sha met 
 Miss Oakley's maid, who said lier mistress had gone out 
 again on foot to take some books to the Miss Blackburns', 
 some young ladies in the near ueighbourhood. 
 
 With a comfortable sense of fatigue Dorothy settled her- 
 self to read, but found her own thoughts more interesting 
 than the pages before her. 
 
v^ S 
 
 160 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 m 
 
 Braced by the air and exercise she had enjoyed, she made 
 a strong and wi.se effort to r> ason herself out of the cruel 
 morbidness which had laid its chili gras^i upon her 
 
 Should she not be more faithful to her sister by striving 
 to fulfil the duties from wnich she had been torn, than by 
 letting herself brood over her sickening sense of Egerton's 
 treachery and murderous revenge, the maddening desire to 
 punish him, abortive as it was to dream of so doing, save 
 at the price of her beloved sister's reputation? Then when 
 the bereaved husband returned should she not have a fresli 
 and absorbing object in trj'ing to comfort him and make 
 his life endurable — and those poor dear children ! The}- 
 need all the care a sound healthy mini could bestow, and 
 how was hers to remain either sound or healthy if it were 
 to be always haunted by the thought that she herself 
 was compromised by her silence regarding her conv.ction 
 as to the murderer. "Vengeance is mine, I will repay.'' 
 Yes! in the hands of the All Wise she would leave the mat- 
 ter; it was not for her to interfere, nor permit herself to 
 dwindle into a useless hysterical mourner, refusing to be 
 comforted. 
 
 Then ^he thought of the dear children. How thankful 
 she was that the boy had rfkllied and wa» rapidly recover- 
 ing his healthy look again. Once Herbert was among them 
 he would surely be drawn back to life by the faces, the lov- 
 ing ways of his children. '' He will lose that awful look of 
 hopless indifference that used to chill my heart. It is 
 nearly four months since 1 saw him. How has he lived 
 through the terrible desolation of those months ? He would 
 have been better with us. I wonder if Doily's strong like- 
 ness to her mother will please or shock him ? Oh ! I hope 
 he will leave Dolly with me always, she is such a dar- 
 ling!" 
 
 Then she thought of Callander's curious aversion to Stand- 
 ish. He had never mentioned his name in any of the few 
 letters he had addressed to her or to Henrietta, not even in 
 the last, which was the fullest, the most hopeful of any. 
 
 It would be too dreadful if he took some unreasonable 
 dislike to Standish and forbade him the house. Then it came 
 to her, like a swift piercing painful ray of light, how intol- 
 erable the days would be without Standish. Slie used to 
 think of him formerly a good deal, but quite differently, 
 she used to be impatient and offended if he neglected her, 
 aud fluttered if he showed a decided preference to her so- 
 
BLIND FATB. 
 
 101 
 
 ciety, blushing and disturbed when he occasionally man- 
 CBuvred to have her all to himself. Now all these fantasies 
 were chased away by the dark solemn shadow tLat had 
 fallen on them. 
 
 All the tremulous <Usturbance was stilled into utter un- 
 resisting dependance on him. His voice soothed her, his 
 touch gave her strenj^th. He was so patient, so consider- 
 ate! She looked for -is coming as the one bit of color in 
 her existence. If she could only have him always beside 
 her, no ill would be quite unendurable, but of course she 
 could not expect that. So clever and experienced and infi- 
 nately well-informed a man would require a far different 
 companion from herself, so one day he would no doubt 
 marry a very superior woman. 
 
 A t-uperior woman! How awful it sounded! It made 
 Dorothy quite long to be rwenty-one, though it seemed very 
 old, rather than be under the wing of such a guardianess. 
 
 How long the afternoon would be ; for Henrietta would 
 be sure to stay to tea with the Miss Blackburns. 
 
 As she thought thus the door opened and she heard Col- 
 lins say : — 
 
 " If you'll sit down a moment, sir, I will tell Miss Oak- 
 ley.'" 
 
 Dorothy was lost to sight in the depths of a large arm- 
 chair, and did not perceive who had come in ; but, starting 
 up w ith her usual dread of meeting any stranger, she 
 found herself face to face with Egerton. 
 
 Both stood quite still, their eyes iixed on each other — a 
 determined, sullen look gradually hardening Egerton's face 
 while Dorothy's arge, thoughtful eyes flamed out with 
 such fire as none had ever seen in them before. 
 
 Egerton was the first to speak. 
 
 •' Had I known you were here. Miss Wynn, I should not 
 have intruded, as you seem, from some unaccountable 
 reason, to dislike meeting me." 
 
 • No/' said Dorothy, advancing very slowly a step or 
 two nearer, all her resolutions of a moment before thrown 
 to the winds, her whole soul burning with the fiercest 
 hatred against the foe before her, her veins throbbing with 
 a tempest of anger. " No, I am glad to meet you, glad to 
 speak to you, so long as there is no one else to hear me. 
 She spoke deliberately, her eyes holding his. 
 
 Egerton's countenance changed. 
 
 •' 1 am most ready to listen." 
 
192 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 ui. 
 
 
 \t"-H 
 
 " YeH," she returned. gra?^;.ing the top of a high-backf 1 
 chair near her as if to steady herself, •• you must and sha . 
 hsten. Do you rernernoer," she continued, •• one day, not a 
 we*jk ^yefore she was -murdered, you were talking with 
 Mabel in the verandaii, when you ur^ed her to leave her 
 husband, and swore you wouid rather crush out her life 
 '.han see her live ha .»ily ^\th him. I was near the open 
 winaow ,ind ' if d j'. \ 
 She paused. 
 
 " Then," exclaimed E>*ri'Con K a strange, stifled voice. 
 " if you have a human heart >o.* must have some pity for 
 the most miserable of men. Nothing out tne dread of the 
 world's inferences, the world's talk, the reverence I have 
 for her memory, has kept me from ending anoxiatence that 
 in a curse to me I" 
 
 '' Better you did than pay the fo/feit due to justice," re- 
 turned Dorothy, with indescribabio menace. '• Knowing all 
 I do, what has kept me from denouncing you save my love 
 for her — consideration for my dariini^^'s fame? Here, face 
 to face, 1 accuse you of destroying her happiness for 
 the gratification ol the poisonous venom you called love, 
 
 and hi-r life, either by " 
 
 " For God's sake, be merciful ! You do not know what 
 tortures my own conscience inflicts. I know how guilty 1 
 am — 1 know how base ; but," with a despairing gesture, 
 " you cannot dream what the madness of a love like mine 
 was !" He be^an to pace the room in profound agitation. 
 " If she would liave listened to me, and left that insensible 
 tyrant, ner husl^and, it would have been but a nine days' 
 wonder, and think of the bliss that awaited us both! I 
 could have mado her life one long, bright dream of joy, a 
 palace of enchantment." 
 
 •' Founded on a brave, true man's broken art and the 
 contempt of her own children," added Dorothy. " How 
 dare you speak such words to meV Has wickedness so 
 darkened your understanding; that \ i cannot see the vile 
 s.Uishnass, the unholy degradation ^f such a scheme ? 
 Listen ! Slio would never have gone from him to you ! 
 She did not love you — she feared you ; you had, by your 
 base, unmanly tricks, obtained a terrible mastery over her 
 gentle, innocent heart. 1 have a letter from her, implorincj 
 you bo set her fr-e, to leave her to her true affection and 
 duty -but 1 found no opnortuiiity to give it to you." 
 
BUND FATE. 
 
 16. 
 
 » C e it to me ncv! It w^is writt: u at your su--e^t.oii," 
 cried - '>erton; turnin , ou !ier fiercely. 
 
 ' Then, seeing' she was ahou: to e=c .pe from your toils." 
 conti:j aed Dorothy, with deadly com;;.o> irc'. -vou cairy out 
 your ^a•eac, and murder her— if not by your own hand, 
 hy » 
 
 " Great God ;■' exclaimed Egerton. with a groan, ''do 
 you believe this '?" 
 
 He sank into a chair, and covered his face with his 
 hands. 
 
 " I do, as firmly as if saw the knife in your hands, or 
 saw you put it into the hands of another." 
 
 '• "What do you mean? Not that 1 would touch a creature 
 dearer to me than my own life a thousand times, to destro, 
 her?" 
 
 He grew ghastly white as he spoke ; his dark eyes, di- 
 lated with horror, were lixed upon the siight figure of I ". 
 dau tless accuser. 
 
 " I mean," she said, with pitiless deliberation, "that, 
 either by your own hand or that of another, you— mur- 
 dered— her 1" 
 
 There was silence for a moment. 
 
 " Do not fear," resumed -Doro^hj'. with bitter contempt. 
 '• 1 shall not publish my convection : the forfeit of your 
 miserable life would but poorly pay for any discredit 
 thrown upon the memory, the character of the beloved 
 dead." 
 
 '• My God !" exclaimed Egerton, •• do yoa not s^e your- 
 self ttie injustice of your a'jcu.sation ? .Such an act is im- 
 possible to me I Do.x't let your indignation and hatre i 
 carry you to such insane lengths. Dont you see my ha ds 
 are tied V I cannot take any steps to prove my innocence."' 
 
 •' That I quite believe, as I be.ieve the searcn you have 
 undertaken for the supposed murderer will not be success- 
 ful." 
 
 '- With so bitter a prejudice, so extraordinary an accusa- 
 tion, it is impossible to deal," said Egerton. rfsamiiig his 
 troubled walk. I deserve almost all you say, but no: this I 
 You always hated me. and I confess you had reason. If 
 you knew more of life— of men's lives, you would nottaink 
 lue so unparalleled a rutfian ! With this nxed.d.-ii you 
 will never be able to keep silence. You win gradually ie- 
 out your suspicions ' 
 
 '• My conviction," interposed Dorothy. 
 
 HSerffflR? 
 
164 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 1 
 
 " Bo- 
 tha 
 
 '* Your conviction, then, and 1 shall be blackened witl 
 tlie blight of indelinabl«) calumny." 
 
 " My motives for keeping silence are too strong— 
 rothy was beginning, when Collins suddenly threw 
 door open, exclaiming joyously — 
 
 "Here's the colonel himself coming up with Miss Oakley.' 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, be composed," whispered Dorothy 
 in a quick, emphatic whisper. The next moment Hen- 
 rietta, radiant, exultant, entered, followed by a gentleman, 
 slightly bent, with gray hair and moustache and beard of a 
 darker tinge, all wild and untrimmed, a pair of dark, dull 
 eyes, very quiet and dreamy, his clothes thrown on un- 
 brushed, and a general air of negligence about his appear- 
 ance. Could this be the well set up, carefully attired, 
 soldierly Callander ? Dorothy, already dazed by the fierce 
 emotion of her scene with Egerton, felt dizzy and almost 
 unable to speak. She was overwhelmed at tiie sight of 
 such havoc as a few short months had wrought. 
 
 "There! " cried Miss Oakley. "I was driving down Picca- 
 dilly when I saw Herbert turning out of De VJr street, so J 
 pounced upon him at once, and here he is 1 I think he needs 
 a little home care. Hasn't he grown gray ?" 
 
 This seemed, indeed, to Dorothy an exemplification of 
 the assertion that fools rush in where angels fear to tread. 
 The tenderness, the awe, which tilled her heart as she 
 gazed at the wreck of what her brother-in-law had been, 
 were unfelt by Henrietta, her slighter and more surface 
 nature just saw that her cousin Callander looked older and 
 grayer, and thought a little petting and feeding up would 
 remedy all that. 
 
 Dorothy, still quivering with the cruel shock which had 
 shaken her nerves flew to embrace Callander as she used 
 in her school-days. 
 
 "Dorothy! How do you do, my dear," said Callander 
 kindly, but by no means moved. "It seems a long time 
 since we met. Ah, Egerton ; I did not know you were in 
 town" — he held out his hand. How horrible it seemed to 
 Dorothy that Callander should touch him." 
 
 "Sit down by me, Dorothy," he continued, "I am pleased 
 to see you again, and Henrietta " 
 
 "And we have longed for you to return," said Dorothy, 
 bravely clioking down her tears. "You will want to see 
 the children, Herbert. They have looked for you, they are 
 hjuoh dears." 
 
BLIND FATE 
 
 166 
 
 "Yes," he said, with a heavy sigh, '*! must see them. 
 My little Dolly, my poor boy " 
 
 "1 will bring them," cried Dorothy, hastening to the 
 door, but passing Egerton, who looked stunned, and, it 
 seemed to her, guilty, she looked into his eyes — a look at 
 once warning and defiant. She ran to her room and seized 
 the moment to bathe her burning eyes, which were tearless 
 but felt like balls of fire. Tiien she summoned Mrs. 
 McHugh to bring the boy, while she, herself, led Dolly. 
 "I do hope they will not be frightened — that they will 
 know him," almost prayed Dorothy, while nurse kept up a 
 running fire of * 'if s." "If she had only known the poor 
 dear master would ask for the children all of a sudden 
 she would have put on their other frocks." "If that stupid 
 fellow, Collins, had sent her even the wind of a word she 
 might have curled Master Bertie's top-knot." 
 
 But the sense of lier words did not reach Dorothy's 
 understanding. She trembled for the effect of this meeting 
 with his children, on Callander's nerves. She had hoped 
 so much for his return, and to have the terrible presence 
 of the man she loathed and dreaded to desecrate this sad, 
 solemn reunion 1 
 
 Trembling in every limb, she nerved herself to prepare 
 the little girl. 
 
 "Dear father has come at last," she said, holding the 
 child's tiny hand. "You will run and kis.-, him, and tell 
 him you will be his good little girl." 
 
 '•Yes, auntie. Will he cany me up to bed, as he used ?" 
 
 "He will, dear." They were at the do r. Dorothy 
 pushed it open. To her infinite relief Egerton was gone. 
 
 "Go, darling ; run to father," she said, loosing the little 
 iiand. But Dolly hesitated. To her, the gray-haired 
 j^entleman was a total stranger. She looked at Callander, 
 and Callander at her. Then he said, low and soft : 
 
 "Dolly ; my little Dolly," and held out his hand. 
 
 The child went up to him, but slowly, with an awestruck 
 expression in her big, blue eyes. 
 
 Callander lifted her on his knee, then slowly, gently, 
 pressed her head to him, one hand covering her soft cheek, 
 while he bent down his own till his gri/zled beard mingled 
 with her golden locks. As he sai thus, his dark eyes woke 
 up Irom their dull apathy, and looked wildly away, as if 
 at some distant, dreadful, object, with a strained, agonised 
 expression, infinitely distressing. Dorothy gazed at father 
 
166 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 Mr- 
 
 m- ■ 
 
 i (ir ' 
 
 and child with an achiug heart, while Henrietta burst out 
 (trying, and the boy — too young to remember, to fear, to 
 mourn— called out noisuy, "Pa — pa, papa ! " 
 
 Then Callander, routed from his vision, clasping his 
 little girl tightly to his heart, kissed her passionately over 
 md over again, till the child looked half-frightened to 
 lier aunt for protection. Then the boy, thinking his sister 
 was having more than her share of notice, struggled from 
 nurse to his father, who, laying his hand on the child's 
 head, looked intently at him, and kissed his brow. 
 
 Then setting Dolly down, he stretched forth his hands, 
 palms out, in token tliat he wished lo be alone. 
 
 "It is altogether the most heartrending sight ! " sobbed 
 Henrietta, as they left the room. "How awfully aged he 
 
 IS! 
 
 I » 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 '' BEATING ABOUT THE BUSH." 
 
 Egerton found that he could not leave London as soon as 
 lie intended, and Colonel Callander's return further delayed 
 him. 
 
 Callander constantly sought him, as constantly as he 
 avoided Standish. The latter soon perceived this, and re- 
 linquished his visits to Prince's place, Kensington, 
 although Callander continued to live at the hotel in Dover 
 street, where he went on his arrival. Henrietta loudly 
 complained of Paul's enforced absence, and even remon- 
 strated with her cousin both for feeling anil showing such 
 an unreasonable dislike. He replied so sternly, not ad- 
 mitting or refuting her accusation, but asserting his own 
 liberty of action, that Henrietta was startled, and ran to 
 consult Dorothy. 
 
 Dorothy thought that at present it would be useless and 
 imprudent to contradict him. "We must induce him to 
 come here as much as possible," she said. " His only 
 chance of comfort is in taking an interest in the children, 
 now they give him as much pain as pleasure. He almost 
 siinnksfrom being with them, I can see that. If he could 
 only get accustomed to them, they would draw him 
 from him.self." 
 
 *' You are right, I suppose you are right, but it is a great 
 nuisance to lose Mr. Standisli. He is so pleasant, able to 
 tell one t.verything, and do everything one wants." 
 
BUND FATE. 
 
 167 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Callander was by no means an agree 
 able addition to their society. Her son could not be in- 
 duced to stay in her house or pay her rnoru tiiau tliu br>jfost 
 visits. This kept her in a state of chronic irritation, which 
 Henrietta's obstinacy, in setting' up house with Dorothy, 
 helped to increase. 
 
 If Henrietta openly avowed her annoyance at being cut 
 ofiE from the society of Standish, Dorothy felt its loss far 
 more deeply 
 
 Her affection for him had grown calm and sisterly, she 
 thought, yet his absence seemed to take away more than 
 half her life. It frightened her to perceive how blank and 
 desolate the world seemed without him. Must she learn to 
 live alone, without the constant soul-satisfying help and 
 care of Paul Standish ? 
 
 If so, she could not begin the cruel lesson too soon. 
 
 Egerton, meantime, betrayed to Paul's keen eyes a re- 
 markable degree of impatience to get away. He was ob- 
 liged to wait for one or two introductions to the local 
 authorities in that part of Spain where he intended to pur- 
 sue his researches, but so soon hs he obtained these he 
 would start. He was evidently reluctant to be with Gal- 
 lander, Standish thought, and counted the days until he 
 could turn his back on London. 
 
 The day before he was to start, he was dressed to go out, 
 and was giving some directions to his German valet Bauer 
 when the door- bell rang. 
 
 " It is the detecti ve Dillon, sir," said Bauer, returning. 
 " I have asked him to sit down while I enquired whether 
 you oould see him." 
 
 "I do not want to see the fellow," exclaimed Egerton, 
 " but I don't care to refuse, he's a d — d dangerous sneak. 
 I'll not stay long, * ven if I am obliged to leave him in your 
 hands. If I do, mi. 1 you don't let him turn you inside 
 out, or pump you about what I said in my ravings." 
 
 "He turn me insidi out! Ah, well, that is not just very 
 likely," returned the Uerman, with a superior smile, as he 
 left the room, and the next moment ushered, in Mr. Dillon. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Dillon ! To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing 
 you? " said Egerton, stiffly, and still standing. " I am 
 sorry I am obi ig;d to go out, but 1 am somewat pressed 
 for time." 
 
 " So I suppose, sir. I heard you were going to do a bit 
 of detective work in Spain and thought I'd just have ;i 
 
188 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 word or two with you before you started." 
 
 '• All rij,'ht, iMr. Dillon, pray speak." 
 
 "First and foremost, do you think you have much 
 chance of tracking the chap you— that is we— suspect? " 
 
 *' I cannot say; I can but do my be.st," returned Egerton, 
 walking to the fireplace, where he stood with his back to 
 the ligiit, as if he were uneasy under the keen steady glance 
 of Dillon's ferrit-like eyes. 
 
 " Well, you speak the lanj^uage, sir, which is an advan- 
 tage, but 1 have been over the ground, and I don't 
 think you'll find out what 1 couldn't." 
 
 "Do yoLi speak the language?" 
 
 " No sir, but 1 have a sworn interpreter with mo." 
 
 "Every additional inquirer lessons your chance of dis- 
 covery," returned Egerton. "I, at least, need no interpreter, 
 moreover, 1 know the place and the people." 
 
 "True, for you, .sir ; I wish you iiad been able to come 
 with me, together we might have done something." 
 
 " Come with me now," cried Egerton, " I'll stand all ex- 
 penses." 
 
 Dillon looked down meditatively, a slight subtle smile 
 pli*ying round his lips, and after a moment's pause, said: 
 " No, thank you, sir; I have a tr He of scent I'm hunting 
 up here, and I'll do more good by staying where I am." 
 
 "Ah ! " said Egerton — rather a quick "ah !" — "something 
 connected with that fellow who saw the man with a lad- 
 der?" 
 
 Dillon nodded. 
 
 "I don't see that that can lead to much," remarked Eg- 
 erton. 
 
 "It may, or it may not," said Dillon, oracularly. "Mr. 
 Standish sent for me and told me to sea tliis seaman, i 
 went over the ground with him, but what he has to say 
 counts for very little— no, 1 fancy 1 have hold of another 
 thread, a very slight one." 
 
 " Did you come to tell me about it ?" 
 
 " Well, no, sir — not yet." 
 
 " Then 1 am afra d I Ciuinot wait. 1 have a lot of ihings 
 to do, and -you'll excuse me?" 
 
 ^ " Of course, sir,only if you don't mind I'll go outside and 
 sit down a bit, I've turned giddy and faiut-liko in the last 
 few miuuies, fact is, 1 didp't get my usual bieakfast this 
 morning. There was some kind of bobbery in tho houso 
 where 1 ].ive, and 1 hadn't time to wait," 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 idd 
 
 much 
 
 ect? 
 
 ad van - 
 don't 
 
 " Oh, sit down by all means, and my man shall give you 
 a bisoait and a glass of wine. But I must bid you good 
 morning. Here, Bauer," with a haughty bend of his bead, 
 Egerton passed out into the small entrance or passage of 
 hi apartment. 
 
 " Give him wine and biscuits," he said to his valet, '*and 
 be prudent. I do not quite know what he is up to." 
 
 " Ach ! you look very bad, my friend," exclaimed Bauer, 
 coming back to Dillon after he had closed the door on hia 
 master. "I will give you something to do you good. What 
 shall it be, sherry, cognac, moselle V" 
 
 "You are most obliging! I'll just take a j- lass of water 
 with a sketch of cognac in it." 
 
 " Very well." The valet went across to where a richly 
 ornamented liqueur casestood onthe sideboard, and produced 
 the beverage chosen, leaving it to Dillon to compound his 
 own mixture, ob^^erving ''that schnap won't hurt you. Now 
 jis it'p not civil to let a mau drink alone, I will accompany 
 you, and he added a very strong " sketch" to his own glass 
 of cold water. 
 
 " AU ! that quite sets me up," said Dillon, putting down 
 his tumbler, and smacking his lips. " Ain't you going 
 with him'?" pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the 
 tlirection of the door. 
 
 "No; not this turn." 
 
 '* How will he get on without you?" 
 
 "Anyhow, he thinks he can, and, truth to tell, he isn't 
 what one might call very helpless for a gentleman like 
 him. I'm not sorry, for I believe Spain isan ill-piovided, 
 uncomfortable country, ain't it?" 
 
 Diiion stared at him without speaking for half a minute, 
 and then ejaculated : "The divil's own hole of a place. But 
 I suppose Mr. Egerton understands it and the people ?" 
 
 " Ach ! that he does. He knows most things and places. 
 He is always going about; looking for queer things and 
 collecting. The money he throws away is enough to feed 
 a town." 
 
 "Just so. Miiy 1 have a weed?" 
 
 "Bless your soul, yes! I'll give you a prime one." Silence 
 ensued while they lit up. 
 
 \ All them queer4ooking daggers and swords and things 
 hanging along there must have cost a power of money," ob- 
 served JJillon, puffing dili"»-" 
 
I'-"' 
 
 170 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 " Timy have. I've been with Mr.Egerton when he bouglit 
 
 inOHl of tllfiMl." 
 
 "JuHt so ! Now 1 have rather a taste for those kind of 
 i.Jiifi^jH iiiysoJf. Tliis HWims a beauty," rising and going 
 ov'jj' 'o toucji a Jon}^, slender knife with an elaborately- 
 c.lia.sed eborjy an<l silver handle, and silver ornaments on its 
 black leatlier slicath. " May I look at it?" 
 
 " Y<js, to be sure," returned this accommodating valet. 
 Dillon drew out, the long, tine, keen, blue blade and felt the 
 \to\nL " it/s ii, murderous weapon, 'or all its delicate 
 lines. Where did he get this now V" 
 
 " W(!ll, 1 wasn't with him when he got that, but I have 
 hoard him t.oll he bought it at Damascus." 
 
 '' ! never saw anything (juite like it," said Dillon, care- 
 fully exjimining the ornaments. 
 
 " 1 dare ,say not. Mr. Egerton had another almost ex- 
 actly the same when he engaged me in Bombay, but he 
 gave one of them away. He is a very free-handed gen- 
 tlennin." 
 
 "■ Is ho now V Well, that makes things pleasant. To 
 think of his giving away a beauty like this to a friend ! I 
 nelievc* Attonborough would have given a small fortune 
 fov it. It must, h.ivo been some one he was uncommonly 
 fond of. Do you kuow what friend he gave it to ?" 
 
 " Wnll, IK) ! I can't say 1 do. it was either while we 
 woio in India oi soon after we came back ; for I remember 
 wiuMi we were putting this place to rights, just before he 
 was taken ill, and 1 asked liim where the other eastern 
 knife WHS (^h.e calls it by some outlandish name), and he 
 Naiil, * I).. n't you reuKMnhcr 1 gave it away ?' But i could 
 not remcuibor. Anyhow, wo hung that short, broad dagger 
 in its hhice to corresporid." 
 
 " \\'«'ll, I'm sure diey are arranged elegantly — never saw 
 any I hing bt ttei-. No, not a drop! Many thanks, all the 
 same !" as l>auta- nuido a movement as if to till his glass, 
 and hi lion slowly thrust back the long, cruel-looking knife 
 into its sheath, and, with a lingering glance, hung it in its 
 i*lace. 
 
 " And you can't think what became of the other ?" he 
 said, in n slow, roth>ctive voioe. 
 
 " No ; I I'unnoi. Why, Mr. I'jgoiton was always giving 
 things away to pcopU^ who showed him att ntion, and that 
 means nearly every ont^ he knows. When we were in London 
 1 »st wintn, there was scurcelv a dav 1 was not carrvi/icr 
 
BUND FATK 17 
 
 flowers and fruit and books and letters to tliepoor lady tliat 
 was murdered and her sister, when tiiey were living in 
 quite a poor, insigniti.',ant house in Uoniiau^lit, square." 
 
 " Oh, indeed !" ejaculated Dillon. The men's eyes met 
 significantly. 
 
 " It was all perfectly right," resumed the German, with 
 great gravity. " All in the way of honorable frindship. 
 Nicer and more gracious ladies never lived. Tiiey do say 
 Mr. Egerton wanted to marry Miss Wynn. Well, he migla 
 or he might not ; I was never quite sure. If he liad been 
 in real earnest, why, from what 1 have seen and known of 
 him, she would have been Mrs. Egerton by now. ' 
 
 " Maybe she wouldn't say yes," suggested Dillon. 
 
 The valet smiled incredulously. " He is not the sort of 
 man women say ' no' to, 1 can tell you." 
 
 "Ay! that's true onougli, 1 daresay; anyiiow, your 
 master and the ladies were regular chums y" 
 
 '' They were that. It was a nice, peaceful time, regular 
 as clockwork. Early to bed, breakfast at nine, no racketty 
 suppers. 1 got a stone heavier in those mouths. We wjire 
 not quite so steady when they were away at the seaside. 
 You see, they went before the season was half over, and 
 Mr. Egerton could not refuse all the invitations ; besides, 
 he did not seem able to keep quiet. Then there was racing 
 to and fro. I was glad when we went down to stay. 1 am 
 a peace-loving man, and 1 also love the beauty ol the sea 
 and sky, and " 
 
 *' Faith ! you area philosopher spoilt," interrupted JJil- 
 Ion. " It's making poetry and talking metaphysics yon 
 ought to be, instead of laying out coals and folding up 
 trou.sers." There was a touch of contempt in his tone. 
 
 " Excuse me," returned tiie valet, with dignity ; '•' how- 
 ever humble one's work in life, one may cultivate the inner- 
 soul and dignify existence by " 
 
 '* Ah ! just so; by lining your po»^kets. Ye see, 1 am 
 spending too much time here. It's always my way; I can't 
 tear myself away from i.leasant coiupaiiy. 1 l(;e] a new 
 man sinceyou gave me that sketch of s|)irits. if you have 
 time to come as far as Dale street, Pimlioo, any evenin.- 
 about nine, .f have a tidy lodging enough, and I'll b<i proud 
 to smoke a cigarette with you ; but I must bo olT now 
 Remember, 11 A. Dale street, not ten minutes walk from 
 the Metropolitan station." • 
 
 "You are very obliging. 1 shall be most happy ■" 
 
172 BLIND FATE. 
 
 Dillon nodded. "Good day and good luck to you," lie 
 said, and iiad almost passed through the door when he 
 paused, t iiniod, and said: "If you should happen to remem- 
 ber or find out what became of that Damascus dagger, 
 you'll let mo know ? 1 have a client that will give a long 
 j)rice for it." 
 
 The German said something in reply, but Dillon did not 
 listen. He closed the door noisily, and walked, with quick, 
 firm steps out of V'go street. 
 
 "I wonder what became of that knife," he thought, his 
 eyes glittering with a mixture of eagerness and cunning. 
 "Ay ! go to Spain if you like. The secret lies nearer home, 
 Mr. Egerton. i believe I have nearly enough evidence to 
 hang you, my fine gentleman. It would pay better to havt^ 
 disguised your contempt of tlie detective you are obliged to 
 use, instead of letting eyes and mouth speak as they have 
 done. Now, which line shall 1 take? which will profit me 
 most V" * * )ie * * * * 
 
 Though Standish was quite willing to humor Colonel 
 Callander'.s whim concerning himself tea certain length, 
 he felt he must in justice to himself seek some explanation 
 of the strange dislike Callander evinced. He would not 
 submit to be banished from his v^ard. 
 
 He had called several times at the hotel where the 
 Colonel had established himself, but he was never at home. 
 He therefore resumed his visits to Prince's place, and one 
 day he succeeded in finding Callander alone in the dining- 
 room, when all the rest were out. 
 
 The Colonel received him coldly, perhaps, but calmly, 
 looking at him with a curious, interrogative stare. 
 
 "1 am glad to meet you at last, Callander," he said, 
 in his usual frank, pleasant ton^^s, "and alone — for I want 
 you to tell me what 1 have done to deserve j'^our displeas- 
 ure — we used to be such chums, and aow you avoid me y 
 If I havevmconsciously done anythin,; to annoy or offend 
 you, tell me, J am sure 1 car trnlainit — for " 
 
 '»! ( aiiiot tell you— not now," returned Callander. "There 
 is t iMasoj.. and one day you shall fully understand it." 
 Theso last words were spoken with the most deliberate 
 «>vapuas!s', fl i if he wish ,d to drive them into his hearer's 
 IB ad. •'] «m i.nweli, :uid unequal to talk — to explain any- 
 Uiiiitj -you must uot aak me." Something in the dull, 
 dv t oi I'li^ vo»c€ of the broken mau before him moved 
 P'Mil'^ irTvnite i.ity." 
 
 ( ' 
 
BLIND FATK 
 
 173 
 
 "Do as you will, Callander," he said, kindly, ' 'I can 
 afford to wait your time, for I know I have always been 
 straight with you, and a quiet conscience " 
 
 "Conscience ! " repeated Callander, a sudden glare flaming 
 out in his eyes, and then he laughed a wild, harsh laugh. 
 "Oh, yes, your conscience is quite tranquil 1 daresay, but 
 it will wake up by and by— Oh, yes— I will waken it up. 
 I will explain with such force that you will not be able to 
 resist convictior." 
 
 "The poor fellow is off his head," thought Standish, 
 "grief and horror have been too much for him! Well, I 
 will wait your time, Callander," he said aloud, very 
 gravely. "I have faith in you, if you have not in me! — 
 when you are in your right mind, and you will hear 
 me " 
 
 "Ha ! You want to make m'^ out a lunatic, you and my 
 mother," cried Callander furiously. 
 
 "You misinterpret me, Callander. I meant when I used 
 the expression 'right mind,' your unprejudiced mind. 1 
 will not force myself upon you any longer. I must, how- 
 ever, say that it is awkward and iiicouvenient to be 
 separated, in consequence of your peculiar frame of mind 
 towards me, from Dorothy, v/ho has really no friend or 
 guardian save myself." 
 
 ' 'I do not want to separate you — you can come here and 
 see her. "What is it all to me! " he said with pitiable in- 
 difference. 
 
 "Very well, Callander, I will intrude no longer." With- 
 out another word Standish left the house. 
 
 It was a dry, gi ey day, and pleasant for exercise. He 
 Celt the necessity for think aig out the problem of Callan 
 iler's dislike and its consequence; so he crossed to Ken- 
 sington Gardens, and entering; by the small gate near th«< 
 [lalace, walked leisurely under the leafless treos towa 
 the round pond. 
 
 As to the cause of his friend's sudden preposses !0u 
 against him, that did not trouble him long. His conscience 
 i)eing perfectly clear, he did not hesitate to attrilnite it to 
 i- certain loss of mental balance. The (iffect of his illue-s 
 in India had scarcely worn off before this sudden blow fell 
 upon him, then came several months' Jonely wanderings, 
 ufficient to account for much eccentricity ; still there v/cs 
 nothing in his condition to forbid hope of cumj.leto rest.ji • 
 Mion. But in the meantime, while under the influence of 
 
174 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 'ii:. 
 
 these hallucinations, he might do incalculable mischief. 
 Who had a right to restrain him? Might lieuoL beaserious 
 utflction to Dorothy ? — that delicate, sensitive, nervous 
 creature wiio uad not yet recovered the frighti'ul siiock of 
 her sister's awiui death. How bright and strong slie used 
 to be! — even through her natural terrors she had preserved 
 a degree of self-control wJaich argued a brave spirit. If 
 Callander eventually required restraint, and his children 
 fell into their grandmother's keeping, Dorothy would bd in 
 a very desolate position. '' For, of course," mused Stan- 
 dish, "Henrietta Oakley will marry —may marry any day- 
 then Dorothy will be homeless, and her means are too 
 small to make her comfortable anywhere by mere paying ! 
 1 wish I could get a sound professional opinion on Callan- 
 der's mental and physical condition. But that I cannot do. 
 The less he sees ot me the better in his present state, i will 
 ask Henrietta to do what she can with him. 1 wish they 
 would go and spend a few months abroad — the children, 
 Callander, all of them ! Dorothy surely wants a change of 
 scene. I wish tlie ridiculous world would permit me to 
 take the poor little girl under my own wing, it makes 
 my heart ache to see how sad and drooping sho looks. 1 
 wonder how long that fellow Dillon intends to keep up the 
 farce of looking for the murderer ? We have small chance 
 of finding him ! 1 fancy Mr. Dillon is making a good thing 
 out of us; I cannot say 1 see any indication of his wonder- 
 ful cleverness. There is something mysterious about him. 
 By George! there's something mysterious about the whole 
 business — an odd sort of uneasy doubt that the affair is 
 not as simple as it seems at first sight grows upon me. 
 Callander's objection to me can only be caused by temjio- 
 rary insanity, but Dorothy's profound, immovable dislike 
 to Egerton is inexplicable. She has something on her mind, 
 too. I wish she would speak out to me." 
 
 Here he was roused from his reflections by a child's 
 hoop, which was bowled with some force against his legs, 
 and, looking down he recognised a little golden-haired 
 creature in a black pelisse and hat. 
 
 " Ha, Dollie! " heexcla.med, " where is auntie V" 
 "Auntie is coming! " As she spoke Dorothy came round 
 a clump of evergreens. The cold, dry air had given l.er 
 color, and she looked a little like her former self. 
 
 " This is a lucky rencontre, Dorothy !" cried Standish, 
 
aserioub 
 
 BLIND FATE. Hi 
 
 taking the hand she held ouu "I was thinking of you, 
 and wishing to talk to you." 
 
 " Thaaks ! I am very glad, too ! " She looked up in his 
 face with one of her old, quick, sweet glances. " Let us 
 Vv^alk round by the Buyswitter side to the ride and the mon- 
 ument. The days ;^ie lengthening so fast we shall have 
 light enough, and Mrs.McHugh will take the children back." 
 
 To this Dolly objected, and the boy, who was now begin- 
 ning to walk quite well, backed his sister vigorously. 
 Standish and Dorothy lingered with them awhile, until 
 Mrs. McHugh i esolutely set lier face towards home, when 
 they turned down a side path and escaped. 
 
 " i had an interview with Callander just now," began 
 Standish, when they had walked a few paces in silence. 
 
 "Indeed ! " exclaimed Dorothy, turning to him with eager 
 interest. " What did he say ? How did he seem? " 
 
 "Most moody and unfriendly. He made mysterious 
 allusions to my conscience, &c., but I stayed a very short 
 time, for I saw my presence only irritated liim, wbiie rea- 
 soning was out of the question. He is under hcaxk. hal- 
 lucination." 
 
 " He is, indeed!" said Dorothy, with a sigh. "Paul, I 
 am terribly uneasy about Herbert. He is so changed — he 
 is so variable! Sometimes lie will have the children with 
 him and almost shedte rs over them. Sometimes he scarcely 
 notices them, but sits sileni and half asleep in his chair for 
 hours. He rarely talks to any one but Henrietta. What 
 do you think of his state V" 
 
 "He is not right in any way ! I wish you could get him 
 to see some specialist for brain disease. 1 do not think he 
 has been quite right since — since the terribie blow fell on 
 him." 
 
 " Nor I. We quite dread Mrs. Callander's coming when 
 he is in the house. Tlie sight of her seems to annoy him 
 beyond everything. And how well he was going om before 
 dear Mabel's death!" 
 
 " Time may bring him round. He would be better any 
 where than here. 1 wish he would talcc you all abroad to 
 Pau or Biarritz for the lest of the cold weather. " 
 
 " Would that do him good ? i would rather not go so far 
 away from you, Paul! " 
 
 " My dear girl, you woidd be all right with Henrietta 
 Oakley,. She is really a capital woiuan. The more t see 
 of her the more i see her value. Her dightiuesB is a iftere 
 
176 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 I' 
 
 surface coating ; there ia sound stuff below. Aud do you 
 observe how serious interests aud an uaseitLsh care for 
 others improves her very appoarenct V She is looking hand- 
 some. tSJie has so much more expression! " cried Siandish, 
 enthusiastioally. 
 
 *'She was always rather handsome," returned Dorothy, 
 with great composure, "and I am sure she has been infinitely 
 kind to me; but i imagiue she will get tired of her life 
 witii us sooner or later." 
 
 "Wiiy, you don't suppose she is going to sacrifice her 
 whole existence to Callander and his children?" 
 
 " No, Paul, that would be too much to expect, though i 
 shall only be too thankiul to do so, if he will let me." 
 
 " My dear Dorothy," said Standish, coming closer, and 
 drawing her hand through his arm, "you must not let 
 yourself think that, because you have been robbed of the 
 one you loved best under circumstances of peculiar horror, 
 life is therefore over for you at 19! Without any disloy- 
 al, y to your d«.'ar sister's memory, you will, I trust, have 
 many happy days, aud I shall yet relinquish my duties, 
 contentedly though reluctantly, when I give you to some 
 good fellow who has been lucky in softening that hard 
 heart of your'=. You will not be always as obdurate as you 
 were to poor ^ii>jerton'?" 
 
 Dorothy withdrew i:er arm quickly. ''We need not speak 
 of him," she said, in a low voice. 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 They walked on for a minute or two in silence, then 
 Standish looked down into her face, drawing her eyes to 
 him, as iiis always did, and thinking what a wonderful 
 depth of expression there was in thoso dark-grey, wistful, 
 holy eyes of hers, asked gravely, "You have some profound 
 aversion to Egertou, tlie reason of which you do not choose 
 to tell me, Dorothy ?" 
 
 Still looking straight at him aud growing a little pale, 
 she said steadily, "Yes, Paul." 
 
 "And will you never tell me?" 
 
 " 1 am not sure. Periuips, one day- by-and-bye, one 
 day in ihe coming years 1 may. 1 should like to tell you, 
 hut there are considerations which hold me back." 
 
 "Then you mu.'st take your own time. But, Dorothy, 1 
 think you might trust me." 
 
 " Trust you !" she cried, her eyes filling with tears of 
 earnestness " I would trust you with my life I" 
 
BLIKD FATE. 
 
 177 
 
 "With your life! My proiiious little ward that is a hig 
 thiui;!" Something in hia tone, his smile, brought hack 
 the color to Dorothy's cheeks, but she made no reply, and 
 Standisli changing the subject, they spoke on other topics 
 for theremaindar of the way. 
 
 End of Vol. IL 
 
 PART IIL 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 A TANGLED SKEIN. 
 
 This was a very trying time to Standish. He had an 
 uneasy sense of being surrounded and played upon by forces 
 he did not understand and could not control. 
 
 Unless Callander was absolutely insane, there must be 
 some color of reason under his sudden and extraordinary 
 enmity against himself, and, seek as he might in all the 
 holes and corners of his memory, Standish could not find 
 the faintest shadow of a cause, even for fancied offence. 
 Then, although not a little ashamed of giving heed to the 
 whims of a youug creat;ure like Dorothy, he could not quite 
 fateel his mind against the effect of her profound dislike and 
 distrust of Egerton. What could have caused it ? It was 
 provoking of her not to confess all her reasons, if she had 
 any, to him. 
 
 Finally, that somewhat tricky fellow, Dillon, was playing 
 " fast and loose " with him in an audacious manner. 
 
 At any rate, he would bring him to book at once. 
 
 It was well, perhaps, that Standish was greatly occupied 
 at the time, as, in addition to his work as precis writer to 
 
 Lord R , he had been promoted, which threw more upon 
 
 his hands than he had to do before. 
 
 This did not allow too much time for brooding over unsat- 
 isfactory puzzles, which seemed to grow more involved the 
 longer he looked at them. 
 
 A line to Dillon brought that wily personage to Paul's 
 lodgings in St. James' place one evening, soon after the 
 conversation last recorded. 
 
 Standish had returned from diiiin^^ at his club in as bad 
 a temper as his strong self-control would allow to take pos- 
 session of him. He had an irritatijig notion that Dillon 
 
1**1 
 
 
 178 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 was the worst man he could have employed, that he had not 
 taken any Interest in tfio case, and had let any thread which 
 might have led to detection slip through his fingers. 
 
 He had hardly taken off his coat and begun to look at an 
 evening paper when Dillon was ushered in. 
 
 "Well," began Standish, rather impatiently, "I suppose 
 that, as usual, you have no news for me '?" 
 
 " No sir— not yet," returned Dillon, giving him a quick, 
 searching glance. 
 
 " Come now — do you think there is any use in going on 
 with the game ? It has cost a good deal, and I see no 
 chance of any result." 
 
 " Don't you, sir '?" 
 
 " No— do you ?" 
 
 " Yes ! If I didn't do you think I would go on taking 
 your money, or Colonel Callander's money ? That's not 
 my usual course — no play, no pay, is my maxim." 
 
 " Then, have you any traces ?" 
 
 '' Traces ! Ah, the scent is breast-high. Even if Mr. 
 Egerton had not gone to Spain, I " 
 
 " Then you think he'll catch the fellow ?" interrupted 
 Standish, eagerly. 
 
 '' Well, he may find the man he has j>one in search of, or 
 he may not. I've the threads in my hand. When I get 
 just the one link that's wanting, I'll lay the whole evidence 
 before you, Mr. Standish ; but until 1 have it, not one word 
 will I speak." 
 
 " You are a cautious fellow," returned Standish, looking 
 hard at him, and thinking what a shrewd but low type of 
 face he had. " If you can do this, I'll believe you are the 
 cunning dog you are repovied to be." 
 
 " Ay, I'll have the big reward yet, sir, and it won't be 
 too big." 
 
 " Tell me — have you tracked this scoundrel, Pedro, 
 through his wanderings ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have tracked the murderer, and I can put my 
 finger on him ; but there is no use in doing that till ray 
 evidence is complete." 
 
 " Then, why did you let Egerton undertake this wild- 
 goose chase to Spain ?" 
 
 " Why shouldn't I ?" witli a sneering smile. " It's just 
 a play for a rich, idle man like him. What he'il find out 
 is neither here nor there. He'll not find Pediro, and he 
 knows it." 
 
BLIND lAiE. 
 
 17d 
 
 *' Knows it ?" echoed Standish. ' ' What do you mean?" 
 
 '' That Mr. Egerton was glad to get away from the talk 
 and the bother of this wretched busiuesis, just to be quit of 
 it all, and so he has shown you a clean pair of heels." 
 
 " I think you wrong him. No one could have shown 
 more feeling and deeper interest than he has." 
 
 " Oh, I'll go bail, he is interested enough. Isn't he going 
 to give a thousand himself when we catch the murderer ? 
 Maybe it's a trifle more he'll be adding." 
 
 " By heaven !" cried Standish, struck by the man's 
 malignant smile, " you seem to suspect E<^erton himself. 
 What confounded rubbish you are talking.'' 
 
 "Suspect? Suspect an elegant, high bred honorable 
 gentleman, too proud almost to spoak to the mere common- 
 ality ? Oh, no, I'm not quite so foolish; but you see, sir, 
 it's my duty to suspect every living man, woman or child 
 in or about the place on the night of the murder, and I 
 have looked after every one of them." 
 
 "Myself included ?" added Standish, with •. slight deri- 
 sive smile. 
 
 "You were in London," replied the detective coolly. "Of 
 course you might have bribed the Spanish fellow, but 
 things don't look like it. You don't suppose I'd ever find 
 out much if I didn't think all men from tiie saintliest 
 parson up to the most noble dukes and earls, from the 
 ploughman to the archbishop, capable of murdering any 
 one belonging to them if they had a strong enough motive. 
 The very man you'd never suspect is, nine times out of 
 ten the real criminal. Human nature is a queer thing." 
 
 "What a ghastly doctrine," said Stan ish, slowly pull- 
 ing his moustache. 
 
 "It's that sir. But these kind of searches and specu, 
 lations are uncommon interesting, if I wore to write down 
 all I have seen and known, everyone would a-y out, 'What 
 lies he is telling.' " 
 
 "You ought to write your memoirs, Dillon. It would be 
 a valuable volume. Bentley Ox Longman would give you 
 a long price for it." 
 
 "They will have to give it to my executors, then, for 
 whatever I have jotted down, it shan't see the light till L 
 am under the sod. 
 
 "A prudent resolve no doubt. Well, then, Dillon, I am 
 still to leave matters in your hands, unquestioned, un'ul 
 you are pleased to reveal all yuu know ?'' 
 

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 *Just SO, sir. It won't be long, but I cannot fix a time. 
 I may get at what I want to know to-morrow or next day, 
 I may not hit it off for three weeks or a month ; but, sooner 
 or later, I'll have the whole story clear." 
 
 "Do you expect us to be greatly surprised ?** 
 
 "Well, I would rather not say, sir." 
 
 "Have you seen Colonel Callander since his return ?" 
 
 "Yes, just once.'' 
 
 "He is terribly broken." 
 
 "Ay, that he is," and something like a gleam of com- 
 passion shot across his hard face. "He will never be the 
 same man again." 
 
 "I fear not ! He is thinking of going to Fordsea, I 
 find." 
 
 **Is he?" with snarp, suddenly roused attention. **That's 
 a trip won't do him much good. Do you know when he 
 goes down ?" 
 
 "I am not sure, he may take the whim any day." 
 
 Dillon thought for a moment in silence, and Standish 
 said, "You did not think the evidence of tliat sailor. Hit- 
 son, of any consequence ?" 
 
 "Not much," replied Dillon, rousing himself from his 
 medications. "He only told us what we knew before. We 
 certainly got at the size and look of the man who laid the 
 ladder across, but if it was the Spanish chap, why, you 
 all say he was like Mr. E^erton in size and build,'* 
 
 "True," and Standish did not speak again for a few 
 seconds, then he exclaimed, "I have detained you long 
 enough, and I ought to dress and go out." 
 
 "All right, Mr. Standish, it's me that is keeping you." 
 He rose as he spoke from the <jhair where he had been 
 sitting at what mi^ht be termed a civil distance from 
 Standish. "By the bye," he resumed, pausing, "How is 
 the young lady ?" 
 
 "Which young lady." 
 
 "The little brown-haired lady with the eyes that tell 
 you everything without her opening her lips," he ended, 
 with a low peculiar laugh. 
 
 Standish frowned. "You mean Miss Wynn, pray, is she 
 among your suspected ?" 
 
 "Not now. She is an uncommon shrewd young lady 
 she is," continued the detective. "Ah ! she took it all des- 
 perate hard, and she doesn't like me a bit too well. She 
 
BLIND FATE 
 
 181 
 
 fix a time. 
 ' next da^ , 
 >ut| sooner 
 
 um?»' 
 
 a of oom- 
 ver be the 
 
 rordsea, J 
 
 I. "That's 
 V when he 
 
 r." 
 
 Standish 
 .ilor, ■ Rit- 
 
 from his 
 ifore. We 
 LO laid the 
 why, you 
 
 for a few 
 you long 
 
 Lug you." 
 
 had been 
 
 ince from 
 
 "How is 
 
 that tell 
 le ended, 
 
 iy, is she 
 
 mg lady 
 ; all des- 
 
 Bll. She 
 
 looks at me, half afraid, like a startled fawn. One might 
 think she was frightened for what I might find out." 
 
 "That is an imaginative flight on your part, Mr. Dillon. 
 I must wish you good evening." 
 
 '•Good evening, sir, I'll let you know the minute I have 
 anything clear and satisfactory to telL" 
 
 * 'Satisfactory," repeaced jStandish, when he was alone. 
 "He has a curious idea of what is satisfactory. He is like 
 a ghoul, revelling among the ghastly skeletons of his 
 ungodly secrets ! I wonder what he is at ? It is absurd, 
 but I am half inclined to share the fright he attributes to 
 Dorothy. But what can he find out, except the miserable 
 scoundrel who cut o£E Mabel's fair life for the sake of her 
 few jewels." 
 
 Instead of dressing to go out, Standish donned a smoking 
 jacket, and sat down to think. 
 
 His interview with Dillon had disturbed him out of all 
 proportion to anything that had transpired during it, and 
 at last, growing feverish, he turned from the subject by a 
 strong effort of will, and applied himself to write an ab- 
 stract of some papers for his chief. It was a serious de- 
 privation to him to be cut ofE from his almost daily visits 
 to Prince's place. But so long as there was any risk of 
 encoimtering Callander, he thought it right to abstain from 
 going there. It was astonishing what a blank this created 
 in his life. He had been quite comfortable and contented 
 for years, and now a strange restlessnes and dissatisfaction 
 had fastened upon him. He must get rid of these morbid 
 feelings. The painful death of his young ward had un- 
 hinged him. He must not yield to this sort of womanish 
 weakness. 
 
 It was the day after this interview that Mrs. Callander 
 honored her niece with a visit. Henrietta was dressed to 
 go out when the Dowager's carriage drove up. With a 
 little grimace expressive of resignation she took off her fur 
 lined cloak and laid it over a chair as Mrs. Callander was 
 announced, and that lady entered attired in the richest and 
 blackest mourning that could be invented. 
 
 " My dear Aunt! I am delighted to see you— so glad I 
 had not gone out, do sit down by the lire." 
 
 "Not too near, thank you! 1 never have accustomed 
 myself to indulgence ! I intended to have called upon you 
 sooner, Henrietta. I wished to see how you were placed. 
 You are well aware I never approved of this scheme of 
 
Prii 
 
 5? 
 
 I' 
 
 
 182 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 yours of living by yourself with so insignificant a compan- 
 ion as Dorothy Wynn." 
 
 "Well, I don't see what else 1 could have done. Those 
 jiOor children wanted a home — and " 
 
 " Yoii could have joined me with them," interrupted Mrs. 
 Callander. 
 
 " And left poor Dorothy alone ? No — that would never 
 have done! You foi get that Herbert wished her to be with 
 them." 
 
 '^H.r 
 He St 
 atioTi 
 ere ■ 
 tres 
 
 bcrt'p infatuation issomething I cannot understand! 
 iii:^ i,o think that mere girl more deserving consider- 
 !.an his mother. Every one is thought of in pref- 
 to me ! " and her voice rose to a shrill tone of dis- 
 
 's very curious," returned Henrietta, sympathetically, 
 
 b ' ' iibiceivmg all her exclamation admitted. 
 
 suppobfc that is the reason my grandchildren are never 
 bOi." to sbti me," continued the old lady, querously. 
 
 ' i'oor old thing! how grey and miserable she looks!" 
 
 oc^^ht her niece. " But they went to Somerset square 
 last week," she said aloud. 
 
 " Last week, Henrietta ! Am I to be put off with a stated 
 weekly visit ? Do you think that my son's children are 
 not always welcome to me, though their mother was the 
 last person I should have wished him to marry ?" 
 
 " Poor dear Mabel ! Well, aunt, she will never offend you 
 more." 
 
 " I know what you mean, Henrietta ! that I was hard 
 and unkind to her. But 1 was only just and honest. lam 
 terribly shaken by her awful end, though I am sure if we 
 could get at the truth, you would find it was greatly her 
 own fault ! Her careless, reckless way of leaving lier jewels 
 and valuables about for wandering vagabonds to see ! In 
 fact, she was not accustomed to such things, and did not 
 know how to take care of them." 
 
 " How can you talk in that way, aunt ? Hush ! here is 
 Dorothy." 
 
 Mrs. Callander drew herself up as Dorojbhy came in. Her 
 pale face, sad earnest eyes, and slight fragile figure might 
 have touched Mrs. Callander's not very impressionable 
 heart, but for the idea of the preference shown by her sou 
 for his sister-in-law, this made her adamantine to Dorothy 
 and almost to her favorite niece. 
 
 '*Ho\v do you, Mrs. Callander," said Dorothy, advancing 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 1€3 
 
 h ! here is 
 
 to her, her eyes full of kindly feeling, for she deeply sym- 
 pathised with the proud old woman in the mortification her 
 son's avoidance must inflict. 
 
 " I am not quite well, 1 thank you. Indeed I doubt if I 
 shall ever be myself again. Few mothers have been more 
 sorely tried," and she pressed her black-bordered handker- 
 chief to her eyes. 
 
 *' I am so sorry," Dorothy was beginning, when Hen- 
 rietta broke in. "My aunt is vexed because the children do 
 not go often enough to see her." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Callander, they shall go as often as ever you 
 like. I thought they might give you more trouble than 
 pleasure or they should have gone every other day ! " 
 
 "I see no rea«ion for your concluding that I was indiffer- 
 ent to my son's children," testily. " Indeed the more proper 
 and natural arrangement would be to have given the poor 
 children into my care! You must feel yourself that you are 
 too young." 
 
 "Ah ! Mrs. Callander, I feel old enough for anything," 
 exclaimed Dorothy, "and my dear lost sister would have 
 chosen me before anyone else to take her place with bea- 
 little ones, but I know that you have a claim too — only 
 don't try to take them from me! They are all I have left," 
 and her big eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "Take her place," repeated Mrs. Callander to herself. 
 ' Tiiaiik God that horrid, blasphemous, revolting 'deceased 
 wife's sister's bill* will never pass, or heaven only knows 
 what would happen," She only said : " You are very 
 good, 1 am sure, to admit I have any 'claim' as you call it, 
 whatever." 
 
 Dorothy sighed. She could not answer this cruelly dis- 
 appointing, unjust, exacting woman sharply— she felt too 
 much for her. 
 
 " I am sorry the children are out, but they shall go to 
 you to-morrow. Would you like them before or after 
 luncheon ? '' 
 
 " Send them before luncheon and I will bring them back, 
 or Miss Boothby will," returned the dowager, a little 
 softened. 
 
 " Now, Henrietta, 1 must say you have a very indifferent 
 iiouse. Tiie entrance is decidedly mean and the stair is 
 dark." 
 
 "Well, Aunt Callander, it costs quite enough, and you 
 
184 
 
 BUND FATE. 
 
 
 
 know I had to think of Herbert's pocket as well as my own, 
 still 1 Hatter myself the drawing room is pretty." 
 
 "It is full of twopenny-halfpenny decorations I grant; 
 now you ought to have reception rooms adorned with few 
 but massive and valuable onraments, not frippery like 
 this." 
 
 *' Well, I don't like that kind of funeral chamber. Do- 
 rothy and I have been miserable enough to value brightness 
 even in such humble ^uise as a sixpenny fan or two." 
 
 Mrs. Callander elevated her chin contemptuously. 
 
 * ^ I should like to see the children's apartments," she said 
 haughtily. 
 
 '^ Oh, yes, Henrietta, will you take Mrs. Callander to the 
 nursery V " said Dorothy, hesitating whether she should go 
 or stay, and deciding that it would be more agreeable to 
 the dowager if her niece only accompanied her. 
 
 She drew near the fire, p>nd leaning her head against the 
 mantelpiece, she thought how terrible it would be if Her- 
 bert were ever persuaded to give the children into Mrs. 
 Callander's care. What would become of her ? for to live 
 with them in the dowager's house would be impossible. 
 And she could not trust poor Herbert in his present con- 
 dition. If he took such an amazing unaccountable dislike 
 to Paul Standish, why she herself might be the next object 
 of his aversion. How uncertain her own future seemed ! 
 If — if oulv she could keep with the children, she might 
 settle into resignation and content. As to Mrs. Callander, 
 odious and disagreeable as she made herself, she oould not 
 help compassionating her, for it must be a great trial to 
 see a son, a beloved sou, turn from you with scarcely veiled 
 coldness — nay, more, with positive repulsion. Surely she 
 was punished for any unkindnees she had shown to Mabel. 
 ♦ ' They are decidedly poky, stuffy rooms," observed Mrs. 
 Ci-Uander, returning, followed by Henrietta. " Now, in 
 my house they might have a whole floor — light, airy, dry, 
 ' suitable iu every way. It is useless, however to say any- 
 thing. My son— ah, there he is!" Seizing a photograph 
 which stood on Henrietta's table, she sat down and gazed 
 at it for A moment, then she exclaimed in trembling tones : 
 "Ah I it is too — too hard to think of the way he has treated 
 me through all this time of his sorrow — as if I were un- 
 worthy to share it!" and threw the photograph from hei , 
 with difficulty restraining her tears. 
 
 "You ought to consider how changed he is," said Do- 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 18 
 
 rothy, softly. » I am sure that his late illness and over- 
 whelming grief have changed him a great deal. He is not 
 like himself. See how he has turned against Mr. Standish, 
 who used to be such a favorite with him, and is always—" 
 
 "I do not consider that a mark of insanity," interrupted 
 Mrs. Callander ; I never thought Mr. Standish a good com- 
 panion nor a good influence for Herbert. He is a cold, 
 selfish, atheistical worldling, ready to scoff at everyone and 
 everything superior to himself. I always deplored his in- 
 timacy and familiarity in Herbert's house, a man of whose 
 principles I am more than doubtful, and " 
 
 "Mrs. Callanaer," said Dorothy, gravely, " you must not 
 speak againet my guardian before me! He is the best and 
 only friend I have, and I cannot listen to anything against 
 him. He has been a father to Mabel and to me. A truer 
 gentleman in every sense does not exist. I never could un- 
 derstand why you disliked him." 
 
 " Perhaps it is better at your age that you should not," 
 returned Mrs. Callander, significantly. 
 
 Dorothy gazed at her, puzzled and amazed. 
 
 "Indeed, aunt, Paul Standfsh is a capital fellow. I 
 think you are very unjust to him," cried Henrietta. 
 
 " I repeat that my opinion is fixed and well-founded, but 
 if neither of you like the expression of it, 1 need not tres- 
 pass any longer on you. Your obstinacy and incredulity 
 passes the ordinary folly of young people." 
 
 "I should be sorry to fail in the respect due to you, Mrs. 
 Callander," said Dorothy, firmly though her heart beat 
 fast, "but I will never listen to a word against Mr. Stan- 
 dish." 
 
 "Your respect or disrespect is of small moment," return- 
 ed the Dowager, rising. "Your insignificance is — is such 
 that I do not care to answer you." She rose, and turning 
 to her niece, said shortly, ' 'I wish to see the children about 
 eleven to-morrow morning, and without further speech she 
 left the room. 
 
 "What a cantankerous old soul she is to be sure, " cried 
 Miss Oakley, looking out of the window to see the Dowa- 
 ger's equipage drive off. 
 
 "Yes, but how ill and broken she looks," said Dorothy. 
 "Why does she despise me so much ?" 
 
 "0^, it is only her cross-grained way of talking, you 
 should not mind her." 
 
 *«1 do not, indeed. My self-esteem is strong enough to 
 
186 
 
 XUND FATK 
 
 J* 
 
 I' : 4 - 
 
 ■^1 
 
 h I 
 
 withstand such attacks, bublier dislike to Paul is quite in 
 explicable. What did she mean >y saying I had bette, not 
 understand ?" 
 
 "Heaven knows ! But, Dorotliy, you arw a. Uyal plucky 
 little soul. I was del ip:h ted with you for standing up to 
 her highness so gallantly in defence of Mr. Standish," and 
 Henrietta put her arm round Dorothy's neck. 
 
 "Yes, of course. What else could I do ?" 
 
 Henrietta did not answer immediately, she began to play 
 with the ends of her black sash, and removed her arm from 
 Dorothy's neck. They were standing on the hearthrug, 
 Dorothy having her back to the light. Henrietta seemed 
 in deep thought, and was look in 2^ down, with a slight, 
 peculiar smile playing round her mouth. Something in 
 her expression made Dorothy wonder what she was think- 
 ing of. 
 
 "Tell me," exclaimed Henrietta so suddenly that Dorothy 
 started ; "have you observed any change in Mr. Standish 
 of late." 
 
 "A change ? How do you mean ? 
 
 "I mean in his manner, his style his looks generally." 
 
 "No, Henrietta; I do not think i have. Why?" 
 
 "Well I suppose you would be the last to perceive it. I 
 suppose he seems quite old to you ; and always looking on 
 him as a sort of father, it would never occur to you that 
 he could fall in love ?" 
 
 "No, certainly it never did occur to me, but, of course, 
 there is no reason why he should not." 
 
 "Exactly. Now who do you think he has fallen in love 
 with ?" 
 
 "How can I tell? 1 never see him in society." 
 
 "Why, Dorothy, what a little goose you are ! I have 
 seen for some time that he is rather smitten with myself ! 
 Now do you see?" 
 
 "Well no, Henrietta, not exactly To be sure I have not 
 had such pleasant thoughts in my mind as love and 
 lovers ! " 
 
 "For some weeks," resumed Henrietta, "I have noticed a 
 great change in his way of speaking and looking, and— 
 Sit down by me here on the sofa, and 1 will tell you every- 
 thing. I have the greatest confidene in your good sense, 
 young as you are, Dorothy. It was about a week ago, 
 after Mr. Standish had tried to get an explanation from 
 
BLIND I'AiE. 
 
 18V 
 
 quite in- 
 
 )ette/ no I 
 
 a,l plucky 
 ng up to 
 .ish.'* and 
 
 an to play 
 arm from 
 learthrug, 
 ,ta seemed 
 1 a slight, 
 lething in 
 vas think- 
 
 it Dorothy 
 '. Standiiih 
 
 generally'" 
 
 I) 
 
 ;eive it. I 
 ooking on 
 you that 
 
 , of course, 
 
 en in love 
 
 ! I have 
 th myself ! 
 
 I have not 
 love and 
 
 noticed a 
 [ing, and — 
 rou every- 
 cood sense, 
 [week ago, 
 ition from 
 
 Herbert, and he was standing there with his elbow on the 
 mantel-piece, looking glum and soh>ran (you were out 
 shopping with nurse), so 1 saiu, 'What are you thinking 
 of Mr. Standish ?' He turned to me with such a look ! He 
 hasn't what are called iiandsom" eyes, but they can speak, 
 and said he : 'You must know very well what I am think- 
 ing of, Miss Oakley. How utterly miserable this whim 
 of Callander's makes me ! I had grown so used to come in 
 here and feel at home, that I seem lost without this de- 
 lightful asylum,' — or words to that effect. Then I began 
 to understand other words and looks of his that had puzzled 
 me a good deal. I only said that we missed him dread- 
 fully, and that he ought not to mind Callander. At this 
 he went on to talk of the influence I had over poor Her- 
 bert in a sort of half jealous strain. Wasn't that remark- 
 able ?»» 
 
 "I think it is natural enough," said Dorothy, seeing she 
 paused for a reply. 
 
 "You dear little soul! You think too much of me," 
 kissing her. "Well, be that as it may, I have noticed 
 many little things since that quite convince me \w is 
 rapidly falling in love with me. It is a way men have. 
 You would be surprised how many people have projioseo 
 to me, or, let me see, they would like to piopobe. On I 
 know how ill-natured people say it is because 1 have 
 tolerable fortune, but, candidly speaking, I really do no; 
 think it is. I am no beauty, 1 know ihat quite well, bui 1 
 can't help feeling that there is a certain charm about mo. 
 Now, as to Paul Standish, I am sure he is perfectly dis- 
 interested, and after hesitating over eudless suitors, 1 don i 
 think 1 could do better than take him. He is quite charm- 
 ing, and old Sir Mark Pounceford told me the otii^r da^- 
 that he is a very rising man. Now you can't do nmch or 
 rise high without money, and my fortune will bo of the 
 greatest use to him. I should enjoy being an ambass- 
 adress one of these days ; so you see, it would be a very 
 suitable marriage." 
 
 " Yes," said Dorothy, rather mechanically, and, vevmiv 
 baring Paul's eulogium on her friend in their lasi^co)i 
 fidential walk, she added, - I believe he does love you. 
 
 " Then even you see it !" cried Henrietta, joyfully. '' 1 
 thought I knew the symptoms too well to be deceived. 
 Youll see, Dorothy, what a nice, kind, pleasant guardiai. 
 
 1 
 
 a 
 
• i 
 
 v-Wl 
 
 
 rpn 
 
 
 
 1: 
 
 188 
 
 BUND FATE, 
 
 (that's a good word) I will be to you. I dare say it seem 
 very strauge that I should take a fancy to Paul Standish. 
 he must seem quite elderly to you ; but I really have. Yon 
 see he is very distingue, and he seems so nice and devoted 
 that I feel quite fluttered when he comes into the room. Ol 
 course, I am much nearer his age than you are. I don't 
 mind confessing to you that I am a little past thirty. 
 Imagine ! I was more than ten years old when you were 
 horn. Yes, indeed ! Let me see. Who was my governess, 
 then ? Oh, Mademoiselle Delaporte ! She was rather nice. 
 Oh, I have had such a string of governesses. I fancy i 
 «ave them all a great deal of trouble. One thing we are 
 all alike in, Dorothy. We never knew what it was to havt 
 a mother. We were just shunted about from one deputy 
 parent to another — at least, I was." 
 
 " Oh ! how delightful it must be to have a mother — even 
 to remember a mother," said Dorothy, in a low, dreamy 
 tone, " I felt that whenever I saw sweet, dear Mabel with 
 the babies. The very way she touched them and looked at 
 them was so different from Mrs. McHugh and Peggy, kind 
 and good as they are. Can I ever till her place to her 
 children ?" 
 
 " To be sure you can ! You are the tenderest-hearted 
 girl I ever met, except, indeed, to poor Mr. Egerton," cried 
 Henrietta, lightly. " Never mind, dear, Paul Standisii 
 and I will find you an ideal husband, rich and handsome 
 and debr anaire, and all that Dorothy's spouse ought to be. 
 Now, I have stayed talking mucii too late. I promised the 
 Black burns to be with them about four. Grood-bye for the 
 present. Mind, all I have said is under the rose — oh ! a 
 dozen roses." 
 
 Dorothy remained sitting where Henrietta left her for 
 some minutes, with one arm outstretched and resting on 
 the end of the sot a, the hand drooping, the other hand 
 pressed against her cheek. For some moments her thoughts 
 were all in painful confusion. Gradually the full sense of 
 all Henrietta had been saying dawned upon her. Yes, it 
 was all quite true. They were well suited in age, position 
 and circumstances. 
 
 Henrietta's fortune would be a great help to 
 Paul, and Paul was evidently fond of her. She had 
 been much struck by the heartiness of his praise the last 
 time they had spoken of her — and Henrietta was good, and 
 
 
 '**<„ 
 
 
BLIND FATE 
 
 189 
 
 generous, and kind. Oh ! yes ; but how— how would Paul 
 bear her endless, thoughtless chatter about herself, her 
 •loings, her dress, her careless, inconsequent flights from 
 subject?— all this would distract him. Yet Henrietta 
 must know what she was talking about. Oh ! how could 
 she talk so when everything was yet uncertain ? If they 
 married, how earnestly Dorothy hoped they would be 
 happy. But for herself, what an awfnl sense of desolation 
 fell upon her. Henceforth, she would be quite alone, a 
 mere secondary object to everyone, even the children might 
 be taken from her, and Paul, her dear, kind guardian, 
 would no longer have the same thought or tenderness to 
 bestow upon her. He would be kind and true always, but 
 the full feast of his confidence, his care, his unstinted sym- 
 pathy, could be hers no longer. She must accept as thank- 
 fully as she could what crumbs might fall from Henrietta's 
 amply furnished table. She rose noiselessly, and, creeping 
 away to her own room, wept long and bitterly, till shame 
 at her own prostration lent her strength to compose herself. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 "IN THE DEPTHS." 
 
 Since Colonel Callander returned to London, Collins, his 
 soldier servant, contrived, with more or less success, to 
 serve two masters, or rather a master and a mistress. 
 
 He generally addressed Miss Oakley at breakfast two or 
 three times a week, with " if you please ma*am, I'm going 
 over ' to do' for the Colonel this morning," or '* if you have 
 any message, ma'am, I'U be at the hotol between eleven and 
 twelve." He never pretended to ask leave. The Colonel's 
 service was, in his mind, a supreme duty which swallowed 
 up all others. 
 
 Collins would have laid down his life for his master. He 
 thought him the truest of men, the finest of gentlemen. 
 Nor was Collins alone in his opinion. The unhappy man, 
 who at this period of his history was overweighted with a 
 broken heart and diminished brain power, had always been 
 best loved by those who knew him longest, and no one, 
 perhaps, save his faithful attendant, perceived how pro- 
 found was the change which sorrow and suffering had 
 wrought in his revered master. 
 
 He fully shared the dread with which Dorothy contem- 
 plated her brother-in-law's intended visit to Fordsea, and, 
 

 ^11^ 
 
 190 
 
 BLIND FATB. 
 
 impelled by a dim anticipation of possible danger, had yen- 
 tured to ask permission to accompany him. This was im- 
 mediately refused, so Collins was fain to satisfy himself 
 by packing his master's valise, and re-arranging his be- 
 longings, as Miss Oakley had persuaded Callander to es- 
 tablish himself in an hotel much nearer to her abode than 
 Dover street. He resolutely rojected both her own and his 
 mother's offers of hospitality. 
 
 Collins therefore betook himself earlier than usual on the 
 morning of the day Callander was to leave town, and bad 
 been in time to take a few instructions from his master 
 and hand him his hat and gloves. 
 
 " Ah ! he'll never be like himself again," thought Collins, 
 when he closed the door after him and began to empty the 
 contents of a wardrobe and a large box on the bed and a 
 table at its foot. " He treats me like a stranger, he some- 
 times dosn't seem to know who he is speaking to —Ay ! 
 those devils took more than a few rings and bracelets, they 
 stole a brave fellow's heart and smashed it up the night 
 they murdered my poor dear lady ! I'd like to half hang 
 'em, cut 'em down, and hang 'em over again, i would !" He 
 was proceeding to " sort " his master's things as he thought 
 thus — and, had the Spanish sailor who had committed the 
 crime suddenly appeared, his shift wou^d have been a short 
 one. 
 
 '* Come in I" shouted Collins almost angrily, still under 
 the influence of these thoughts, as a tap on tiiedoor caught 
 his ear. It opened, and Dillon, the detective, presented 
 himself. 
 
 His appearance at that moment was most welcome to 
 Collins, who, laying down the coat he was folding, greeted 
 him warmly. 
 
 " The Colonel has just gone out, Mr. Dillon. I wonder 
 you didn't run up against him." 
 
 " The porter was not quite sure whether he had gone out 
 or no, so J just stepped up to see. 1 am sorry I missed him. 
 I'll call again in ihe evening." 
 
 " Then you'll not see him, Mr. Dillon, for he's o£E by the 
 six train for Fordsea!" 
 
 u For Fordsea!" echoed the detective, and he seemed to 
 think very seriously. " Are you going with him ?" 
 
 '' No, worse luck. I think he'd be the better of a careful 
 man beside him! May 1 make so bold as to ask if yoa 
 have any news to tell?" 
 
Br, had yen- 
 
 lis was im- 
 ){y himself 
 ng his be- 
 biider to 68- 
 abode thau 
 >wn and his 
 
 asual on the 
 
 ^n, and bad 
 
 his master 
 
 ight Collins, 
 X) empty the 
 le bed aod a 
 jer, he some- 
 ing to— Ay! 
 racelets, they 
 up the night 
 to half hang 
 : would !" He 
 %3 he thought 
 smmitted the 
 ) been a short 
 
 still under 
 
 fe door caught 
 
 e, presented 
 
 _ welcome to 
 fding, greeted 
 
 I wonder 
 
 had gone out 
 missed him> 
 
 [e's oS by the 
 
 I he seemed to 
 
 ^im r 
 
 |r of a careful 
 
 ask if yo« 
 
 BUND FATK. 
 
 191 
 
 " Well, not much," taking a chair and eyeirm the varied 
 collection of clothes, books, imptdimentsof u lkinds,spread 
 out before him, keenly, " and that, much or little, 1 can 
 only tell by.ai.d-')ye. It is perfectly amazing how mere 
 whispers ooze out." 
 
 " That's true— you'll not mind me going on with my work. 
 I want to finish up and pay up before one o'clock to get 
 back tor my young lady's lunch." 
 
 " Oh, don't mind me, Mr. Collins. I'm sure it's pleasant 
 to see how fine and orderly you settle them all. What a 
 lot of fine things I Does your boss always carry an arsenal 
 like that about with him? I suppose they are curiosi- 
 ties?" 
 
 " Not the pistols, they are in prime working order —some 
 of these are things he has bought abroad, 1 daresay," point- 
 ing to one or two small scimitars, etc., which he was about 
 to put in the bottom of a large trunk. 
 
 '• You see," continued Collins, " the gentry must be doing 
 something, and when they are travelling, between the jour- 
 neys and going through the churches, and eating at the 
 table d'hote, they have nothing to fill up the time with, 
 but going into dusty, fusty shops, and buying everything 
 they can lay their hands on." 
 
 " That's true! It's easy to see you have not gone about 
 with your eyes shut. Didn't some of these come from 
 India ?'» 
 
 "Ay, the pistols did, and that 'ere crooked sword, the 
 others he brought back ifrom Germany just now. I never 
 saw them before.*' 
 
 " The Germans mostly put a mark on them," said the 
 detective, taking one up and carrying it to the window, 
 where he examined it for a minute or two and returned it 
 carelessly to Collins. " Yes, it's German make, and very 
 old," he said, 
 
 " I suppose you have seen most things," observed Col- 
 lins, admiringly. " Have you found out many murders, 
 may I make so bold as to ask ?" 
 
 " Ay, a goodish few ! I could write a curious book about 
 them." 
 
 " That you could, I'll go bail. It would be fine readin-. 
 
 " Yes, it might if the subject were treated philosophical ? 
 There's a great deal of character in the way people set 
 about a murder ! I think I could tell pretty nearly from a 
 
 1 
 

 
 1^ t 
 
 M 
 
 
 1 
 
 J , 
 
 
 198 
 
 BUND FATE. 
 
 ..* 
 
 i.. 
 
 /man's face and knild how he would set about his mur- 
 ' dersr 
 
 " Would you now ?" said Collins, pausing in the act of 
 wrapping up a pair of boot trees, and listening with awe. 
 " Yes, there is yourself," looking sharply at him. "It 
 would be a * draw and defend yourself ' sort of business 
 with you. Then you'd fight fierce enough, till one or the 
 other was done for." 
 
 '' Well, Mr. Dillon, I wouldn't call that murder! Would 
 you?" 
 
 ** Out West we'd call it — not murder — certainly, but in 
 England they would be apt to hang you for it ! Then there' -. 
 a class of men who stick you in the back, others make be- 
 lieye their victims kill themsel/es, that's what you might 
 call the intelligont class of murder, it takes just a pile of 
 planning and thinking out. I have had some very interest- 
 ing cases of that kind through my hands ! Women go in 
 largely for poisoning. Lord ! how long and carefully and 
 ddicately they'll contrive — ay, for months and months— 
 before they finish their business ' You see nature has given 
 some of 'em cunning and invention to make up for want of 
 strength." 
 
 ** Bless my heart ! it makes me feel creepy to hear you 
 talk ! Well, the man that struck our poor lady must have 
 been a cowardly yillain. How he could hurt her in her 
 sleep!" 
 
 "Probably she began to stir, and he thought she would 
 wake and scream, and he would be caught ! so he silenced 
 her for ever. Burglars seldom take life if they can help 
 it, but this fellow was a stranger probably, and did not 
 know the ways of the place." 
 
 Here the door again opened — this time to admit Mrs. 
 McHugh, who had a parcel in her hands and a displeased 
 look on her face. 
 
 •' Oh ! good morning, Mr. Dillon !" then turning sharply 
 on Collins she went on. " Sure you were in an extra hurry 
 this morning to go o£E and never remember to come up to 
 me for the master's shirts, there wasn't a button left on 
 them by that limb of a laundress. Now I have had to come 
 the whole way myself. For I was not sure what time he 
 
 would set out, and as to trusting that girl I " Only 
 
 a pudden pause could express the depths of h er deficiences 
 
 '* Well, ma'am, it's an ill wind that blows nobody good," 
 
 said the deteoiiye, gallantly. '' If you hadn' t been oblige^i 
 
BLIND FATB. 
 
 193 
 
 ut his mur- 
 
 der! 'Would 
 
 to come around I should not have had the pleasure of see- 
 ing you." 
 
 " You're very polite, I am sure!" returned Mrs. McHugh 
 witL on audible snifE, " and I am glad to have an opportu- 
 inity of asking you if you have done anything or if you in- 
 tend to do anything? I am sure, from all Mr. Scandish 
 said of you to Miss Dorothy and me, I thought you'd catch 
 the cunningest thief of a murderer that ever burrowed 
 under the earth or dived under the sea ! and here, near six 
 months have passed and you haven't laid your finger on 
 him yet ! Considering we know, in a manner of speaking 
 who the cruel scoundrel is — it isn't such a tremendous task 
 to find him." 
 
 Mrs. McHugh, from extreme awe of,and faith in, Dillon's 
 untried powers, had passed to the opposite extreme of doubt, 
 deepening into utter distrust and contempt. 
 
 " I'm sorry to see you have such a yoor opinion of me, 
 ma'am," said Dillon, with mock humility, which enraged 
 his interlocutor, who was too shrewd not to perceive his 
 real indifference to her opinion. " However, I'm not quite 
 done with the business." 
 
 " No, I don't suppose you will be till Mr. Egerton finds 
 the wretch in Spain." 
 
 *• Well, ma'am, you'll admit that Mr. Ej;erton has a few 
 advantages over me. Yet, somehow, I don't think he'il 
 have any better success. Come, now, what'll you bet that 
 I land the fish first ?»» 
 
 " B^'ttin;^ is not in my line, and I think too highly of a 
 kind, j.<?od, i,^onerous gentleman like Mr. Egerton, to make 
 a bet about him." 
 
 • Ay, just HO ! he is all that. Il>*-markably open-handed, 
 and highly moral, a man you'd trust your life to, hey ?" 
 
 *' Yes, I would," said Mrs. McHugh, looking at him 
 sternly. '* and I'm sure I don't know what you mean by 
 talking in a sneering way of such a gentlomun, a gentle- 
 man whose money you know the touch of, I'll go bail ! 
 
 To her mortification the detective burst out laughing. 
 
 *'No, ma'am, not yet! but 1 dare say I may have the 
 handling of some of it before the year is much older. Now, 
 I am afraid I must tear myself away from pleasant com- 
 pany. Ain't I unlucky, Mr. Collins, to miss the Colonel? 
 However, I can wait a bit to see him. (iood -aorning Mrs. 
 McHugh ! I hope I'll recover my place in your opinion be- 
 
:i 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 i ' 
 
 1 ' 1 
 
 J. 
 
 IM 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 fore I die. Oood morning Mr. Collins." With a nod and 
 a curious triumphant chuckle, Dillon loft the room. 
 
 " Well, he is unlucky," said Collins, opening the parcel 
 Mrs. McHugh had brought. " He has been six or seven 
 times if he has been once to see the Colonel, but he is 
 never in." 
 
 " Then mark my words, Collins. He don't want to find 
 him." 
 
 " I think your wrong, Mrs. McHugh, and you'll excuse 
 my mentioning it, but I would not speak so sharp to him 
 if I was you. He's a wonderful man, that Dillon. He 
 knows what's inside your head a'most before you do your- 
 self. He'd tell you the sort of murder you'd commit by 
 looking in your face. He " 
 
 " He would turn you inside out, I daresay" said Mrs. 
 McHugh, loftily "but I'd like to hear him tell me the sort 
 of murder I'd commit 1 Set him up! It's pretty plain the 
 sort of company he is used to. I'm surprised at a clever 
 man like Mr. Standish believing in him. He is just hang- 
 ing on, spending the master's money, eating and drinking 
 of the best, and pretending he's that deep that no one can 
 fathom him. If anyone ever catches that bloodthirsty vil- 
 lain, it will be Mr. Egerton, and Dillon knows it ; that's 
 why he is so spiteful against h>m. To be waiting full six 
 months for justice on the wretch that robbed those precious 
 children of their sweet mother! Don't tell me that a de- 
 tective that is so long settling a job is worth his salt, I'll 
 never know a peaceful hour till I see that monster hung. 
 Yes, I'd go to see him swing!" 
 
 » Well, I don't blame you, Mrs. McHugh. Still, I think 
 Dillon knows a good bit. It's my belief he's playing a 
 deep game, and he'll surprise you some day, no — no— he is 
 wide awake. Look at his eyes " 
 
 •* I'd rather not. They are like ferret's. Well, there are 
 the shirts, a dozen, and not a button wanting to one of 
 them. Ah, Collins ! It makes my heart ache to look at 
 the poor dear master ! Ho is tliat loving to the childrin 
 one minute, and can't beai the sight of them the next ! It 
 was too happy we were. To see the poor mistiess and Miss 
 Dorothy, just like angels, and the Colonel and Mr. Standish 
 like brothers ; sure, the cruel, envious, evil spirits must 
 have got the uu, er hand for :,u unlucky hour, to bliuht it 
 
BLIND FAl'K 
 
 196 
 
 ith a nod and 
 room. 
 
 ing the parcel 
 I six or seven 
 ael, but he is 
 
 t want to find 
 
 you'll excuse 
 > sharp to him 
 It Dillon. H(i 
 e you do your- 
 >u'd commit by 
 
 3say" said Mrs. 
 
 tell me the sort 
 
 )retty plain the 
 
 sed at a clever 
 
 [e is just hang- 
 
 g and drinking 
 
 Ihat no one can 
 
 oodthirsty vil- 
 
 ows it ; that's 
 
 aiting full six 
 
 those precious 
 
 me that a de- 
 
 his salt, I'll 
 
 monster hung. 
 
 Still, I think 
 
 Ihe"? playing a 
 
 no — no — he is 
 
 ''ell, there are 
 Lting to one of 
 Lche to look at 
 |to the children 
 the next ! It 
 Iti-ess and Miss 
 Id Mr. Standish 
 |l spirits must 
 ir, to bliuht it 
 
 aQ with their davilish spite. 1 luus ^et back for the 
 children's dinner. I suppose you won't be long." 
 
 " Well, it will be a good half-hour, but I'll cornea s soon 
 as I can." 
 
 * « % « « * 4e 
 
 Standish naturally took advantage of Colonel Callander's 
 absence to renew his visits to Prince's Place. He was far 
 too sensible to take offence at tlie whims of a man so evi- 
 dently out of mental harmony, and he was anxious to see 
 as much as he could of his interesting ward whose mood 
 puzzled and distressed him. In all her griefjand depression, 
 she had always spoken to him with the utmost confidence, 
 with a degree of unreserve which showed how glad she 
 w&s to open her heart to him. But for the last week she 
 had grown silent, reserved, hesitating — she seemed to 
 think before speaking to him. 
 
 This change worried him more that he confessed even to 
 himself. It set him thinking of the time, before their 
 great sorrow, when she had peremptorily refused Egerton, 
 and revived the question which had then frequently pre- 
 sented itself : " Has Dorothy any girlish fancy for anyone, 
 who perhaps does not return it, or who has amused himself 
 and passed by *?" He had in some occult way always felt 
 Dorothy to be more companionable, more mature than her 
 elder sister. He often found unexpected depths in her 
 quickly developing mind, and felt sure that, though proud 
 and maidenly enough, she was sufficiently individual to 
 form a decided liking apart from that waiting " to be 
 chosen'' which is the conventional type of womauly feeling, 
 but she was sufficiently strong also to hide it, though not to 
 trample it down without suffering, and he loved his lonely 
 little ward too well to contemplate such a possibility with- 
 out keen distress. 
 
 Yet he knew her simple life so well, that he wondered lie 
 could not fix upon the man who had attracted her. Could 
 it have been that pleasant young sailor who waw of their 
 party to Rookstone? She saw so very little oi him, she 
 could hardly have much feeling about him. Should he ask 
 iier? Standish knew human nature well enough to be 
 aware that confidence is rarely given in reply to a point 
 blank question. No, he must try and win it. "H th'o 
 are ai%- difficulties between her and the man she may pos- 
 sibly love, I will do what 1 can to smooth them. 1 trust 
 
n 
 
 feLIND FATE. 
 
 n 
 
 ia Cl-od she hasn't given her heart to a scamp! It is quite 
 ^K>Bsib]e. Love is an avv . uiiy dangerous game for so youn^ 
 a, creature. Why Dorothy will not be twenty till the eud 
 of July, and it seenir; but yesterday that she came with 
 pride to show me her first long frock. If I had made a 
 boyish marriajje, which, thank G-od, I did not, she might 
 have been iiiy daughter. 
 
 So pondering, Standish reached Prince's Place, and was 
 shown upstairs to the drawing room, where he found Miss 
 Oakley. 
 
 Still further upstairs Dorothy was amusing her little 
 nephew and niece, as the chill February afternoon was too 
 showery and east-windy to allow of their going out. Mis. 
 McHugh sat at her needle- work, while '* auntie "• built up 
 card houses for ' ' Boy " to knock do ^vn. 
 
 " Isn't he silly?" cried Doily, as the riotous little fellow 
 held his chubby hands ready to level the structure before 
 the second storey was finished. " Be quiet, you naughty 
 boy ; let us see if auntie can make it much — much 
 higher." 
 
 " Naughty ! Dolly naughty !" he exclaimed, rising on 
 the footboard of his chajr to slap his sister with right 
 good will. 
 
 " For shame, Master Herbert! to strike your sister. 
 That's not like a gentleman." 
 
 " Let me build one quite high house, darling, and you 
 shall knock down the rest," and the process went on for a 
 few minutes. 
 
 And is there no news at all of Mr. Egerton?" asked 
 Nurse, breaking a tolerably long silence, while she threaded 
 her needle. 
 
 " Mr. Standish had one letter from him, soon after he 
 had reached Valencia, before he had time to do anything, 
 but he has not written since, though he promised to 
 do so !" 
 
 " Well, to my mind, he is the likeliest man to do any 
 good. Why that wonderful detective has just been making 
 fools of us !" 
 
 " Mr. Egerton promised to write again soon, when he 
 had anything to tell. Mr. Standish may have a letter any 
 iay." 
 
 " Perhaps he has, to-day. I fancy he has come, too, for I 
 ieard the door-bell a fev/ moments ago." 
 
 I'W^ 
 
BLIND FATE 
 
 197 
 
 )me, too, for I 
 
 " Miss Oakl^ is in the drawing room," said Dorothy, 
 without stirrii g. 
 
 " I wish the Colonel was back, Miss Dorothv. He'll be 
 wandering about over the old places and to that lonely 
 little churchyard, breaking his heart, if that can be done 
 twice over. That's where he used to go every time he 
 went out, before he went away with Mr. Egerton. Many 
 a time I've heard the front door open softly, and got up to 
 watch him steal out in the grey of the morning." 
 
 •' How do you know he went there. Nurse ?" 
 
 " Because he always took the Rookstone road, and youll 
 remember a bit of a boy that used to bring us new-laid 
 eggs sometimes ? Well, he told me how he had been herd- 
 ing sheep on the hillside behind the little chapel, and saw 
 the poor gentleman in the early morning once gathering 
 the heather there and laying himself down on the ground in 
 his grief." 
 
 " Ah, what he must have suffered, and how wonderfully 
 he controls himself in our sight !" 
 
 " True for you, Miss Dorothy." 
 
 '' You never mentioned this before, Nurse." 
 
 ' • No ; why should I ? Hadn't you enough to distract 
 you? But I wish that decent, sensible man, Collins, had 
 gone with him. He'll be terrible lonesome. Come now, 
 my dears, I must clear that table, and get tea. Let Miss 
 Dorothy go ; she is wanted downstairs." 
 
 •* And when you have finished tea, you shall come down 
 too," said Dorothy, escaping with some difficulty. 
 
 Descending slowly, Dorothy found the drawing room 
 door ajar, and, entering softly, saw Henrietta and Stan- 
 dish in the recess formed by a bay window ; their backs 
 were to her. He held Henrietta's hand, and, as Doiothy 
 passed, uncertain as to her next movement, Stand ish ex- 
 claimed, warmly, '* My dear Henrietta, how can I ever 
 thank you enough ?" and kissed the hand he held. 
 
 Dorothy slipped away as noiselessly as she had entered, 
 and went down to a small study, where siie st^lected a 
 book ; then, feeling strangely tremulous, she sat down and 
 tried to clear her thoughts from the painful haze which 
 seemed to dim them. Soon, very soon it seemed to her, 
 Collins came in and said, " Miss Oakley desired me to say 
 that tea is ready, miss." 
 
 " Very well ; I will come." 
 
 \ 
 
198 
 
 BUND FATE. 
 
 ^t 
 
 h 'i'^ h 
 
 Iff. 
 
 The cosy tea-table was set close by the fire; Henrietta 
 
 held the teapot, and Sbandish stood on the rug. 
 
 " Where have you been, Dorothy ?" cried the tea-maker, 
 " I have sent np and down to find you. Mr. Standish has a 
 letter from Mr. Egertcn, he wanted to show you.'* 
 
 " There is very little in it," said Standish. He had 
 shaken hands with his ward, looking kindly and anxiously 
 into her face, and then drawn over a chair for her. 
 
 " I never exoected much from him," returned Dorothy. 
 
 " He certainly is not sparing himself," returned Stan- 
 dish. '* Here is his letter." Dorothy took it and laid it on 
 the table. 
 
 Standish watched her with some curiosity, and Henri- 
 etta, who seemed in higli spirits, launched into a descrip- 
 tion of her Aunt Callander's unreasonableness about his 
 children, about the trouble they gave when they did go to 
 see her, and the terribly bad system on which they were 
 brought up. 
 
 Then, looking at her watch, she exclaimed, '^ Oh ! I must 
 go out. I promised my aunt to see her to-day. She has a 
 bad cold. Indeed, I do not think she is at all well. I am 
 quite sorry about her, poor old thing ! You can tell Do- 
 rothy what we have been talking about, Mr. Standish. 
 Ring the bell, please, and tell Collins to get me a cab. Good- 
 bye," she added to Standish, " I suppose you will be gone 
 by the time I come back." 
 
 As soon as they were alone, Standish, after looking very 
 earnestly at Dorothy, sat down on the sofa behind her. 
 
 '* Don't you care to read tne letter ?" he asked. 
 
 " I should prefer hearing its contents from you." Her 
 voice sounded dull and despondent. 
 
 " Well then," taking it up, " Egerton, after much search- 
 ing, has found an old muleteer whose nephew Pedro is a 
 sailor, and was, the old man thinks, on board a vessel that 
 traded between Cadiz and the Levant, and sometimes went 
 further. The muleteer does not know where he is now, but 
 he appeared last December at Alicant, and seemed very 
 flush of cash. Since then he has gone to sea again, and 
 his return is problematical." 
 
 *' Yes, I suppose it is— very," returned Dorothy, quietly. 
 
 " My dear Dorothy, something is working in your mind 
 which you hide from me. It is tormenting and distress- 
 ing you. Don't you think you had better open your heart 
 to me?" 
 
; Henrietta 
 
 tea-maker, 
 idish has a 
 
 • 
 
 u He had 
 I anxiously 
 er. 
 
 Dorothy, 
 rned Stan- 
 d laid it on 
 
 and Henri- 
 ) a descrip- 
 
 about his 
 y did go to 
 
 they were 
 
 )h! I must 
 
 She has a 
 ell. I am 
 an tell Do- 
 
 Standish. 
 
 ab. Good- 
 ill be gone 
 
 >king very 
 d her. 
 
 3U. 
 
 >» 
 
 Her 
 
 ch search- 
 Pedro is a 
 vessel that 
 imes went 
 now, but 
 imed very 
 kgain, and 
 
 jr, quietly. 
 
 rour mind 
 . distress- 
 our heart 
 
 BLIND FAT& 
 
 As he spoke, Collins came in to clear away the tea-things, 
 and until he was gone neither of them spoke. 
 
 Then Standish repeated : " Don't you think so, Dorothy ?'' 
 " No, Paul. It would be of no use. In fact I have ceased 
 
 to look back ; all 1 care for now is to win poor Herbert 
 
 back to something like his old self." 
 
 " Well, Dorothy, I cannot force you to speak if you do 
 not choose to do so. But what have 1 done that you shut 
 up your heart from me ? You have shrunk from all our 
 old confidential communications. Have 1 slipped out of 
 my farmer place in your esteem '? Eh, Dorothy ?" 
 
 Her heart swelled with an intense longing to throw her 
 arms around his neck, as she used when in former years 
 she flew to him with any childish complaint against her 
 teachers ; but, with a remarkable effort of self-control, she 
 smiled sweetly, in his face, and said, a little unsteadily — 
 
 '* Dear Paul ! as if I could ever change to you, my best 
 friend ! I shall have heaps of confidences to pour into your 
 sympathetic ear from time to time, if you have patience to 
 hear them ?" 
 
 She held out her hand in her old frank way. Standish 
 held it for a moment between his own, looking very grave. 
 
 " I am always ready to listen to you, dear Dorothy, and 
 wish you would trust me for your own sake," 
 
 " What is it Henrietta toid you to tell me?" 
 
 '* We have been arranging a scheme for Callander and 
 all of you. We propose that when the time for which you 
 took this house is up— that is in about a fortnight, I think 
 —you should set up your headquarters in Brussels. There 
 are picture, and churches, and the field of Waterloo foi- 
 Callander to meditate upon, and you are en route for every- 
 where. Henrietta, I mean Miss Oakley, thinks that if you 
 persuade Callander that you cannot travel without him, li* 
 will consent to live with you, and then the children and 
 yourselves being constantly with him, will draw him 
 gradually out of himself. He has sent in his papers and 
 given up the army, 1 am sorry to say, though i (jiiite ex- 
 
 Yes! Oh, he could hardly go back to the regiment, 1 
 think the idea of getting him away to a totally different 
 life is very good. If he will only agree to that plan I I do 
 wish he was all right with you! It will be trying tu 
 Henrietta if you cannot go aud come as you used. 
 
200 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 If*- 
 
 " To Henrietta ! Yes, and to me, too ; and. pray, don'r. 
 you can; to see me any more ?" 
 
 The question was i)Ut playfully, but, strive as she would, 
 Dorothy could not respond in the same tone. 
 
 ♦* Not wish to see you V" she repeated, with quivering lips, 
 while her eyes filled with sudden tears ; " What should I 
 do without you?" 
 
 " My dear little Dorothy," exclaimed Standish, sitting 
 down by her on the sofa ; and, putting his arm around her, 
 he tried to draw her close to him. 
 
 But Dorothy struggled to free herself with an impetu- 
 osity which amazed him, and he immediately let hfer go. 
 
 *' I beg you a thousand pardons for forgetting you are a 
 grand, grown-up young lady," he said with a novel senso 
 of awkwardness. *'You see, I used to be so accustomed to 
 kiss away your tears, that I was on the point of repeating 
 the panacea. If you but knew iiow it pains me to see your 
 pale sad face, you would not be vexed with the lapse of my 
 good manners." 
 
 " Vexed ! oh, no ; not vexed !" murmured Dorothy, con- 
 fusedly. TL.n, in a tone of relief : " Here are the 
 children !" 
 
 Dolly and " Boy " were warmly welcomed. 
 
 Standish gave the Litter endless rides on his foot, and let 
 Dolly clamber about him, take out his watch, rearrange his 
 chain, and generally do what she liked. 
 
 In the intervals of these amusements, he contrived to 
 ask Dorothy what she had been reading, to recommend 
 her some books, and offer to send them to her ; to ask her 
 if she had summoned courage to touch the piano once more, 
 and to beg her to make the effort to resume her old way of 
 life. But there was an indefinable chan-;e in his tone. Ho 
 seemed suddenly to have gone a long way off. 
 
 At last he was obliged to leave. He had barely left him- 
 self time to dress for dinner. 
 
 "Then you like and approve of our Brussels scheme?" he 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, I think it is the best thing to be done." 
 
 " Then you can discuss it with Henrietta this evening 
 and I sliall see you to-morrow, when I hope there wil be 
 some tidings of Callander. Good evening, my dear ward." 
 
 A noisy farewell from the children, and ho was gone. 
 
 " Why did he kiss Henrietta's hand V and what was it 
 he thanked her for so enthusisatically ?" 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 201 
 
 She went to sleep with this unanswered question preying 
 on her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 "THE LETTER." 
 
 They— that is, Mrs. Callander, Henrietta, and Dorothy— 
 waited in vain for a letter from tlio Colonel. 
 
 A week had passed, and he made no sign. Dorothy was 
 very uneasy, much more so than Henrietta or his motiiei, 
 neither of whom shared her profound forboiing of evil. 
 To them, his abstraction, his indifference to all that form- 
 erly interested him, the distressed expression of his eyes, 
 sometimes so dull, sometimes so wild and restless, were 
 only marks of natural but unusually deep grief. To Do- 
 rothy they were indications of mental anguish too strong 
 for the control of reason. 
 
 She had written more than one letter to the hotel at 
 Fordsea, where she believed Callander had put up, but he 
 took no notice of them. 
 
 It was, therefore, with a sense of infinite relief she heard 
 Collins tap at the door, as she was changing her warm out- 
 door dress for one of lighter material, and say, in a brisk, 
 cheerful tone — 
 
 *' If you please, Miss, the Colonel has come. He is in the 
 drawing room, and I am going to bring Miss Dolly and 
 Master Bertie." 
 
 "Yes, do, Collins. I will come directl3^ Oli, thank 
 God ! " she ejaculated to herself, and hastened to finish 
 dressing. 
 
 Callander was sitting by the fire in a large arm chair, 
 his hand on Dolly's head. Both children were standing by 
 him most demurely, gazing with wondering awed eyes at 
 their now half-forgotten father. All seemed silent. 
 
 ■' Dear Herbert, I am so delighted to see you ! " cried Do- 
 rothy, running to greet and embrace him. He smiled ab- 
 sently, and stretched out his hand to her. " Why did you 
 not write ? 1 felt so anxious about you." 
 
 'I was quite well. I had nothing to write about. Where 
 is Henrietta ? " 
 
 yiiehasi gone to spend the afternoon and dine with some 
 friends who are passing through ou their way to Algeria. 
 But you will dine with me, will you not ? " 
 
 " Yes. I came here for my dinner." 
 
 ^1 
 
202 
 
 BLIND FATB. 
 
 h' ^M 
 
 "Don't you find the children looking well? Boy has 
 
 quite recovered his looks} and strength." 
 
 Callender looked earnestly at little Dolly, and suddenly 
 lifting her, hugged her close to his breast and smothered 
 lier with kisses, till the child, half-frightened, struggled to 
 get down. 
 
 ♦* Me too- -me too ! " cried the boy, eager, as usual, to be 
 noticed. Callander took him up more soberly, and kissed 
 him. 
 
 ' How old is the little fellow ? " he asked, in a dreamy 
 voica 
 
 »' Nearly two years. Is he not a big boy ? *• Callender did 
 not reply. He let the child tug at his chain. 
 
 But Dolly, with some vague instinct of pity, nestled close 
 to her father, and taking his hand, which hung listlessly 
 down, put it round her neck. 
 
 " My little darling ! " he said, softly, in a tone more like 
 his old natural voice than Dorothy had heard for some 
 time. The next moment he said to her, almost in a whis- 
 per — 
 
 Send them away, Dorothy — do send them awaj'^ ! " 
 
 The children were not particularly reluctant to retire 
 when Mrs. McHugh appeared, and said good-night de- 
 murely. 
 
 The tete-a-tete which ensued was very trying. Callan- 
 der sat quite still, answering the observations she forced 
 iicrseif to make from time to time with monosyllables, or 
 the briefest possible sentences. She thought dinner would 
 never be announced. When, at length, they were at table 
 she was surprised at her brother-in-law's voracious ap- 
 petite. Collins waited on him with evident delight, no 
 doubt thinking that nothing can be far wrong when a man 
 can take his meals heartily. It increased Dorothy's un- 
 easiness to observe how utterly oblivious Callander was of 
 all the little attentions he used to pay his convives with 
 such kindly politeness. He was absorbed in what he was 
 eating, and drank eagerly the elaret-and-water supplied 
 him by his watchful attendant. 
 
 How Dorothy longed for Standish. She was growing 
 nervous — foolishly nervous. 
 
 When they returned to the drawing room Callander again 
 took the large easy chair. Dorothy began some needlework 
 and sat opposite him, in token of her readiness to con verse, 
 
HLIND FATK 
 
 203 
 
 if he WAS so inelined. He kept silent so long tliat Dorothy 
 thought he was asleep. 
 
 Suddenly he sat upright and exclaimed, " You are not 
 like her, and yet you are. You haven't her beauty ! " 
 
 " I know that well, Herbert," she returned, hoping he 
 would relieve his mind by talking of the dear dead. 
 
 *^ Still, she looks out of your eyes at me sometimes, Dor- 
 othy, and then I don't know whether I hate or love you. 
 You used to he like a daughter to me, and you are a good 
 kind girl. You must always take care of those poor chil- 
 dren." 
 
 '^ Yes, I will, to the hest of my ability," said Dorothy, 
 with difficufty keeping back her tears. 
 
 " You must never let my mother get hold of them, mind 
 that." 
 
 " I hope you will stay with them and order what is to be 
 done for them. As to Mrs. Callander, why are you so un- 
 kind to her? She is very unhappy. 
 
 " Because 1 cannot forget how unkind she was to my lost 
 darling," he returned, sternly. "And you should not for- 
 get it either. I can never forgive her. And she wants to 
 make out that I am weak — weak in brain! She sent that 
 fellow Dillon, to dog my steps down at Fordsea." 
 
 " Indeed, 1 am sure she did not. He often goes down to 
 
 Eastport in his endless search for traces of— of " she 
 
 hesitated. 
 
 " Of the murderer," added Callander, with composure. 
 ''Ah, he may search, but I — I alone must punish, 1 tell 
 you. I may wait, but 1 will have my revenge— by my own 
 hand." 
 
 Dorothy felt uneasy, but she wisely avoided contradict- 
 ing him, and so kept silence. Callander, now fully roused, 
 stood up and began to pace the room. ^^ 
 
 "What has Egwton being doinj; ? Has he written?' 
 
 u Yes — he thinks he has found some traces." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Callander— rather a terrible 
 laugh. "He will never find the murderer away there. — 
 never! " and he paused opposite her. 
 
 "At all events he said in his letter to Paul Standiali 
 
 »» 
 
 " Standish ! " repeated Callander, with a deadly, bitter 
 tone, that made the word sound like a curae. "Why do you 
 speak his name to me ? I wonder you dare! " And he re- 
 
204 
 
 BUND FATE. 
 
 ■*!.. 
 
 )1 
 
 1*^ 
 
 tuned hJH restless walk. This seemed to Dorothy an O] • 
 por unity for asking an explanation of his mysterioua dis- 
 lik 3 to her guardian. 
 
 '' I do not know why I should not name him, Herbert. 
 Tell me why you dislike him- It might relieve your 
 mind." 
 
 "Tell you?" he repeated, "tell you? I have sometimes 
 wished to tell you, that you might know what a subtle 
 devil " He broke off, and muttered something to him- 
 self. "There," he resumed, "you loved her well. You 
 would shield her memory well." 
 
 *'l would do any tiling for her sake — anything to com- 
 fort you ! " cried poor Dorothy, unable to restrain her tears. 
 
 Callander paced the room in silence for another minute, 
 then he suddenly sat down by her on the sofa, which was 
 her usual seat, and, taking both her hands, which he held 
 tightly, he said, low and quick : " I will tell you all — all ! 
 I found it out before — just before — we lost her. It was my 
 mother who ^ ointed it jut ! But before that, before I left 
 India — there was a change, a faint change, in her letters. 
 You would not have seen it — no one would have seen it but 
 a lover such as I was ! I felt and knew that something 
 had come between us." Dorothy sat listening, motionless, 
 with curdling blood. Had he indeed discovered the truth ? 
 
 *' My motlier wrote that Standish almost lived with her 
 and you, but 1 would not notice her insinuations. Then I 
 came home, and I knew there was a change. Still, she had 
 some love for me, buc he was always at her ear! He would 
 not let her come away with me alone! That would have 
 made all right. So I determined to have his life ; but she 
 
 — she " His voice failed him, and he paused, pant- 
 
 i, w, big drops standing on his brow. 
 
 "Paul Standish I " cried Dorothy, wrenching her hands 
 from^him, all her force and courage returning, "Paul Stand- 
 ish is as innocent as 1 am. What — who put this horrible 
 idea into your head ? You did not believe your mother, 
 who told you this horrible lie?" 
 
 "It is no lie! " he said, with a moan like that of a crea- 
 ture in pain. " I saw it in her own writing." 
 
 " She never wrote anything to Paul Standish which the 
 whole world might noi see. Who has imposed upon you ?" 
 
 " Ah ! you do not know. Neither she nor he would 
 speak of such evil things to you. But, Dorothy, I will 
 have patience, subtlety as profound as his, and patience. I 
 
BLiHD Jj'ATE 206 
 
 will punish him yet, cruelly, unrelentingly. God ! I feel 
 my hand on his throat now !" and he clenched both of hit 
 own, looking awfully wild, the fine, strong face she knew 
 so well distorted by passion to a demon-like expression. 
 
 Dorothy felt as if Paul's doom was fixed, that nothing 
 could save him. She— she only could undeceive the 
 wretched man before iier. 
 
 *' You are wrong, Herbert !" she said, bravely and stead- 
 ily. " I can prove that you are wrong ; 1 can prove that 
 Mabel always loved you, that you do Paul Standish the 
 greatest injustice. Will you wait hero for a few minutes, 
 and will you read what 1 bring you V" 
 
 Callander, checked and astonished by her words and im- 
 pressive manner, stopped, silent and still. "What do yon 
 mean ?" he stammered. 
 
 " You shall see," she cried, and flew away upstairs to 
 where, in the secret drawer of her old drossing-ciase, enclosed 
 in a blank envelope, lay the letter she had never been able to 
 deliver into Eger ton's hands. All fear, all hesitation was 
 gone. What matter any danger to herself from the fury of 
 the excited man she had left behind V Wnat matt<;r the des- 
 perate retribution she might briug down on the real ofTendery 
 Everything was secondary to the proving that Mahel wa.s 
 really true to her husband, that Standish was innocent of 
 the hideous treachery attributed to him —all consefiuence.i 
 were swallowed up in this overpowering motive. 
 
 Almost breathless she returned to the drawing-room. 
 Callander was standin^- exactly where she had left him. 
 
 He stretched out his hand eagerly. 
 
 " One moment, Herbert. There are one or two things to 
 lell first." Rapidly, yet with a prudence which was almost 
 inspiration, she told of the curious mesmeric power which 
 Egf;rton had gained over her si.«>ter, of her dread that Cal- 
 lander might be suspicious, of Mabel's confession of her un- 
 happiness and fear of Egerton's violence .-.houl 1 she show 
 affection to her husband. "Then she determ.ned to end 
 this wretched, contemptible state of things, and wrote this, 
 which I was to give to him, but I never had a chantMj, for 
 .-^he died dreadfully a few days after." She took the note 
 nom i'-s outer cover and gave it to Callander. He took it, 
 ctnd looked c iriousiy at tJ-ie address with dJlateU, horror- 
 • truck eyes. His hands trembled while he tor« it open, 
 •"^he watched him eagerly as he read the Gon:ent.s, every 
 .'. ord of which was engraven on her memory— all fear, 
 
 all 
 
:oQ 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 m- 
 
 I 
 
 I*' 
 
 'I 
 
 ersonal feeling lost in the intense desire to clear the two 
 p ople she loved best from the terrible accusation in which 
 Callander believed. 
 
 " I cannot bear my life," so ran the letter, " if you con- 
 tinue to exercise the extraordinary power I have let you 
 yain over me. I told you this before in the last lines I 
 wrote. Now I will break my fetters, and dare to act as my 
 heart and conscience dictate. My husband loves me ; in 
 spite of all you say I beiieve he loves me, and I really love 
 him. I only fear you, Randal, and 1 cannot understand 
 how you gained the power over me which you have. I am 
 determined to resist it. If you ever cared for me, if you 
 have any principle, any sense of honor, leave me to regain 
 peace and happiness. You can never persuade me leave my 
 dear, good husband. I shudder to think i ever listened to 
 you for a moment. Show that you have some real regard 
 for me by going far away, and earn the gratitude of 
 
 " M. C." 
 Callander's chest heaved. He drew his breath in gasps. 
 When he came to the end he looked up with wild, angry 
 eyes, and, crushing the paper in his hand, said, in fierce, 
 quick tones — 
 
 ' ' Egerton was your lover — he wanted to marry you !" 
 " He pretented it." 
 
 ' ' Oh, my God !" exclaimed Callander, in a tone of 
 anguish that thrilled Dorothy's heart, and he dropped into 
 a chair as if shot, sitting upright, motionless, like a crea- 
 ture turned to stone. 
 
 Dorothy was terrified at the effect ol her confession. 
 What should she do i* 
 
 " Oh, Herbert ! speak to me." 
 
 He stared at her as if not understanding what she 
 said, and covered his face with his hands, leaning forward 
 until his brow almost touched his knees. Then he stood 
 up, began smoothing out the letter, and kissed it. " She 
 loved me," he said, brokenly — *' she loved me still. I can- 
 not speak to you, my poor child. 1 must go. 1 dare not 
 speak. To-morrow — to-morrow !" He staggered towards 
 the door. 
 
 "Oh, Herbert ! Let me call Collins to go with you, you 
 are not fit to be alone, dear Herbert." He made a motioj 
 of refusal with his hand. 
 
 "At least you sie that Paul Sti»ndi3h is not to blame." 
 
BUKB PATB. S97 
 
 ♦«I hATe wronged him, bat I will writ«. Let me go, for 
 God's sake let me go." He t ushed from the room. 
 
 Dorothy rang violently, and theu rau downsUirs. 
 
 "Oh, Collins, get your hat and follow him, there is 
 something dreadful in his face," and Collins flew to obev 
 her. ^ 
 
 "Have I done right or wrong," asked Dorothy of her- 
 self, while she wrung her hands in despair. ''What shall 
 I do? Where can I turn ? Oh, I must tell Paul every- 
 thing. What will Herbert say or do when he has time 
 to think, and connects this letter with the awful result ? 
 I did so hope to keep all a secret for my poor darling's 
 sake. Will he attack Randal Egerton legally, and blazon 
 out the whole dreadful story. I must see Paul, and he 
 will be out now. It is nearly nine o'clock. He will be 
 away, goodness knows where. Still, Henrietta is safe 
 away, it will be eleven or more before she returns. Per- 
 haps Paul may be at his rooms. I will go to him. i 
 don't want to tell Henrietta more than 1 can help, but 1 
 must tell someone. Nurse will not say a word if I ask 
 her," and she mounted rapidly to the peaceful nursery, 
 where Mrs. McHugh, spectacles on nose, was reading a 
 newspaper with a stern aspect, as if sitting in judgment 
 on the world. "Dear Nurse, the Colonel has just rushed 
 out of the house in such a state of t3xcitement that I am 
 frightened to death." 
 
 ♦•What's put him out?" asked Mrs. McHiigh, rising. 
 
 "We were talking of — of the past, and he spoke of 
 Mabel, almost for the hrst time since we lost he; , and got 
 into a state of despair ! I have sent Coiiins to try and 
 
 Oh! 
 
 nurse, 
 
 find him. Now I want to see Mr. Stand ish. 
 
 must see him at once, 1 am going to him. Will you get 
 
 a cab for me? I must go." 
 
 "Stay a bit. Miss Dorothy, it's just a chance if he be at 
 home. You stay here, I'll go," beginning lo taiie off iier 
 cap as she spoke. "I'll bring him back it he is to be found. 
 You write a line for me to leave." 
 
 "But nurse, I don't want Mis^ Oakley to know." 
 
 "All right Miss Dorothy, more rea.-^on 1 should go. No 
 one will tell on me, but Brown" (tiie lady's maid) "would 
 be sure to say you had gone out by yourself— go write, my 
 dear young lady." 
 
 "I will, and 1 will watch the ohiidren. You need not 
 send Peggy up." 
 
 h 
 

 208 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 m 
 
 A short appeal to Standish to come to her early next 
 day, at eight if he liked, was quickly penned, and then 
 there was nothing for it but to wait, 
 
 "Nothing but to wait." What a terrible task, to be still 
 and helpless while others were casting the shuttle of your 
 life through the threads of inexorable circumstance. To 
 count the leaden moments and wear out tliought, striving 
 to forecast the turn of the tide in your affairs — to divine 
 the "trifles light as air," which may influence the decision 
 of some all potent friend or patron for or against the aim 
 of your existance, the desire of your heart — to wait while 
 another pleads your cause, while the "yes" or "no " whicli 
 will make or mar you depends on no efEort of your own. 
 This is perhaps the most severe test to which human 
 courage and endurance can be put. The pluck of ordinary 
 men can carry them gallantly through the excitemtiJit of a 
 dashing charge — when motion gives fire to the blcod and 
 action disguises the individual's danger — but to those 
 who can stand still and firm to bear the shock of the onset 
 they see coming against them, tiiese are the true heroes. 
 
 True, Dorothy was quite certain that Standish would 
 come to her as soon as he possibly could, but what would 
 he say to the tale she liad to tell ? Had she done right in 
 giving that letter to Callander? Yes. The more she re- 
 flected, the more satisfied she became that it was right lo 
 undeceive him. 
 
 How jlowly the minutes went by ! She sat watching 
 the hands of the clock on the mantel-piece. Did time ever 
 drive so slowly. She took up the newspaper Mrs. McHugii 
 had thrown down, it was a weekly paper, brim-full of 
 horrors, murders, maimings of wives by their husbands, 
 vitriol-throwing by wives over iiusbands and rivals, 
 fights, suicides — this last was a terribly suggestive item. 
 When? When would Collins come back? She laid down 
 the paper and glanced again at the clock. Even that 
 very temporary occupation had helped her over many 
 minutes. 
 
 At last steps approached, the door opened and Mrs. 
 McHugh appeared, a little breathless. 
 
 " Well, I've been pretty quick, liaven't I? But 1 am vexed 
 he was out. He iiad gone down with Lord R to somis 
 
 place down the Great Northern line, and won't be liomo 
 till to-morrow evening." 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 next 
 then 
 
 20' 
 
 Dorothy uttered a faint cry, and sank into a chair. 
 
 " Don't take on so, my dear ! I just got his address and 
 Beat on your note." 
 
 "Thank you, nurse 1 but he wild not get it till mid-day 
 la the country. I must telegraph the first thing in the 
 morning, that is all I can do." 
 
 "I suppose so I Write the telegram then, Miss Dorothy. 
 I'll see it goes as soon as tlie office is open. Hasn't Collina 
 come back?" 
 
 Dorothy shook her head. 
 
 " Dear, dear, that's bad." 
 
 " Yes, very bad, I fear." 
 
 "I'l] go down and watch for hira, nnd send Peggy up. 
 It's time she went to bed." 
 
 " I think I'll go and wait for him in the drawing room," 
 said Dorothy, faintly. ''I do hope he will come in before 
 Henrietta." 
 
 This seemed a little strange to Nurse, but she made no re- 
 mark upon it. 
 
 Dorothy went to get a telegraph form, and wrote an en- 
 treaty to Standish to return at once. 
 
 "Don't go to bed till I come and tell you what news Col- 
 lins brings," she said to Mrs. McHugh. 
 "You may be sure I will nor." 
 Then she went away to " wait " again. 
 
 This time she was not long left alone — a little before 
 eleyen Miss Oakley returned. 
 
 ' ' Why, where in the world is Collins ?" were her first 
 words, " and good Heavens, Dorothy, what is the matter 
 with you ? you look ghastly !" 
 
 Dorothy gave the same explanation she had offered to 
 nurse. 
 
 " What a dreadful business! My dear child, he is as 
 likely to throw himself into the river as to go to his hotel ! 
 What in the world did you say to iiim to drive him into 
 such a state?" 
 
 "Oh! it was ialking and thinking of the past that up- 
 set him. Henrietta, you terr'.fy me." 
 
 " I am afraid you were not very prudent, but don't trem- 
 ble so, I did not mean to fright n you. You had better go 
 to bed, you iioor little soul." 
 
 " Ah, no, Henrietta, not till I see Collins." 
 
f^^^iS:^ 
 
 210 
 
 BLIND FATE 
 
 *' I will go and put on my dressing-gown — I wonder 
 when that man will come back ! " 
 
 Dorothy sat with her head on her hand, her lips moving 
 in silent prayer, she had stirred and risen up to seek Hen- 
 rietta, unable to endure the solitude, when to her relief 
 Collins presented himself. 
 
 A glance at his face showed her that he had no eyil tid- 
 ings. 
 
 " s've had a rare hunt, Miss Dorothy," were his first 
 words. ' ' When I got out of the door " 
 
 "Oh, good gracious, Collins ! is he safe ?" cried Miss Oak- 
 ley, coming in as he spoke. 
 
 " Tes'm, he's all right. I was a sayin', as I got out of 
 the door 1 felt I was too late. I could'nt see a sign of him. 
 Maybe he's gone to Kensington Gardens, thinks I, so I 
 went there as fast as my legs could carry me, but as I saw 
 nothing on the wa^^ a bit like him, I thought there'd be no 
 end of looking for him under those dark trees, so I returned 
 the other way towards town and got to the hotel ! No sign 
 of him ! So I went back and up and down, and to and fro, 
 all to no good. At last I went to the hotel once more, and 
 there he was all right, just come in, and the waiter was 
 going to take him a brandy and soda — so I made bold to 
 go up, and asked if he had any commands for me to-mor- 
 row. He was lying back, dead beat like, in his chair, and 
 as the man picked up his boots to take them away, I saw 
 there was some mold and grass sticking to the soles. He 
 didn't take much notice of me, but presently he rose up and 
 bid me givi^ him liis dressing-gown, and as I helped him 
 off with his coat I saw that the back and one side was all 
 marked with grass and mould, as if he had lain on ground 
 yet he didn't look as if he had had a fit." 
 
 "A fit! AVhat a notion, Collins !" cried Miss Oakley. 
 • ' Did he say he would go to bed ?" 
 
 '*He didn't say nothing, ma,am, except, when I asked, 
 he said 1 might come round in the morning, and I'm going 
 early — and if you please, 1 met Mr Dillon coming out, and 
 he has been down to Fordsea. He heard something as 
 took him there, and ho saw the Colonel once or twice. He 
 says. Miss, as the Colonel would kill himself if he were let 
 go on the way he did. He used to go out bathing in this 
 sharp, cold weather — out in a boat, so far as 1 can make 
 out, with the old boatman as used to row Mrs. McHugh 
 
BLIND FA IE. 
 
 2il 
 
 and the children last summer— sometimes he went with 
 him, and sometimes without ; but he was always saying 
 it was hot, and how it set him up to have a dip." 
 
 *'How extraordinary," cried Dorothy. 
 
 "How dreadfully imprudent," said Henrietta. 
 
 "Any ways, Mr. Dillon had been talking with the old 
 boatman — and he said as how the Colonel was as nice and 
 liberal a gentleman as ever, but that quiet and silent — 
 may be, the salt water didn't do him no good. Mr. Dillon 
 wanted to know when Mr. Standish would be back. He'd 
 been to his rooms, and he was out of town." 
 
 **That is very provoking," said Henrietta. "How I 
 wish the Colonel would make up with him." Dorothy 
 frowned at her slightly as a warning to be prudent, and 
 said : "You must be tired, Collins — you had better have 
 some supper, and go to bed." 
 
 **Thank you, Miss ! I will — and if you don't mind my 
 waiting at breakfast, I'll go around early to the Colonel" 
 
 "Oh, yes, pray do," exclaimed Miss Oakley. 
 
 "Thank God, he seems all right," she continued when 
 they were alone. "Brandy and soda sounds like sanity." 
 
 '*Will he ever be himself again?" asked Dorothy with a 
 deep sigh. 
 
 *»Yes, 1 tkink he will," returned Henrietta thoughtfully. 
 "Men always recover. Now that we know he is safe, let 
 us go to bed, I am most dreadfully tired. How I wish 
 Paul Standish was not away !" 
 
 "So do I. In fact he must come back, I shall teleRrai)h 
 for him the first thing to-morrow morning," said Dorothy 
 decidedly. 
 
 "I am sure you are right ! 1 shall be glad to «ee him.J' 
 
 '*But Henrietta ! " began Dorothy, hesitatingly, ana 
 nerving herself to secure a tete-a-tete withStandish, which 
 she felt to be indispensable, "I hope you will not think m'i 
 unfriendly or unkind, but I must see Paul alone." 
 
 "Good gracious ! Why V" 
 
 "Because I must tell him some things— Oh, some things 
 that Herbert said to mo about Paul in confidence, which i 
 hope will make them friends again ! " 
 
 "And do you suppose tlioy would both tell me as soon 
 as tli"\' would you V" 
 
 "Oh, very likely -only foi the present i want to say my 
 
212 
 
 BLIND FATK 
 
 say to Paul Standish alone. You know I have been accus- 
 tomed to tell him everything from a child." 
 
 "Oh, very well — but of courae he will pass it all on to 
 me. I suppose he cannot be here much before two ! I'll 
 go over and lunch with my aunt, who does not seem to get 
 over her cold ; and no doubt when I return you will tell me 
 everything." 
 
 "Perhaps so," said Dorothy, anxious to escape from tli(i 
 subject ; but above all, desirous to securea private interview 
 with Standish. 
 
 Still quivering with the strain and terror of the last 
 three hours, the question which last occupied her thoughts, 
 above eY&n her deep anxiety about her unhappy brother-in- 
 law, was : "Can Paul Standish really confide every thought 
 of his heart to Henrietta ? Kind and true as she is there 
 is a crude realism about her that makes her take such 
 matter-of-fact views about everything ! " 
 
 Fatigued by emotion, she at last dropped asleep, with 
 this query unanswered. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " THE PLOT THICKENS." 
 
 What a long morning i ^ was ! 
 
 Henrietta kept her promise, and went away to Mrs. Cal- 
 lander, having waited for a report of the Colonel from Col- 
 lins. He seemed as usual, but said he had a cold, and 
 would not leave the house. He had made Collins put out 
 his writing materials, and said he had much to do. 
 
 "I think I shall go and see him," were Henrietta's last 
 words. " I will talk to my aunt about it." 
 
 Dorothy went through the form of luncheon, but could 
 hardly swallow ; and then retreated into the study — the 
 room she considered the most safe from intrusion. It was 
 nearly three oclock, surely he might have come by this time? 
 She had just turned from putting some fresh coal on the 
 fire when the door was hastily opened, and Standish came 
 in unannounced. 
 
 She flew to him with outstretclied hands. 
 
 **0h! thank God you are come." 
 
 "Dear Dorothy! what is the trouble?" He drew her to 
 him, and pressed her hands against his heart. 
 
 " I have a Ion 4, long story to tell ! I almost dread to hear 
 your judgf-ment, Paul; 1 acted on impulse, but '' 
 
BLIND FATK 213 
 
 " For God's sake, what is it ? Have you promised to 
 marry some one, and want my consent ?*' 
 
 " Marry ? I marry ? No ! " 
 
 "Then let us sit down and talk." 
 
 "Don't you want somethinjr to eat, Paul?** 
 
 ' 'No ! I ate something at a detestable junction, where I 
 was compelled to waste half an hour! Now, my own little 
 Dorothy, you are my own ward, you know. Tell me -^ ;©ry- 
 thing — keep back nothing ! " 
 
 He wheeled round an arm chair for her and took his 
 stand on the hearth-rug. 
 
 " First of all, I have found out the reason of Herbert's 
 dislike to you, and removed it." 
 
 All her nervous terrors seemed to evaporate in his reas- 
 suring presence. The light of his kind grave eyes seemed 
 to calm her. 
 
 " Ha! this is something ! Go on ! " 
 
 Then Dorothy began at the beginning, and described the 
 conversation she had overheard between her sister and Eg- 
 erton, her remonstrance with Mabel, the letter the latter had 
 written, and left with Dorothy to deliver, how she had 
 never found an opportunity to do so, how Mabel's cruel 
 death seemed to have closed the account ; that some in- 
 stinct had kept her from destroying the letter, some vague 
 idea of punishing Egertou had held her hand. 
 
 Then she described Callander's outburst the evening be- 
 fore, his extraordinary belief in Paul's treachery. 
 
 " I conid not bear that," continued Dorothy. ♦ ' If he had 
 killed me I should have told him the truth ; so I dew to 
 get the letter I had kept, and gave it to him. He read it 
 tlirough — oH, Paul! how his poor hands trembled— and 
 then he kissed it. The idea that shejloved him through all 
 seemed to please him. How he has suffered ! Surely death 
 is scarce a grief, compared to the agony of losing the love 
 of any one you love ?" In the restlessness of strong emo- 
 tion, Dorothy rose to her feet, she was irembling,and could 
 liardly steady her voica 
 
 Standish put his arm round her and pressed her to his 
 
 breast. 
 
 " This has been a cruel experience for you, Dorothy, too 
 .sore a trial for your young strengiti! But I scarcely know 
 what to say to your desperate expedient of showing Ual- 
 lander that letter. In bis frame of mind it is almost death 
 to Egerton. Think of all that entaihj." 
 
214 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 ^' 1 do think. I have thought, Puui," she »aid, raising 
 her eyes to his with a resolute look. " I do not regret what 
 I have done^ I have saved you. He would have killed 
 yoa, then I should have lost both you and Herbert. I could 
 never see him again if he had hurt you. What is Egerton's 
 
 life to me? He deserves to die. But you, my best " 
 
 A blinding gusii of tears choked her utterance, and she hid 
 iier face against his shoulder. 
 
 Standish pressed her closely to him, and murmured some 
 half articulate words of comfort. She felt his heart beat- 
 ing strongly against her own, and was conscious that she 
 could stay in those dear arms for ever, half because of the 
 weary child's desire to be comforted; half from the pa'^ 
 sionate woman's love for the man who had been everything 
 10 her from childhood, 
 
 !■<■ Do you blame me, Paul?" she murmured, at length re- 
 gaining her voice. 
 
 " Blame you !" — he paused, looking • down on the small 
 brown head leaning agr>inst him, and stroking back the 
 wavy hair from her brew — " how could I blame you, dear ? 
 After all, it was only just to our poor Mabel to let her hus- 
 band see the truth of her heart." 
 
 Dorothy made a slight efEort to release herself, but Paul's 
 close, gentle hold did not relax. " What an infernal villian 
 Egerton has been ! " he continued. " I shonld like to shoot 
 him myself! and yet we must not attack him! I must do 
 my best to keep Callander quiet ; the scandal of such a fra- 
 cas would be too hideous to incur ; even you can see the 
 cruel construction the world would put on it." 
 
 " I do, Paul," she returned, extricating herself from him, 
 and leaning against the back of her chair. " For poor 
 Mabel's sake we must let her murderer go free." 
 
 " Her murderer ? " he repeated. " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Do you not see that he was her murderer, either with 
 his own hand or that of his emissary, the Spaniard ? " 
 
 " My God, Dorothy ! How do you come to suspect him 
 of being such a monster ? " exclaimed Standish, gazing at 
 her amazed. 
 
 " Did I not tell you I heard him threaten to crush out 
 her life if she preferred her husband to him, only a few days 
 before her murder? and she never saw him alone after." 
 
 " But you forget, he had not seen the letter avowing her 
 intention of breaking with him." 
 
BLIND FATK. 
 
 2l£ 
 
 » 
 
 hid 
 
 couductf his extraordinary 
 the guiit he had incurred, 
 I had a stormy interview 
 
 " She had written before to the same effect, and he had 
 taken no notice." 
 
 '• Still, I never for a moment can believe that he, an Eng- 
 lish gentleman, would do so foul a deed ! " 
 
 " I believe it. Look at his 
 grief, his avoidance of us all." 
 
 •• Conscience, remorse for 
 might account." 
 
 " No, Paul. He is guilty, 
 with him just before he went to Spain, when I accused him, 
 wildly and incoherently enougli ; and, though he denied it, 
 he did so in a half-hearted way. Remember his blood is not 
 all English. That unpleasant detective suspects him, too. 
 I understand his hints about the peculiar diiEculties of the 
 case. Oh, it all too like a hideous nightmare. It has 
 almost driven me wild to be obliged to see the cruel destroy- 
 er of my sweet sister." 
 
 "There is something queer about that feUow Dillon's 
 mode of dealing with the case. Still, I cannot for a mo- 
 ment accept your theory. 1 wish you had not adopted it ; 
 it must have added considerably to the horrors you have so 
 bravely endured in silence. Dorothy, you are a true-hearted 
 loal woman to have locked all this in your heart. I would 
 trust my life with you. 1 shall never call you child or 
 little Dorothy again. You have attained a mental stature 
 that forbids either, only my dear Dorothy you will always 
 be. He took and kissed her hand, holding it a while. 
 " B-ight or wrong, guilty or not," he resumed, " I must 
 keep Callander from encountering Egerton. Shall 1 go to 
 see him i* It will be an infinite relief to feel that he is 
 all right with me again, shall 1 go V " 
 
 " I almost think you had better not; he sent word by 
 Collins this morning that he has a great deal of writing to 
 get through, and as he told me he was ;j;oing to write to 
 you, you had better wait for his letter. I feel it very hard, 
 Paul, to meet Mrs. Callander ; she has embittered all our 
 
 lives*" 
 
 '*She is a mischief-making, implacable she-devill" cried 
 
 Standish, with energy, 
 ever spoak to her again ! 
 should tax her with her 
 
 "Do not mind me. I 
 cept tor Henrietta's sake. 
 
 " By heaven, I don't think 1 shall 
 Were it not for you, Dorothy, 1 
 infamous slander of myself." 
 do not oare to hoid with her, ex- 
 And, oh, Paul! Henrietta wants 
 
2ie 
 
 BUND FATE. 
 
 lo know so much what 1 had to talk to you about. 1 would 
 rather not tell her all " — hesitatingly. 
 
 "No; certainly not," promptly. " 1 will tell her that it 
 was poorCailaader's confession of his mother's insinuations 
 against me tliat you wished to explain. Leave it to me — 
 and, Dorothy, 1 shall write to Egerton. I shall let him 
 know that we fully understand the dastardly part he ha^ 
 played, and shnil warn him that he has to reckon with Cal- 
 laader." 
 
 '« Oh, leave him alone, Paul. He might murder you. 
 Such a man is capable of anything." 
 
 " He is a villian undoubtedly, but, my dear Dorothy, 1 
 absolve him from the crime ot murder. That seems quite 
 impossible. He is bad enough, but, good God ! to kill a 
 defenc 3less woman in her sleep ! Besides it would have 
 punished himself " 
 
 " Paul, I feel certain Mr. Dillon suspects him." 
 
 "There is something curious in Dillon's mode of proceed- 
 ing, 1 grant; still this conviction of yours is really only the 
 result of excited nerves. I am surprised. You have too 
 heavy*a burden to bear, dear Dorothy. I wish I were sure 
 of a reconciliation with Callander, 1 could then be of some 
 use in reassuring your mind in one direction at least I 
 wish I could take you away somewhere. A complete change 
 of scene might restore the tone of your mind." 
 
 " I feel better already since I opened my heart to you, and 
 if I know Herbert is with you and confides in you, I shall 
 be mucli more at rest. But, oh, keep him and yourself from 
 Egerton. He is capable of anything." 
 
 "Did you really tax him with this atrocious crime ? 
 asked Paul, with some curiosity. 
 
 "I did, and he seemed startled and confused." 
 
 •'He might be that, though innocent. Tell me, Dorothy, 
 was it some instiuci that he was playing a part which in- 
 duced you to refuse him. " 
 
 "I think so, Paul." 
 
 "I confess that your rejection of so very attractive a 
 person made me suspect that some luckier fellow had fore- 
 stalled him." 
 
 ""Why did you think so," asked Dorothy, a sudden vivid 
 blush dyeing her pale cheeks. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. It was a surmise," returned 
 Standish, slowly, while his eyes dwelt searchingly on her. 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 21 
 
 you. 
 
 to Henrietta's 
 
 Dorothy before 
 
 She h«»T«d a deep sigh, amd the color faded from her 
 oheeka. 
 
 "I think I heard Henrietta come in. Will you see her 
 alone, Paul. I do not think I could bear to talk any more 
 to any one." 
 
 '^Go and lie down and rest then. I will see Henrietta 
 and explain matters, as I said I would. Try and compose 
 yourself. Remember 1 am always at your service. I 
 wish I could do more for you, my sweet ward." 
 
 ''Thank you. Good- by o for the present." 
 
 "I shall see you thiseveniiiy;, probably. 1 am not sure 
 that I shall not go and see Callander. It mi<j;lit be some 
 comfort to him, poor fellow." 
 
 * ♦ « Xe * if itf 
 
 Standlsh explaineii matters so much 
 satisfaetion that she camo to talk with 
 dkmer. 
 
 **You poor dear. Is your head any better V Well, you 
 see Paul Standlsh was not long in telling me all about it. 
 "What an awful fury he is in witii Aunt Callander. 
 Indeed, I am not surprised at it. 1 somehow got used to 
 her dislike and insinuations. She couldn't bear Paul, and 
 was not too foud of poor dear Mabel ; but I n^ver thouj^ht 
 the nonsense she talked would make such an impression 
 on Herbert. It wiil be delightful if he make;; friends 
 with iUr. Standlsh again, and a great help. Oh, who do 
 you think I saw to-day in Bond street ? Major St. John ! 
 He stopped the carriage, and we had a talk. He is coming 
 to see me to-morrow. He was looking so well — quite hand- 
 some, and seemed rather brighter than usual. He wouid 
 really be quite creditable at the foot of one's table. To be 
 sure, he is not one half so agreeable as Paul Standlsh, but 
 then, again, Paul is rather contradictory and overbearing." 
 
 "Have they bad a lover's quarrel ?" thought Dorothy. 
 "He has always been good to me," she said aloud. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I daresay ; but then, of course, he looks on you 
 as a daughter. Now I find him rather changeable. I am 
 very steady, myself, and I hate changeable whimsicu: 
 people.** 
 
 "Yc'ir temper is always steadily good Henrietta," said 
 Dorothy. ' 'I will get up and do my hair now.** 
 
 Standish came in the evening, and reported that he had 
 called on Colonel Callander, but he had gone out. On 
 inquisyf the hotel porter said he would not return to dinner 
 
218 BUND FATi: 
 
 and that he had ordered the driver of the cal> culleJ fo. him 
 to drive to some number in Lincoln's inn Fields. 
 
 "That is Brierl.y's offioe — his solicitor, you know- -a 
 vary good fellow. If he daies with him we could not desir'> 
 anything better. Brierly is a baclielor and has capital 
 rooms in Victoria street." 
 
 "Yes, that would be more like his old self," said Hen- 
 rietta, "only I wonder he did not look you up. He will 
 be quite glad, 1 am sure, to be all right with you again." 
 
 "I hope so. i daresay I shall have a line from him to- 
 morrow. He might like to write a preliminary explan 
 ation before meeting me." 
 
 For the rest of his stay Standish talked cheerfully to 
 Henrietta, and only atpartini; asked, with an air of deep 
 interest, if Dorothy's head was free from [)ain now. 
 
 "I am afraid 1 shall not be able to see you to-morrow," 
 
 he said. "It will be a busy day. I dine with Lord B , 
 
 too, and go with him to tlie House ot Commons." 
 
 "Pray, when are we to hail you as ambassador extra- 
 ordinary," asked Henrietta. "That always seems to me 
 such a delicious sort of title." 
 
 "Not for many a day — if I ever reach so high a position, 
 said Btandish, smiling, and he wished them good-night." 
 
 The following day was altogether restful to Dorothy. 
 She felt safe after having confided all the perilous stufiE 
 that had lain heavy at her heart to Standish. His warm 
 sympathy was infinitely consoling. With his help she did 
 not despair of seeing her brother-in-law restored to re 
 signation and composure. She, too , would try to compose 
 her nerves, and try to fulfil tiiose duties from which her 
 dearly-loved sister had been snatched. 
 
 Somehow or other she did not care to be with Hearietta, 
 good and kind as she was. Dorothy felt that she jarred 
 upon her in a way she used not to do. 
 
 She therefore went out to walk with the children, and 
 read a tough book in her own room, leaving Henrietta to 
 entertain Major St. John by herselt. 
 
 Collins, on his return from his morning visit to his master, 
 reported him to be just as usual, but said the colonel did 
 not intend calling on the ladies till late. 
 
 " He will try and see Paul Standish first," they said to 
 each other, when Collins left the room. 
 
 Now Standish had been a good deal exercised that morn- 
 ing by the receipt of a letter from Egerton, 
 
BUND iWTK. 
 
 I I 
 
 pose 
 her 
 
 and 
 }a to 
 
 .ster, 
 did 
 
 The sight of the man's haiulwi itinjjj' roused a degree of 
 fury and indignation which quite upset his self-control for 
 a few minutes. 
 
 Apart from the knowledge so lately imparted by Do- 
 rothy, Paul would have thou.;fit tho letter a j^ood one and 
 full of kind sympathy as it was, he real, between the 
 lines, craft and hypocrisy. Perhaps, indeed, E^enou mij^ht 
 feel the sorrow he affected, for it was scarce possible that 
 any conscience could be so seared as to be unmoved by the 
 recollection of the devilish part he had played. 
 
 The letter was dated from Madrid, and st? ted that the 
 writer had given up all hopes of tracing the man Pedro. 
 Indeed, there was a report in Valencia that a sailor answer- 
 ing to his description had been washed overboard a vessel 
 plying to Tunis — in a storm off Cape Bon. ♦^♦if this be the 
 case one is naturally indignant that such a criminal should 
 have slipped through the tiugers of justice. But now it 
 , has got abroad that he is wanted, there is no doubt he will 
 keep out of the way. I really think that Dillon mismana^^ed 
 Imatters- -so far as his searcli out here went — and I have 
 'grave doubts that he ever came here at all. I cantiua no 
 trace of him, indeed, his conduct all the way through has 
 been suspicious. He is working some line of which wf know 
 nothing. 1 shall stay here about a week, and then j,^o straij^lit 
 back to London, where X hope to hud ail brij; titer than when 
 I left them." 
 
 Standish threw the letter from him in disgust, then he 
 picked it up, and put it away carefully. Ttiere was no time 
 to answer it, and it might, perhaps, be wiser not to express 
 himself in writing on such compromising topics as would 
 form the subject matter of a letter. 
 
 He was so infinitely revolted that he even tliought, "Could 
 Dorothy's woman-instinct be right wht n siio laid the crown- 
 ing charge of murder against the refined, accomplished gen- 
 tleman, who made so little of nis duties, ot friendship— of the 
 obligations of a man of honor — what was there to hold him 
 back from any felony which his evil, uncontrolled passion':. 
 prompted? 
 
 While Standish, putting his private affairs out of hi ^ 
 mind for the present, threw himself heartily into his work or 
 discussed with his chiet the poiical question ou which the 
 latter was to speak that evening, Henrietta Uakiey had 
 spent on the whole a satisfactory day- ►She had bough; 
 several bargains (lUite " dirt cheap,'" and she had roused 
 
220 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 up the Hon. Major to some unusually strong expressions of 
 admiration. 
 
 She was sitting with Dorothy in the drawing-room be- 
 fore dinner, and had just been expatiating on the dreariness 
 of the first long days, and the evening lig.it which is so 
 cold at first, when Collins presented himself, and announced 
 that JVlrs. Callander's butler wished to speak to Miss Oakley. 
 " Tell him to come up to me here," she exclaimed. "What 
 is the matter now ? What is it, Ransom ?" 
 As the stately functionary came in and closed the door: 
 
 " 1 1 you please, 'm " he said with a load " hem !" 
 
 " Miss Boothby sent me round to see if you would be so 
 good i»s to come to Mrs. Callander, she is taken in rather a 
 strange way. The colonel, he paid her a visit this after- 
 noon, and stayed a good while, 'm. He went away be- 
 tween four ana five, 1 think. I didn't let him out, for Mrs. 
 Callander didn't ring the bell, but a while after. Miss 
 Boothby went into the drawing-room, and found the missis' 
 sitting stiff-like in her chair, and the first thing she says 
 was, ' Get me some brandy and water,' which is what she 
 nevei tastes ; ftnd then she ordered Miss Boothby to write 
 for Mr. Greenwood, the lawyer, then she had the note torn 
 up ; next she ordered that everything should be got ready 
 for Paris ; after that she went into a fit of hysterics, and 
 kepi calling out ' My son, my son !" and she forbids us to 
 send for the doctor, and so Miss Boothby would be ever so 
 much o'^Uged if you would come to her, miss." 
 
 *' Very veil, Ransom. Call a cab, and I will go with 
 you. Good gracious !" she exclaimed, " she has had a 
 tremendous row with Herbert. He has been reproaching 
 her, and, tiiough she richly deserves it, 1 can't help being 
 sorry '"c her ! 1 declare 1 don't think we siiall ever hav« 
 a yeaoef V 1 hour agam. I am getting sick of it all." 
 
 Whei Henrietta reached Somerset square an evident de- 
 gree of > sorganisation had replaced the clock-work regu- 
 larity 0+ that patent, particular household. The cook 
 opened, tho door, and the page might be perceived carrying 
 a hot bottle upstairs. 
 
 '• I'm sure ma'am. Miss Boothby will be that thankful to 
 see you." 
 
 •' Where is she ?" 
 
 " Upstairs, packing, 'm. Mrs. Callander has had th^ big 
 trunks dusted and taken down, siie says her feet are cold 
 and lier head burning." 
 
 t( 
 
 n 
 
BLIND FATI<: 
 
 221 
 
 Henrietta began to ascend the stair ; half way up she 
 
 met Miss Bootkby with a distressed, bewildered expression. 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! I am glad to see you, Miss Oakley. 1 
 
 don't know what has come to Mrs. Cailauder. She doesn't 
 
 know I sent for you." 
 
 *' Very well. Let her think I came oy accident." 
 She found Mrs. Callander walking to and fro in her bed- 
 room, with a scent bottle in her trembling hand, her usually 
 cold, grey face much flushed, and a strange, frightened look 
 in her eyes. 
 
 *' Why, my dear aunt ! What has happened ? Where are 
 you going ?" 
 
 '* Oh, Henrietta !" in a high, nervous key. **I am tired 
 of the constant cold and headaches from which I have suf- 
 fered. Really, the climate of London is horrible, so 1 am 
 just going off to Paris. There is no reason why I should 
 not go where I like. I had j'ather a curious dizzy turn to- 
 day, but I will not have the doctor, mind ! I will not see 
 him if you send for him." 
 
 " Well, 1 am sure you ought, aunt You seem to be very 
 unwell." 
 
 " You know nothing about it. Go, Evans— go, Miss 
 Bocthby — I wish to speak to my niece." 
 
 She sank into a chair as she spoke, and trembled visibly 
 all over. 
 
 " Now, then, aunt, what is it V" askod Henrietta, per- 
 emptorily, when she had closed the door. 
 
 '* I had a long and painful interview with my son," be- 
 gan Mrs. Callander, speaking in distressful gasps. " He 
 beha :«^ in an extraordinary manner, accused me of slan- 
 dering his unfortunate wife, aad said he would never soo 
 my face again. And I have only lived for him." 
 
 " Men are generally ungrateful," said Miss Oakley, easily. 
 " But I thought better of Herbert. Still, he has been very 
 sorely tried ; but you must have patience, and keep friends 
 with him." 
 
 " It doen not depend on me," returned Mrs. Callander, and 
 she shuddered visibly. "• Have you seen my son since he 
 was here this morning ?" ,^ 
 
 " No ; but he comes to us, I believe, this evenint^. ' 
 '• This evening ! Oh, my heart ! it beats so fast, and 
 then stands still ! Go awiy, Henrietta— you can do me no 
 good. 1 only want to get away." 
 
 •' But, aunt, you are not tit to travoi. Do send for Dv. 
 
i 'v' 
 
 222 
 
 BLIND VA!£E. 
 
 Birch. He will gi^e you some soothing medicine. Tou 
 
 are quite in a fever. Do send for him." 
 
 " Don't teli me what I am to do. I do not -want you^ 
 Henrietta. I shall go to Meurice's, and don't tell anyone I 
 am going away — I don't want people to talk about me." 
 
 '' Well, aunt, I am quite uneasy about you." 
 
 "You need not trouble. I a»n most unfortunate. I " 
 
 She burst into a violent fit of weeping, in the midst of 
 which her maid announced tliat the Bev. Mr. Gilmore was 
 downstairs, and wisned to see her. Mrs. Callander paused 
 in her weeping. 
 
 '^ I can't sej him. I don't wish to see him," she ex- 
 claimed, angrily. "I will not be intruded on, or pried 
 into. He may go away. I am particularly engaged," 
 
 Henrietta was infinitely amazed. She could hardly be- 
 lieve her ears when she heard her aunt refuse to admit one 
 of her favorite preachers. Was the sky going to fall ? 
 
 Then the greatly disturbed woman rose from her seat, 
 and exclaiming, " I want to be alone — I want no one's 
 help !" tottered into the bed-room adjoining her dressing- 
 room, and emphatically closed the door. 
 
 " What can be the matter with her. Miss Boothby " 
 asked Henrietta, j^reatly perplexed. 
 
 " I am sure Miss Oakley, I can foam no idea, except that 
 she had some words with Colonel Callander. Iteally, there 
 seems no filial affection left in the world." 
 
 '' I never saw her in such an extraordinary state before. 
 There is no use in my staying here. You will let me know 
 if she asks for me ? I don't suppose for a moment that 
 she will carry out her whim of going to Paris." 
 
 " It is impossible to say — but I'll let you knoWf Miss 
 Oakley. Nothing couid well be more irconvenient than to 
 start off to the continent just now. 1 thought we were safe 
 to remain here to ihe end of the season." 
 
 " I don't think she will go. Pray don't leave her alone. 
 I feel most uneasy about her.'' 
 
 Herriettt- was not sorry to get out of the house. 
 
 " My dear Dorothy," she exclaimed, as soon as she found 
 herself safe in lier own drawing-room, " Herbert has been 
 driving his motlier fairly ou" ^f Iter wits. I never thought 
 anything in the world would put her into such a state." 
 
 " I wonder if he will say anything to us this evening, if 
 he comes '?" returned D jrothy. 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 223 
 
 But the hours sped on ; bed-time came, and no Callander 
 appeared. 
 
 afore. 
 
 know 
 
 that 
 
 Miss 
 lan to 
 re safe 
 
 alone. 
 
 I found 
 been 
 Loui;ht 
 Le. 
 
 »» 
 
 tng, if 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " THE DBTKCTIVE'S STORY." 
 
 The day described in the last cliapter was a very busy 
 one to Stand ish, but in the late afternoon he managed to 
 call on Callander. 
 
 Standish was a good deal annoyed to hear that he had 
 gone out of town for a couple of days — where the waiter 
 did not know. Neither porter nor clerk could give him 
 any information; oiAy Boots knew that the direction given 
 to the driver of the caj which called for him was to Vic- 
 toria. 
 
 Standish mused over Callander's possible reasons for 
 choosing that route. He did not know of any which reco- 
 mended it, for it was not likely he would visit either of the 
 friends who resided near the lines converging at that sta- 
 tion — true, Eastport and Fordsea could be reached by the 
 South Coast Line; but why should he not travel as usual 
 by the South Eastern from Waterloo '? " 
 
 Arriving at his chambers only in time to dress for din- 
 ner, Standish was a good deal disturbed by a letter which 
 awaited him from Dillon. 
 
 "Sir," it ran; "I should feel much obliged by your fixing 
 some time most c<>nvenient to yourself, when you can give 
 me an uninterrupted interview, i have now completed the 
 search you have commissioned me to make, p.nd 1 am anx- 
 ious to lay the results before you. You can then judge 
 what claim I have to the reward offered by the relatives 
 of the late Mrs. Callandei for the discovery of her assassin. 
 May I ask you to keep this commauication strictly private 
 for the present ? 
 
 " I am, yours respectfully, 
 
 "Luke Dillon" 
 
 After a few minutes' thought, Standish wrote a few lines 
 appointing the following evening at eight o'clock. 
 
 The dinner to which he was engaged proved very agree- 
 able in every way. It was a small gatheriuj^ of men occu- 
 pied in politics, and the conversation was interestinj^ es- 
 pecially to Standish, to wliom everything relating to Eng- 
 land's foreign relations was of the highest importance. But 
 across the intellectual excitement of interchanging views 
 
» . 
 
 •- J 
 
 224 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 and ideas with men of thought and information came at in- 
 tervals the stinging question: '^What is Dillon going to 
 reveal ? Can it be possible that he will verify Dorothy's 
 wild conjecture, or rather her conviction ? No, the idea is 
 too outrageous." 
 
 It was a wild, stormy evening when Standish, having 
 despatched a solitary meal at his club, returned to his own 
 abode to await the appearence of Dillon. 
 
 He had not called at Princes Place, for he had an unac- 
 countable reluctance to tell Dorothy of his expected inter- 
 view, and he knew that Henrietta would worry him to 
 stay to dinntar. 
 
 He had had a note from her in the morning, describing 
 her aunt's nervous seizure, and asking if he knew that Col- 
 onel Callander had gone out of town again. This, he an- 
 swered, promising to visit her the next day. 
 
 " Not at home to any one except Mr. Dillon," was Paul's 
 order to his servant as he exchanged his frock coat for a 
 smoking- jacket, and, lighting a cigar, took up an evening 
 paper, to which he could not force himself to pay any at- 
 tenti<Mi. He had not long to wait. A few minutes after 
 eight Dillon was shown in. 
 
 ** Good evening, sir," he said, in a grave, important tone. 
 
 Standish fancied there was a triumphant gleam in his 
 light-grey eyes. 
 
 "Good evening, Dillon. I am looking forward with 
 curiosity to your communication. Sit down." 
 
 ♦* Hope you'll be satisfied, sir," said Dillon, drawing a 
 chair and taking out a small note-book, which he laid be- 
 fore him on the table. '* 1 have done my best, but it has 
 beon a difficult job, and I did not feel at liberty to speak 
 imtil I had my chain of evidence complete. If yon'll allow 
 me I'll begin at the beginning." He uttered a loui "Hem !*' 
 and looking at the book before him for a moment, proceed- 
 ed, "When you applied to me last September — the 20th, 
 see," (Standish nodded)— "and I went down to Fordsea, I 
 found the usual sentimental difficulties. I could get over 
 these, you see, if I were a regular police detective, but as it 
 was I was in your service, and must not go to view the 
 poor lady till everything was interfered with. But 1 per- 
 suaded the old nurse (who had more brains than the rest) 
 to let me have a very private view. I saw how the body 
 lay, the head a good deal bent forward as if slipping off the 
 
RUND FATS. 
 
 285 
 
 pillow, tbe face so calm and peacefnl that she coum have 
 had no glimpse of whoever was going to deal her her death 
 blow. I took a good look round ; but I could not stay long, 
 because Mrs. McHugh was horribly afraid the Colonel 
 would find her out, and he had given strict orders that no 
 one but the women who attended to her should be let in 
 after the jury had viewed the body." 
 
 He paused, but Standish sat silently gazing at him. 
 
 I got a good deal of information talking to the servants 
 till I knew the life of the family, which seemed peaceful 
 and happy enough," he resumed, "and at the funeral I had 
 a long look at Mr. Egerton. He struck me very particu- 
 larly. He's as handsome a man as you'll see in a day's 
 march. But there was a devil of some kind in his eyes, 
 and if ever a man was in mortal agony of grief he was. 
 The husband was quiet and resigned compared to him. 
 Mr. Egerton looked to my mind like a man conscience- 
 stricken. Of course I had lieard a good deal about him — 
 how he was wanting to marry the young lady, Mrs. Callan- 
 der's sister, and all that. But it seemed odd to me that he 
 never came near her nor Miss Oakley. Then you gave me 
 full right to examine the room, to put the ladder across 
 the window, and to talk to Miss Wynn. You remember 
 she thought she had heard the bar of the window fall. 
 "Well, sir, I saw clear enoui;h that she thought there was 
 more in it then a mere vulgar murder 
 that she was particularly auxious not 
 in short, that there was something in 
 want me to fiud out, and I began to smell a rat. I began 
 to think ' Has the handsome fine gentleman, that has been 
 like a brother in a manner of speaking, any thing to do 
 with it ?' Jealousy has been at the bottom of such a pile 
 of crime." 
 
 Standish moved uneasily , and uttered a half -articulate 
 
 exclamation. "You were saying ?" suggested Dillon. 
 
 "Nothing. Did you then discard the theory of the sailor's 
 guilt in the matter r"' 
 
 "Yes, sir ; pretty soon. I'm coming to that. Then, sir. 
 1 thought of you. You are a good-looking chap, and easy 
 in manners, almost like a Aniurikan, and the widower's 
 reluctance to see you was rather remarkable, but I didn't 
 hold to that very long. I never could get to speak to the 
 young lady often enough. She knew a thing or two, but, 
 
 with robbery, and 
 to give me a clue ; 
 it that she did noc 
 
221 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 1^ 
 1 
 
 she was as close as wax. I gave up the idea of the Span- 
 ish sailors for a good many reasons. First, how the deuce 
 could these men know that Colonel Callander was not 
 sleeping in his wife's room V They couldn't gossip with 
 the servants, for they didn't speak their lingo ; next, how 
 could they know where the ladder was kept ? Of course, 
 they might have overhauled the premises some other night, 
 hut it's not likely. Then, I defy any stranger to have 
 lifted up that bar and stepped in right against that dress- 
 ing-table without making noise enough to disturb a timid 
 woman, unless she knew who was making it, and that is 
 not a pleasant nor a probable idea." 
 
 "My God, no! " cried Standish. 
 
 "Now you see, from the way the poor thing was lying, 
 her face was to the window, a stranger coming in by it 
 and pushing the dressing-table must have roused her. She 
 would have seen him, screamed, and, even if killed, her 
 face, her position, would have been totally different." 
 
 ' 'To what conclusion does this lead you ?" asked Stan- 
 dish, eagerly. 
 
 "That the murderer entered by the door of Tier room, 
 that his step, his presence, was so familiar that he could 
 approach almost to touching her without creating distur- 
 bance or alarm, and then as she lay, still and unresisting, 
 he struck her dead with one blow in the vital spot left un- 
 defended by her position." 
 
 Standish was a man of great nerve and self-control, but 
 he changed color at the horrible and degradin- suspicion 
 so ruthlessly presented to him by the unmoved detective. 
 
 "No, sir," he resumed, "no stranger struck that blow! 
 In addition to these conclusions, which any man of com- 
 mon-sense might have arrived at, I observed on the out- 
 side of the door, a little splash, a mere spark of blood, low 
 down near the floor, and a speck near the handle, which 
 those dunderheads, the police, had not detected. 
 
 You see, they were all so taken up with the notion that the 
 murderer came in from outside,that they never looked beyond 
 the interior of the room itself, except to search the poor 
 servants' boxes, I believe ! Besides these, I picked up, 
 half under the b -i, where no doubt, it had been pushed by 
 some of the feet that trod there, this bit of a silver orna- 
 ment." He drew it from an inner pockec, and laid it before 
 Standish, who stared at it with distressed eyes. 
 
3lpan- 
 deuce 
 is not 
 
 with 
 , how 
 ourse, 
 night, 
 3 have 
 dress - 
 
 timid 
 hat is 
 
 lying, 
 a. by it 
 r. She 
 ed, her 
 
 d Stan- 
 
 : room, 
 e could 
 distur- 
 iisting. 
 Left un- 
 
 'ol, but 
 
 Jspicion 
 Itective. 
 
 blow! 
 
 »f com- 
 
 Ihe out- 
 
 >d, low 
 
 which 
 
 Ihat the 
 
 Ibeyond 
 
 le poor 
 
 led up, 
 
 Ihed by 
 
 orna- 
 
 before 
 
 BLIND FATB:. 
 
 227 
 
 **1?*« d<m*% happen to have seen it before, Mr. Stan- 
 dish ?" 
 
 "No, certainly not." replied Standish, sharply, while he 
 thought with dismay of Dorothy's description of the broken 
 silver sheH with the half-holes at one side. 
 
 "Well, sir, I thought you might have seen it. I showed 
 it once to Miss Wynn, and she said she had never seen it 
 before, though hei eyes didn't back her up ! That little bit 
 of silver has given me a heap of troubla I have hunted 
 to and fro to find the other bit of it, but I did at last." 
 
 "For God's sake get on ! " cried Standish. *'What have 
 you discovered? Who do you suspect?" 
 
 "Hear me out," replied Dillon, sitting upright, and 
 assuming a more earnest look. "I made up my mind when 
 I washed away them sparks of blood, that someone in the 
 house did the deed, someone to whom the poor woman was 
 accustomed, whose presence did not disturb her, or frighten 
 her, who could come in and out, and knew the ways of 
 the place, where the ladder was kept and how long it 
 would be before anyone would come to find her stiff and 
 stark ! Those strange sailors would never have dared to 
 come into a house with a master and two men sleeping 
 in it. No, sir, the hand that struck the blow was her 
 husband's." 
 
 "You are raving," exclaimed Standish. 
 
 "No, I am not, sir. Listen. From many a trifling in- 
 dication I got out of Collins, and the old nurse, I believe 
 the unfortunate man was eaten up with jealously. The 
 more I watched him— and I have shadowed him for months 
 — the more convinced I grew, that, in some mad lit he put 
 an end to her, and then tried to mislead us all by laying 
 that ladder on the window-ledge." 
 
 "It is impossible" ejaculated Standish. 
 
 "No, it ain't 1 Jealousy is the underminingest thing 
 out. It works like rats through a wall, gnawing and 
 gnawing for many a long day unheard, till all at once its 
 ugly head gets out to the light to kill and to destroy. Ah, 
 Mr. Standish, the biggest lot of cruel deeds I have traced 
 home took me straight to jealousy." 
 
 Standish stared at him with blank, bewildered eyes. 
 
 "Well, though 1 was pretty sure it was he as did the 
 deed, it was very hard to get proof. 1 followed him pretty 
 close, wherever he went I was by him in some disguise 
 or another, and an awful time he has had of it Fro?* all 
 
 I 
 
228 
 
 BLIND FATK 
 
 
 J can seo, I'd say hanging is a trifle to what he has gone 
 through. Still, 1 could never g^t a glimpse of any knife 
 that had ornaments on the sheath answering to this. 
 Another thing puzzled me — he always kept in with Eger- 
 t jn. I got to see Egerton more than once, but he was un- 
 common haughty and snuff -the-moon in his ways. I 
 wasn't good enough to touch with a pair of tongs — Oh, 
 dear no ! I'd have rather proved him guilty as the other 
 poor fellow. Latterly I've begun to think he suspects the 
 truth. Anyhow, after waiting and watching, I got what I 
 wanted at last. 
 
 "When Colonel CuUander came back from the Continent 
 the other day, 1 began to hang about and pay a visit now 
 and again to that respectable, civil-sp ken man, Mr. 
 Collins, and one morning I found him packing up the 
 Colonel's duds, so I sat down and discoursed him a bit, 
 watching him sorting the things. Presently he came to 
 pistols, and a queer, long, narrow, forei<^n-looking knife, 
 with an inlaid handle, and shell-like bits of silver stuck 
 on to the sheath. It was uncommon like the queer sort 
 of weapons hung up in Mr. Egerton's rooms, but the orna- 
 ments were different. I took it to the light to examine it, 
 with my back to Mr. Collins, and tried this bit where one 
 of the ornaments was jagged and broken. It fitted perfect- 
 ly, thoroughly ! " 
 
 "Still " urged Standish, starting up, and moving 
 
 restlessly to the fireplace. 
 
 "One moment," said Dillon, raising his hand. *' The man 
 who had seen the figure carrying the ladder, I ought to men- 
 tion, in ';onvexj'Tig with me, said it was a broader, larger 
 man than Egerton, though about his height. Last of all," 
 he contined, speaking morequickly, " I followed the Colonel 
 to Fordsea, were he wandered about on land and sea. He 
 was always going off in a boat with that old tar — youknow 
 him — or else he'd be off, striding so fast that there was no 
 keeping up with him, to the little churchyard by the hill- 
 side, with a basket of flowers for the grave. At last I hired 
 a dog cart, and used to drive past as if quite on my own 
 business. He never noticed! Twice I saw him outside 
 groping under some gorse bushes that grew above the low 
 stone wall. You know the wide view there is all around. 
 Not a soul was to be seen stirring. I drove past, and wait- 
 ed under a piece of broken bank a little further on. I told 
 the boy I had with me to hold the reins, as I wanted to 
 
BLIND FATE 
 
 229 
 
 gather some of tho ferns about there, and I gradually got my 
 head over th ; bank and saw the colon^ coming slowiy down 
 the road. I watched till he disappeared on his way back, 
 then 1 vent on picking 'specimens' here and there till I 
 came pretty nigh where I had watched him stooping down. 
 Not a soul was to be seen. When I was there in the 
 autumn time there used to be bits of boys herding sheep 
 and goats, but there were none now. When I got about 
 the part where I had noticed the colonel I looked weil 
 around under the bushes, and at last I came upon a spot 
 where the grass looked a bit disturbed and mixed with 
 mould, as if someone had been digging for roots. I took 
 the bearings of it, and went away back to Fordsea with 
 enough ferns and Lwigs to set up a botanist. Very early 
 next morning I found the colonel was going off to London, 
 so I bought a trowel, and then I watched him start off in 
 the train. As soon as I saw him safe I trudged away to 
 the place I had marked. I would take no one with me. 
 It was easy to dig, for the soil had been lately stirred, and 
 scarce a foot below tho surface I came to a gold chain and 
 locket, then a bracc-iet, then I picked out three or four 
 rings, then a gola bangle, all messed with mould. There 
 are more there, but these are enough for me." 
 
 Ho took a brown paper from his pocket, and opening it 
 carefully, displayed the trinkets, soiled and bent. 
 
 Standi ish took up and examined each. Ho was stunned, 
 yet did not let himself go. Dillon was not the man to whom 
 one should make an unguarded admission. 
 
 "Your extraordinary ingenuity has unearthed an extra- 
 ordinary story," he said at length. " The circumstantial 
 ovidf noe against Colonel Callander is of course very strong, 
 but it is not conclusive." 
 
 " Perhaps not," returned Dillon carelessly ; " still 1 think 
 1 lieie is enough to justify me in applying to the Eastport 
 magistrates for the reward and detailing my reasons for 
 asking it." 
 
 " No doubt," rejoined Standish, coolly, seeing Dillon's 
 drift, while the revolting consequences ot publicity rushed 
 into nis mind. 
 
 The arrest of Colonel Callander, the terrible stain on 
 Mabel's character which his fatal jealousy, however unjust- 
 I liable, would leave, and backed by Mrs. Callander's evil 
 tongue it would be indellible — and Dorothy! Whatever it 
 
2ao 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 I i 
 
 cost, Dorothy must be saved from lurther shocks, deeper 
 pain even than any she had gone through. 
 
 *'I do not suppose Colonel Callander's family woidd wish 
 to rob you of a reward which you have so justly earned by 
 your zeal and perse verence, though certainly i little antici- 
 pated the direction your inquires have taken. Your own 
 experience must have shown you how misleading circum- 
 stantial evidence very often is. Further search might show 
 a different side to the story. Suppose I promise you another 
 thousand if, by your trained skill and natural acuteness, 
 you discover any other t,oiution to the mystery ? '' 
 
 " There is uo other to be found. Still tnere is no reason 
 why the true facts might not be kept dark, and all notor- 
 iety, and bcandal, and sensational paragraphs avoided. It's 
 worth paying a second thousand for that aione. Eh ? Just 
 think of it all. The assertions about the colonel's discov- 
 eries, the contradictions and counter-assertions. Why it 
 would be months and months before that nice young lady 
 would be able to take up a paper." 
 
 *' Very probably,!" returned Standish, still calmly. '' It 
 is natural lo dread such publicity ; still, it may be more 
 just to Colonel Callander to pursue your researches and see 
 if some key cannot be found to the extraordinary riddle 
 your discoveries present." 
 
 "Look here, Mr. Standish," said the detective impatient- 
 ly, " you are a little too exacting. Why should I work any 
 harder for that second thousand than I have done'? " The 
 more we seek che worse the case will be against your friend. 
 The best piece of service you can do him and all the family 
 is to keep it all dark. I don't believe the poor fellow is 
 quite right in the upper story. Take a day to think over 
 it, and if you don't zeal my lips with a second thousand, 
 why I'll make sure of the first through the magistrates of 
 Eastport." 
 
 "You are "began Standish, quickly, then paused 
 
 half a second, and added : "a remarkably shrewd fellow ! " 
 
 '*Ah, that is better ! " returned Dillon with an unpleasant 
 laugh. Anyhow, I suppose you have seen these things be- 
 fore '? " pointing to the jewels. 
 
 "Some of them, certainly," replied Standish. 
 
 " I thought so." He began to roll them up carefully. 
 " 1 need not trespass any longer. I'll call to-morrow about 
 this time for your answer. I'm pretty sure what it will be, 
 I think you are only wasting time." 
 
BUND FATE. 
 
 231 
 
 IS 
 
 rev 
 Id, 
 of 
 
 sed 
 
 »> 
 
 int 
 
 kut 
 
 He put his book and the packet of jewel's in his breast 
 pocket, and, with a keen, lingering look into the eyes oi his 
 companion, said abruptly : 
 
 " G-ood evening to you, Mr. Standish." 
 Paul had rarely felt so stunned and helpless as when the 
 door closed on Dillon, and the strong grasp he had kept 
 upon himself relaxing, he let his thoughts dwell freely on 
 the extraordinary summary which the detective h:id just 
 laid before him. What a liideous climax to the tragedy of 
 poor Mabel's death! And Callander, that kindly, upright, 
 chivalrous fellow, what a mental wreck he must have be- 
 come, how maddened by disease and his mother's insin- 
 uations, before he could have laid a destroying hand on his 
 adored wife ! 
 
 Paul's heart thrilled with painful pity, when he thought 
 of what the man's terrible sufferings must have been. But 
 was Dillon right in his conclusion V Was there not a loop- 
 hole of escape somewhere from the ghastly conviction that 
 Callander was the murderer ? and that he should have sus- 
 pected him— Paul — of having been so base as to tamper 
 with his own ward's fidelity to lier husband ! 
 
 '* Thank God ! Dorothy had the pluck to clear me from 
 so vile an imputation," he thought. " I wish Callander 
 would fulfil his promise of writing to me. No ; I will not 
 believe it yet, in spite of that man's wonderful chain of 
 evidence. Yet, it is amazingly complete, and somehow Cal- 
 lander's extraordinary indifference as to the capture of the 
 assassin had always struck me as unnatural. What is 
 best to be done ? If a whisper gets out of the true story 
 (if it is true), the scandalmongers and gossips won't leave 
 that poor girl a shred of character ! The worst of it is, 
 there is just enough folly and weakness at the bot om of 
 this disastrous story to make it a little difficult to deal 
 with frankly — I am afraid we must silence Dillon. 1 will 
 only do so under color of extenaed search for information. 
 1 will never admit that I believe his inferences, his admis- 
 sion ! It was to the brute's devilish interest to prove poor 
 Callander guilty !— and Dorothy ! What shall I do as re- 
 gards Dorothy — how shall I ever break the terrible fact 
 that her brother-in-law, the man she loved and respected so 
 heartily, was Mabel's murderer ? Need she ever know it "? 
 I am afraid in justice to that scoundrel Egerton I must tell 
 her some day, but not yet. This frightful trial has toM 
 upon her. There's a bra^ e heart and a cleai- brain sheatheil 
 
232 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 if ': : 
 
 f "> ■ 
 
 in her slight, delicate frame. Poor little Dorothy, how- 
 tender she is in spite of the Hashes of fiery spirit that light 
 Tip her eyes — such a loving nature. Hor frank affection 
 for me is touching. I wish I were older for her sake, I 
 might be of more use to her, but as that cannot be, I 
 wonder if I married Henrietta Oakley whetiier we might 
 make a happy home for her ? They are very fond of each 
 other, and Henrietta is rather handsome, a good match in 
 many ways. Kow can I branch off to merely selfish con- 
 siderations with this dreadful history fresh before me ? 
 What egotists we are — I am ! 1 will run down to Fordsea 
 if i possibly can to-raorrow, and see Callander. Meantime, 
 is it too late to see Dorothy and Henrietta to-night ? Yes, 
 it is past ten. I'll catch them at breakfast to-morrow 
 morning, and say I am going to join Callander and get him 
 to come back with me, that will keep them quiet, and after 
 — well, God knows. It is impossible to form any plan. 
 Heaven grant me some good inspiration ! everything looks 
 woefully dark. 
 
 * ♦ 1|C ♦ ♦ ♦ * 
 
 Dorothy had not yet come downstairs when Standish 
 presented himself at Miss Oakley's breakfast-table next 
 morning. 
 
 '' Why Paul — I mean, Mr. Standish — what in the world 
 brings you here at this unearthly hour ?" cried Henrietta, 
 who was standing on the hearth-rug before a bright coal 
 and wood fire, teaching a beautiful, fluffy, Yorkshire terrier 
 high principle, in the guise of resisting sugar when offered 
 for a " Gladstone dog." 
 
 " I ought to make a thousand apologies," returned Stan- 
 dish. " I am going down to Fordsea, just to see what 
 Callander is about, and, as I cannot get away till the af- 
 ternoon, I thought I would venture to look in on you first." 
 
 " I am delighted to see you, and very pleased that you 
 are going to look for that poor man. Do try and induce 
 him to come abroad and to keep with us. The way he 
 wanders about is quite alarming. Dorothy has not made 
 her appearance yet. She is generally late, poor thing ! She 
 is always so mournful. It is really rather trying. I think 
 she would feel more comfortable if we could find the 
 wretched murderer and hang him !" 
 
 " Hush !" said Standish, quick and low. "Here she is." 
 Henrietta's heedless words sent a cold thrill of pain through 
 him. 
 
V-. . 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 233 
 
 "WTiftn Dorothy found herself faro to face with Standish, 
 her large, serious eyes lit up, and a welcoming smile glad- 
 dened her sad mouth. " How earlj- you aro, Paul ! Has 
 anything happened ?" the smile dying away. " You look 
 as if yoa had not slept all night— so ill and worn !" gazing 
 anxiously in his face. 
 
 " I am all rig!it, Dorothy ; only, as i have been explain- 
 ing to Miss Oakley, I intend to run down to Fordsea, if I 
 can manage it, this afternoon, and I wanted to see you 
 first." 
 
 " You are going to find Herbert ? Oh, thank you, dear 
 Paul." 
 
 " Sit down and have some breakfast, both of you. Col- 
 lins, lift the covers, cried Miss Oakley. 
 
 " It is curious, your coming this moruing," said Dorothy, 
 unfolding her table napkin. " I think some fairy must 
 have whispered that I had a letter for you." 
 
 " For me ? Who from ?" asked Standisb surprised. 
 
 " Oh, I did not read it, but it was enclosed in one from 
 Miss Boothby, who said she did not know your address." 
 
 " From Miss Boothby ?" exclaimed Standish. " This is 
 most astonishing." He opened it, and had a little difficulty 
 in keeping his face quite steady and unchanged when he 
 read — 
 
 " Dear sir, — I am directed by Mrs. Callander to beg you 
 will not hesitate to draw upon her, even to a large amount, 
 should j'ou require funds for the use of Colonel Callander, 
 in connection with the late distressing event. 
 
 " I am, sir, yours, faithfully, 
 
 " C. Boothby." 
 
 " The unhaj^py old woman knows the truth," was Paul's 
 mental comment. 
 
 " What does she say ? Don't be mysterious, Mr. Stan- 
 dish," cried Henrietta Oakley. 
 
 Dorothy did not speak, but she fixed such questioning, 
 tender, sympathising eyes on her guardian that he longed 
 to open his heart to her. 
 
 " There is very little in it. There, read it, Dorothy." 
 She took it from his hand, and read it aloud. 
 
 " Well, really my aunt is more of a trump than I be- 
 lieved," said Henrietta, exidi iugly. 
 
 " There is something rather strange about this letter," 
 said Dorothy, thoughtfully. 
 
234 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 " Let us believe, witli Miss Oakley, that her aunt is a 
 trump," he ireturued, and applied himself to his breakfast. 
 
 'M 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 COLONEL CALLANDER'S LBTTBE. 
 
 
 Witli all his diligence Standi sh found, when he reached 
 bis rooms that afternoon, he had so little time left that ii 
 would be almost an impossibility to catch the 5.80 train to 
 Eastjort. He wis, however, ready to make the attempt, 
 wiien, among the notes and letters which had come since 
 he started that morning, was an unusually thick envelope, 
 directed in Callander's handwriting. 
 
 Thlo ?^ ail -red his plans. It would be foolish to start be- 
 fore reading what Callander had to say, and doing so would 
 compel him to lose the train. 
 
 He opened the letter, glanced at It, and ringing for the 
 rian who waited on him, hastily directed that no visitor 
 should be admitted. Then, drawing his chair near the 
 wiialov.', he began, with interest which deepened at every 
 word, to read the long epistle addressed to him. 
 
 " I have been going to write to you, Stand ish, ever since 
 Dorothy proved to me how greatly 1 have wrongei you in 
 my mind. 1 hs.ve begun once or twice, but, somei-ow, my 
 brain would nor. keep clear or steady. There is such a 
 cloud troubUny and confusing me; bat last ni^^ht, as i li'.y 
 awako, battling with my thoughts as usual, some thing 
 seemed to b^eak away in heart or head, and light came to 
 ma 
 
 ^' I don't think I am mad but I am not what I used to be, 
 and there fs a strange spirit — not my own — urging me at 
 times, with a force 1 cannot resist, to do many things. 
 Ever since Dorothy showed me the truth I havo wanted to 
 tell you every thing, for you loved her, not as I thought, 
 but as a true elder brother, ana you will understand me — 
 perhaps you will help me. 
 
 '♦When she left; me in India it was a rueful day. Then 
 I was ill ; after, I recovered. Her letters were not the ajame ; 
 they were cold, constrained. How mad I grew, v,rith an 
 agonized longing to see her again, to hold her in my arms ! 
 My motiier wrote often. Slie did not like you; I do not 
 iaiow why, but she did not. Siie was always repeating 
 
 .c - 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 ^.3h 
 
 In 
 
 j 
 t 
 
 how my darling and Dorothy preferred being with you to 
 any one else, even to Egerton, who was so superior, It -"/ as 
 a long time before she roused the devil w'thin ydj, but she 
 did at last. Then I lame home. The voyage was a long 
 warfare between the . eaven of anticipated r^mnion and the 
 hell of doubt. I rsed to be so secure of her, of myself, of 
 everything. Now, sleeping or waking, I was always strug- 
 ling on the verge of precipices over which it was destruc- 
 tion to fall. 
 
 " Wiien she met me in London, s^e was so sweet and 
 kind that I thought all was well, that she was the same be- 
 loved Mabel I had left, that I was all to her I had been. 
 Whether my joy at meeting was too fierce, too intense, I 
 cannot tell; but in a few — a very few — days, I thought I 
 felt a change; a faint, gentle chill, like the tirst breath of 
 the night-wind ; but I put the idea from me. 1 fought 
 with it for dayt> and wee^is ; sometimes I had gleams of 
 happiness and security too delicious for earth. Then my 
 mother would suggest hellish doubts ; I do not suppose she 
 thought I would brood over them as 1 did, but— God for- 
 give her ! All this time I saw that Egerton was seeking 
 Dorothy to be his wife. So far as anything could interest 
 or please me, T was pleased. At last I proposed to Mabel, 
 who seemed to me unwell and ill at ease, that we should 
 take a journey together soma where, away from Dorothy, 
 from the children, from every one. I made lier acceptance 
 or rejection of thi!/ scheme the test of her feeling for me. I 
 quivered with terror as I suggested it. Well, she accepted. 
 During that drive to Rookstone, which was the last gleam 
 of heaven on my path, and for a while I had a little peace 
 — not for long — she grew pale, and cold, and nervous. 1 
 wei*t to London ; there she wrote to me in a curious, con- 
 strained tone. She said she was not strong enough to bear 
 such a journey as I proposed ! That decided me to kill her 
 and you. I thought it, mind, not with fury, but with u 
 calm, judicial sense of executing a judgment. The only 
 mode oy which I could keep myself in hand was by pre- 
 serving silence. Wife, children, friends, fair fortune, every 
 good had become cruellest evil torturing me with poisoned 
 darts. I used to sit silent and deadly in your midi*«- hold- 
 ing back the madman's rage to kill as best 1 might. 
 
 "• At last, one evening, just before you left ua, L came into 
 thf^ drawing-^-oom, n,nd found Dorothy putting dowers in a 
 basket The tea table was set. I asiked her where Mabel 
 

 236 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 I 
 
 was. She said, 'out driving with your mother.* 'Ami 
 where is Standish ? ' • He will be here soon, Mabel expects 
 him.' I fetood with my arm on the mantelpiece, gazing 
 into the glass, yet seeing nothing, and thinking — thinking. 
 Suddenly I 3aw the reflection of Mabel, coming through the 
 ouen window She mast have come from the dining room 
 into the verandah, and so in by the window nearest me. 
 She did not seem to see there was anyone in the room, but 
 went to the round table, which was always covered with 
 books — you know the oval mirror that leaned forward over 
 it? Well, in that I saw her slip a folded paper into a book 
 — the lowermost of a small pile — a green one with gold 
 edges lay on the top. I kept my eyes on it, but as her back 
 was to me, I sat down noiselessly in a chair. Presently 
 she turned and perceived me. Then she uttered a little cry, 
 came across the room to me and kissed me more tenderly 
 than she had done for many a day. Tiien I knew I could 
 kill her ! I pressed my finger and thumb round her soft, 
 white throat— she little knew how near death was to her for a 
 moment ! She said, ' you hurt me, dear,' smiling in my 
 face. I let her go, though I thought my heart would burst. 
 Soon you came in, and Egerton, and Henrietta ; while you 
 spoke together I went to the table and took away the book. 
 She was at the tea table and never noticed. I hid the book, 
 and afterwards found in it a folded sheet of paper, on 
 which, in her writing, were these words : " I cannot resist 
 your influence ; it was always too strong ! For God's sake 
 do not urge me to leave all for you — you ought to have 
 mere;/ on such weakness ! I fear him more every day — 
 for he suspects, I know he does — and that idea overwhelms 
 me. Go ! keep far away ! Whatever happens my heart 
 will break ! I do beseech you to go ! ' There was neither 
 address nor signature ; but the expression ' your influence, 
 it was always too strong,' pointed to you — it seemed con- 
 firmation strong as Holy Writ. I have destroyed the paper 
 lest blame should ever touch her." 
 
 Here the unfortunate man had evidently stopped, and re- 
 sumed after a pause of some hours, perhaps days. 
 
 " It is a long, weary tale ; it seems to me that I am 
 writing of another, and I pity him profoundly, as I should 
 never pity myself. My hatred of you grew deep and 
 cunning ; there was no base, cowardly act I would not have 
 done, could I have tortured you without bringing disgrac*' 
 on wiy O'vu name. Bat all through my curious, agonising 
 
BLIND FATE 
 
 237 
 
 mental struggles, I remembered that my name b«longed to 
 my children ! You w eat away the day after, or the day 
 but one. 
 
 "That seemed in obediance to her request. My mother 
 said it was an immense relief to her mind that you were 
 safe out of the way. 1 sileuced her fiercely ; but even above 
 my burning desire for revenge on you, was my resolution 
 to save my darling from her cruel comments, her bitter 
 judgment. Brooding over this, haunted by a hideous vision 
 of being compelled for my honor's sake to put awa , my 
 wife, to drag her through the mire aud filth of legal pro- 
 ceedings, of the oppropium of society, of moral annihila- 
 tion ; something whispered to me, ' Have the courage to 
 save her from all this — let the icy band of Death send htr 
 unsullied to a better world, where the All-seeing alone can 
 judge her.' The idea would not, did not leave me. It had 
 an extraordinary fascination for me ; even now, though I 
 know my suspicions were wrong, I believe I did my best 
 for her under the circumstances. 
 
 " It was not murder, no — it was the act of the tenderest 
 love. I wanted no revenge on her — I only wanted to save 
 her from sharaij and the bitterest grief. As a Christian, I 
 believe in the happiness of the hereafter, and her sin was 
 but slight now, only a womanish weakness which laid her 
 at the mercy oi a stronger will— a will backed by the force 
 of her habitual obedience to it. If I hesitated, she might 
 — almost surely would — break the social laws we are bound 
 to uphold, and become an outcast. Had she not in her 
 veins the blood of a mother who had outraged them? So 
 t resolved to send my beautiful Mabol to Heaven, even 
 while I affronted Hell for her sake. My logic is sound, 
 Standish, is it not ? She would have gone hence blameless ! 
 From me an inexorable judge would have demanded the 
 price of blood, and for her sake I am content to pay it !" 
 
 Here came dome discontented, passionate sentences about 
 the freedom of choice, the happiness of Heaven, the in- 
 justice of Fate, the boundless love of God, the possibility 
 of the Persian belief in the final purification of the guilt- 
 iest by fire proving to be true, and Callander resumed his 
 aarrative more calmly 
 
 ''This idea fascinated me. I b>>d, trom the fear of doing 
 my dearest one harm insome ungovernable fit of despair, re- 
 fuained in my own room on the plea of indifferent health, 
 iind there I i>hought out my plan. One night, just after 
 
 i 
 
238 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 wi 
 
 you had gone, I had put on my smoking jacket, and sat 
 down to think, but I could not smoke, my mind was a sort 
 of fiery mist, all the past unrolled itself, the happy hours, 
 the sweetness and purity of my darling, should I allow 
 shame to touch her ? A voice said to me, *The hour has 
 come ; let it not pass.' I rose up, and took a long, keen 
 knife, which Egerton had given me as a curiosity. It was 
 fine and sharp. I went softly but boldly to her room. I 
 did not fear to meet any one, I was not overstepping my 
 right. Her door opened without noise, she was not asleep, 
 she said drowsily, ' Is it you, Herbert ? ' 
 
 "Yes, I said, I cannoc sleep. I think the sleeping medi- 
 cine is here." 
 
 •'It is perhaps on the mantel-piece. I went to look, and 
 stood there long, listening, till her calm, regular breathing 
 told me she slept, then I took the candle and stole behind 
 her. Her head had fallen forward, her pretty hair was 
 gathered into a thick knot, and I saw the place where old 
 Bowden, our surgeon, once told us (myself and one or two 
 of 'ours') where a thrust might cause instantaneous 
 death. With a siJent prayer that I might not fail, or 
 cause her a moment's pain. I struck deep and true with a 
 steady hand. There was a slight sigh, the fair head fell a 
 little further forward, and she was free — quite free ; now 
 she knows my motives she forgives me ! I turned to gc 
 round, and looked into her angel face, when I trod on the 
 sheath, which had fallen on the carpet, and knocked against 
 the bed. This shocked me more than I can tell you, for 
 there './as something terribly, sublimely sacred in that 
 silent, motionless figure. To stir it rudely seemed sacri- 
 lege. I know not why, bat I could not stay after that. I 
 wiped tht knife with my handkerchief. There was very 
 little blood upon it. I wiped what I could from the roots 
 of her beautiful golden liair. Then I left her lying there. 
 I was not quite so steady w hen I closed the door behind me 
 as when I opened it ; for when I reached my room I found 
 I had dropped the handkerchief. I went back and found it 
 against the door. 
 
 "I felt a sort of relief as I sat down and thought of what 
 I had done. She was safe. I had taken her sweet life, but 
 I had kept her from evil tongues, from a terrible fate, and 
 embalmed her in the loving memory of those who could 
 never reproach her. But now came the reflection that 
 were I suspected the truth would ooze out, and the judg- 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 it 
 
 id 
 Id 
 
 ment vptm her would be more iinmereifn! than e^^. I 
 had acted on impulsa Now it was my bounden duty to 
 conceal my crime(as it would have been called), for her 
 sake first, for my children's, for the completion of my 
 revenge on you. There was no time to lose. I lit the fire 
 which was always laid ready in my room, and thrust in 
 the handkercuief that it might leave no trace. I hung up 
 the knife in its accustomed place, I went softly to the side 
 door. I often wandered out of a night unknown to any- 
 body, and the hinges ware well oiled, then I took the 
 L\dder from the shed, and pl«3ed it as it was found. I 
 crossed it, and lifted the bar which secured the shutters 
 inside, letting it fall with what seemed to me a terrible 
 noise, and entered the room again. By the dim night- 
 light I kissed my darling, and put back the dressing- 
 table which I had slightly moved. Then I gathered up 
 the watch, the locket, rings, bracelets that lay on the table, 
 and stole away once more to my own room. I rolled up 
 the jewels in three parcels, and locked them away. Then 
 I put on my dressing-gown, and sat down as if to write — 
 so I waited, waited for the discovery. I think I must 
 have become insensible or slept. I felt awfully exhausted 
 At last Collins came with my tea. I drank it, and still 
 sat wondering what would happen next. Then Mrs. Mc- 
 Hugh burst in — you know the rest. I seemed but half 
 alive after, and it was amazing how things lent themselves 
 to my rude plan of concealment. 
 
 " Now, I have nearly told you everything, Standish. My 
 brain is growing dull and dreamy. I have always won- 
 dered why Egerton shrank from me. Dorothy has explained 
 why. She has restored my faith in you. When I knew 
 the truth, it made me pitiless. The irreparable evil wrought 
 by my mother infuriated me. I rushed to her, and told her 
 that, thanks to her cruel tongue, her son was what she 
 would call a murderer. I wonder it did not kill her. My 
 sufferings have been great, though I have had long spells 
 of torpidity. Since I came down to Fordsea 1 have been 
 conscious of an awful, irresistible weariness of life. Like 
 the unhappy Moor, whose story is so like my own, ' My 
 occupation's o'er * — no, not yet ! 1 must settle my account 
 with Egerton. I cannot rest till that is finished ; does h< 
 know this, that he keeps out of the way ? Well, 1 ck 
 find him. If he lives as I do, I would not seek to cut short 
 his career. I went a few days ago to her grave ; I go often^ 
 

 240 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 i 
 
 m 
 
 bnt this time I accomplished what I long desired. I dug 
 up the jewels I hai buried on the hillside, to get that 
 bangle she always wore ; I have longed for it. I seem to 
 see her white arm and the glittering gold ring upon its 
 snow. Do not touch the rest, Standish, let them lie where 
 I laid them. Take care of my poor children, you and Do- 
 rothy must take care of them. I am so desperately tired. 
 When shall I find rest ? Your friend, as of old, 
 
 ** Herbert Callander." 
 
 Standish was very white, and his teeth were set when 
 he laid down the last sheet of this long, sad, startling? letter. 
 
 It was too true, then, Dillon's clever disentangling of 
 the puzzle ! What a terrible tragedy this destruction of 
 two lives ! His generous heart ached for the ruin, the in- 
 justice wrought by a spiteful tongue, by the selfish reckless • 
 ness of a man too absorbed in a guilty passion to hesitate 
 at the sacrifice of friendship, honor, loyalty, or even the 
 happiness of the woman he professed to love. 
 
 > It was brutal, insensate, but Standish had no time to 
 think of Egerton now. Callander's case was a serious one. 
 He must not be suspected ; the terrible truth must not 
 leak out. For the unfortunate criminal himself, Standish 
 felt the most profound pity. He could not look on him as 
 responsible. Disease was gaining fast upon him, but a 
 jury would probably take a very different view of his con- 
 dition. Come what might, he must be shielded from the 
 consequences of his desperate deed. It must be kept pro- 
 foundly secret, Dillon must be silenced. No breath of the 
 dreadful truth must reach Dorothy's ears ; it was enough 
 to kill her with horror. He (Standish) must get him out 
 of the country. But how ? Could he send the unhappy, 
 half, if not wholly insane man to wander alone, and put 
 the climax to the dreadful story by murdering Egerton, or 
 himself, or both, and so display the disgraceful facts to 
 the world, covering the memory of poor, timid Mabel with 
 obloquy ? 
 
 Nor, if Callander went, as Henrietta Oakley proposed, 
 with her and Dorothy to make a temporary home abroad, 
 would he ever know a moment's peace! The fatal brai'i 
 disease from which he believed Callander was suffer! i: 
 was certain to increase, and God only knew what delusi 
 might urge him to attack Dorothy. Standish shudder^ 1 
 and started to his feet as the idea flashed across him. F^i 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 241 
 
 Some moments he was stunned and ince >able of forming 
 any plan. But, by an effort, a strong exerton of self-con- 
 trol, he pulled himself together. He would go to Eastport 
 that night. There was one more train. Hs could, at 
 least, go and speak with Callander, and see how far he 
 was capable of reason. He liad been such a fine, high- 
 minded, unselfish, chivalrous fellow ; sarely some sparks o.. 
 the old light must linger in his poor, distraught brain. He 
 might feel the necessity of a friend's sheltering guidance. 
 How could he, even in the profoundest aijerration, lay a 
 destroying hand upon his sweet, gentle wife ? Had he been 
 himself, and fit to guide her, a few, wise, loving words 
 would have put all right between them, and freed her from 
 the unholy mesh in which Egerton had entangled her. But, 
 looking at the past by the light of the pr<;sent, Standish 
 felt convinced of what he formerly dimly guessed at ; that 
 for some reason Mabel had of late grown to fear her hus- 
 band. 
 
 " I waste time pondering here when I ought to act," he 
 exclaimed, and, taking Callander's long confession, li^* (mi- 
 closed it in a f resh, strong envelope, sealed 't, and, writing 
 on it his own name, he added, "to be destroyed in caye ot 
 my death." 
 
 Then, with a heavy heart, he put a change of raiment 
 into his bag, and, having snatched a hasty meal, drove to 
 Waterloo station. He was rather too soon for the eight- 
 thirty train to Eastport, so h« sat in the corner of the wait- 
 ing-room, his legs stretched out, hiy hands deep in his 
 pockets, and his travelling cap over his oyes. 
 
 There were few people about, and Standish, wrapped in 
 his own troubled tlioughts, was not conscious of their pre- 
 sence. He was, therefore, startled when a tall, well-dressed 
 man suddenly accosted him. 
 
 "Halloa, Standish! Where are you bound for?" 
 »*Ah, St. John! 1 — I didn't know you wire in town." 
 '* I have been up for ten days," returned St. John, *'and 
 1 am going down to Aldershot to see my sister, Lady Dash- 
 wood. Her husband is quartered down there. I'm due at 
 headquarters the day after to-moi row. 1 was dining with 
 your hiuidsome cousin, Miss Oakley, and missed ray train. 
 Little Miss Wynu, Mis. Blackett, her son, and old Colonel 
 Conway, made up the party. They said you had gone 
 down to Fordsea to look after poor Callander." 
 
242 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 I 
 
 "Missed my train, too," returned Slandish, abruptly. 
 
 " Both in the same predicameur, eh? Your ward, Miss 
 Wynn, is looking as if she had cried her eyes out. 'Pon my 
 soul ! its too bad to see such a pretty creature fretting her- 
 self to fiddle-strings." 
 
 " Can't wonder at it?" growled Standish. "When you 
 think of the awful blow she has had. I am glad she ap- 
 peared ; she is inclined to shut herself up." 
 
 " That's foolish—ain't it? " 
 
 "It's one of those thjnp:s that can't be reasoned about." 
 
 "Have yoasejn Egerton?" pursued St. JoLn. 
 
 "Egeiton ? Ho; he is not in England." 
 
 " Oh, yes, he is. I saw him m a hansom just now, com- 
 iii;' across the bridge." 
 
 ■ .... •£ you sure? " 
 
 ' ' As sure as I am tl. ^t I a&i you ! *"' 
 
 * I did net know he was coming back so soon i " ex- 
 claimed Standish, and fell into deep thoug,jit. it would be 
 hr . d to meet Egerton and refrain from shooting him ; he 
 A\ as such an utter scoundrel. Yet he must keep him from 
 encountering Callander. If this happened, some frightful 
 sc3ne would ensue which would expose the whole truth to 
 puoiic gaze. His une" pected returrk would complicate mat- 
 ters consideraoiy. 
 
 " Soj I suppose they will marry now, and then he'll dry 
 her tears tor her," Sl. John was saying when Standish 
 again listened," 
 
 " Who — what ? " he asked, rather impatiently. 
 
 '* Why your ward's. I suppose when the mourning: is 
 over he'll marry her — Egerton will, eh ? They are en- 
 gaged?** 
 
 ' ' No, they are not. They never were. She never wanted 
 him." 
 
 "Do you mean to say she would refuse such an offer? 
 Why, there must be seme other fellow in th? field. Your- 
 self, eh ? Always heard you were a fascinating sort of 
 chap. But the little girl has no tin, 1 fancy. 
 
 " Good night ! " exclaimed Standish, starting up, " I must 
 get my ticket," and he rushed olf abruptly. 
 
 "What a blatant idiot that St. John is," thought Stan- 
 dish, as he settled himself in a corner of his compartment ; 
 •' and it's uncommonly lucky that Dorothy had the dis- 
 crimination to see through Egerton's epurious love-making! 
 Nine girls out of every ten would b.Ave been carried away 
 
Bl.liND FATE. 
 
 43 
 
 fcyit! What preservftd my lit:ie Dorothy? Profouua 
 penetration ? No, that's too big a thing. True instinct ? 
 — more likely. Love for another V— most likely of all ; but 
 who ? She is an uncommon little puss — and — I'm not sure 
 I should quite enjoy seeing her fondly in love and going to 
 be married ! Yet it would be best for iier. This dreadful 
 business will affect her future - affect it rather disastrous- 
 ly if any trial and 'esclandre takes place. If Henrietta 
 marries, what is to become of Dorothy V— even if she does 
 not — they have only drifted together temporarily ! What 
 a womanly little creature Dorothy always has been! Why, 
 I don't think she has given me a kiss since she was twelve 
 years old ! Well, she must be taken care of whatever hap- 
 pens!" Then, half ashamed of dwelling so long on Do- 
 rothy's possible love affairs when such grave and tra';ic 
 matters lay before him, Standish turned his thoughts to 
 the problem of Callander's future. 
 
 Though feeling that the unfortunate man was scarcely 
 responsible, he was conscious of a distinct repugnance to 
 the idea of meeting and probably touching hands with the 
 murderer of his gentle lovable war i. 
 
 " The mind must have been liopoiessly impaired," mused 
 Standish, "before a man like Callander, a chivalrous gen- 
 tleman, would deliberately strike a woman in her sleep, and 
 that woman his own beautiful wife! What may he not 
 attempt in the future? But without displaying the very 
 seamy side of the story, how can i appeal for legal author- 
 ity to put him under restraint? It's all infernally puzz- 
 ling. Much will depend on the condition in which I find 
 him. I almost hope he may never quite regain his original 
 mental condition, or remorse for tlie fatal crime hehas com- 
 raitted will bo more than I can bear. As to letting Dorothy 
 live With him -that is not to be thought of." 
 
 ******* 
 
 It was past eleven wlien Standish reached the well-known 
 Pier Hotel at Fordsea. 
 
 Colonel Callander, the waiter said, had jj:one to his room 
 some time before. So Standish would not iiear of disturb- 
 ing; him. 
 
 " I can see him to-morrow morning," he said. ** At what 
 time does Colonel Callander breakfast?" 
 
 " Nine sharp, sir. He goes out to boat or bathe very 
 early, and com^s in about eight-thirty- -to-night he ordered 
 
244 
 
 BLIND FATK 
 
 Ik 
 
 i: 
 
 fish and kidneys for breakfast, as he seemed to expect you 
 might come, sir." 
 
 "Oh, very well! Give me some brandy and soda and I 
 will go to bed too." 
 
 This apparent hope of seeing himself seemed a good sign 
 to Standish. If Callander was only capable of taking a 
 rational view of his own position it would simplify mat- 
 ters; but Standish dreaded the final stages of that most 
 terrible disease — softening of the brain — which reduces 
 the most gifted to the level of the "beasts that perish." 
 
 It was sometime before Standish could sleep -^ when he 
 did he slept heavily. 
 
 The emotions of the day had fatigued as much as physi- 
 cal exertion would have done. 
 
 When he woke the sun was high in the heavens and 
 sparkling brightly on the rippling waters of the bay. All 
 things seemed smiling with the infantile joyousness which 
 the sea in its gently playful moods often expresses. 
 
 It struck Standish with indescribable sadness. Heshrank 
 from the approaching interview with profound repugnance, 
 and a depressing sense of not being equal to the task he had 
 undertaken. 
 
 When dressed and ready — it was nearly half-past eir;ht 
 — and taking his hat he sallied forth, thinking it might be 
 less oppressive to meet Callander first in the open air. 
 
 As he strolled slowly towards the hut where Old Jack, 
 the boatman, sheltered himself among his boats drawn up 
 beside it — every siep recalled the happy hours he had spent 
 on the beach with Mabel and Dorothy the previous aut- 
 umn ; chiefly with Dorothy, for, as he reviewed that happy 
 holiday time, he remembered how often the partie carree 
 broke into a tete-a-tete division — that Egerton rarely left 
 Mabol till Callander arrived, while Dorothy and himself 
 found so much to occupy and interest them that they rarely 
 missed the others. 
 
 And what an ending to such fair, tranquil, seemingly in- 
 nocent days ! To what a tragic conclusion they were 
 blindly drifting ! 
 
 Standish found Old J ack seated in the stern of one of his 
 boats, smoking a very black pipe, and looking out so earn- 
 estly towards the east, headland that he did not hear the 
 approaching step. 
 
 " Good mor^iing, Jack." 
 
BLIND FATE 
 
 246 
 
 "Ehy Air. istandish! Mornin', sir— haven't seen you 
 down hare this many a day, sir." 
 
 "No, I've been too busy to take a holiday." 
 
 " Not much of a holiday for you to come down here, air/* 
 said the rugged old salt with feeling- 
 
 "That's true." There was a pause— then Standish asked, 
 " Has the Colonel ijoue oul to bathe to-day V" 
 
 " Yes, sir. He goes a fishing or bathing every morning 
 when he is down. Sometimes I go with him; but bless 
 your 'art, sir, he never catclies nothing! Forgets he's hold- 
 ing the lines most of the time! He ought to be coming in 
 about now," putting a battered glass to bis eye. " I see no 
 sign of him yet. When he gets the oars in his hands he 
 rows sharp enough. You sit down a bit, sir— he'll not be 
 long— he went away tow'st the Head, where the ladies 
 used to like to row, in the mornings — last autumn! Ah ! 
 well I — the ways of Providence are past our knowledge ! " 
 
 With a sigh, and a wise shake of the head. Old Jack re- 
 sumed his pipe. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 ** THB SEA aiVBS UP ITS DEAD." 
 
 Standish accepted the old man's invitation, and, light- 
 ing a cigar, took bis seat beside him. A long spell of si- 
 lence ensued. 
 
 There is no more taciturn creature in the world than 
 your regular old salt. With his weather eye (whatever 
 that may be) perpetually on the look out for squalls, or the 
 shifting of the wind, and his mind on the alert to meet the 
 treacherous forces of the sea and storm, with all that hu- 
 man foresight and resolution can do to circumvent and 
 conquer them, he does not care to weaken his mental 
 powers with idle words, but out of the stores of accumu- 
 lated wisdom he lets fall pearls and diamonds of tersely 
 expressed opinion, the essence of his crystalised ex- 
 perience. 
 
 So Standish and his weather-beaten host (for, had he not 
 offered him the hospitality of his stranded boat?) sat si- 
 lently side by side, their eyes directed watchfully toward 
 the " Head," as the promontory east of the bay was fa- 
 luiliarly called, the thoughts of both centred on the same 
 object 
 
246 
 
 BUND FATE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 m 
 
 Time went very slowly, and Standisli was quite sur- 
 prised when half-past nine chimed from the clock of the 
 old town church. *' I thought it must be ten at least," ex- 
 laimed Standish, impatiently. 
 
 ** It's past his usual time," said Jack, putting up his 
 battered glass again. ^' He went only for a dip," he said. 
 " If it's your will, sir, I'll just pull out to look for him if 
 we see no sign of him in ten minutes." 
 
 *' Do," said Standish, eagerly, " and I'll come with you. 
 You may have a long pull." 
 
 *' The tide will be flowing for quarter of an hour longer," 
 said the boatman, '■'■ and with the tide he ought to come 
 pretty quick, but we'll find it stiff work." 
 
 He got over the side of the boat as he spoke and began 
 very deliberately to put a couple of oars in a lighter one. 
 
 " It's the finest morning we have had this month," he 
 said, slowly. " He may be tempted to swim about a bit. 
 Still, it might be better to go and louk for him." 
 
 ^' Much better," said Standish, assisting the old man to 
 push the light boat over the shingle to the water. As they 
 took their places, three-quarters chimed out, a sou'-west 
 wind carrying the sound over the waters. 
 
 Standish had been accustomed to row in his Oxford 
 days, and from time to time since; and now unknov/n to 
 himself, his unspoken fears found expression in his ener- 
 getic strokes, till at last his old mate exclaimed, " Gently, 
 by your leave, sir. If you pull so hard you'll pull me 
 round. There's no use in hurrying. It's getting a little 
 fresher, and there's a pretty tidy swell on. We might 
 miss the chase in the trough of the waves. Keep her head 
 to the wind and I'll give him a hail." 
 
 Standing up, old Jack Goold shouted long and loud the 
 name of the boat taken out by Colonel Callander that morn- 
 ing, " Lively P» ggy. ahoy !" 
 
 In vain; there was not even an echo to reply. 
 
 Then he returned to his oar, saying simply, ' ' Let's make 
 straight for the Head." 
 
 So they rowed on and on, and round and about but no 
 trace of the Lively Peggy nor her oarsman was to be seen. 
 
 Never did Standish lose the profound impression of that 
 weary row, the sickening fear that grew upon him, the 
 hopelessness and sinking of heart. 
 
 At last Jack Goold said, sullenly and hoarsely, " We'd 
 better get back, sir. 1 don't see how we can do any good. 
 
RUND FATE. 
 
 MT 
 
 >i 
 
 the 
 lorn- 
 
 Lakfi 
 
 no 
 teen, 
 that 
 
 the 
 
 re'd 
 )od. 
 
 We'd best »peak to this tug 1 see coming along on our tack. 
 If you promise something of a reward, they'll keep a look- 
 out. There's no knowing where the boat's drifted ?" 
 
 " The boat, man !" cried Standish, in much agitation. 
 " You don't mean to say you do not think Colonel Callan- 
 der is in her ?" 
 
 " I don't mean nothing, Mr. Standish; only it looks bad- 
 dish seeing no sign of her." 
 
 The old man presently hailed the tug, which ran down 
 to them. Standish clambered on board, but the old boat- 
 man thought it better to return to his station, in case they 
 had by any accident, missed the object of their search, 
 hoping to hnd his boat and its occupant, alike beached and 
 safe. 
 
 It would take much time and space to describe the grow- 
 ing fears with which Standish paced the tug's dirty deck, 
 or stood eagerly scanning the face of the waters, as they 
 steamed slowly to and fro. 
 
 At length the skipper remarked that if they stayed there- 
 abouts till night they would find nothing; adding,not with- 
 out feeling, that he would not give much for the gentleman's 
 chance if some craft had not picked iiim up before this. 
 
 Standish agreed with him, and the master bringing his 
 vessel to as near the Head as he could safely go, sent his 
 passenger ashore in one of the tug's boats. 
 
 The spot he landed on was a small rocky projection not 
 far from a stretch of fine sand which filled a slight inden- 
 tation of the shore, where Standish had often found 
 Dorothy, with Nurse and th • children hunting for shells 
 and seawead. A long walk, however, was before him, and 
 his mind was too profoundly disturbed to allow of tender 
 memories. He pressed on at a good pace, thinking hard 
 what was best to hi done if Callander had disappeared, or 
 if he had returned alive. Both contingencies had their dil- 
 flculties. 
 
 It was a long, painful progress. Nearing the common 
 he diverged from his direct road to pass Jack Goold's hut. 
 The old man was on the look-out, and, perceiving his ap- 
 proach, came rapidly to meet him. 
 
 " What news ?" shoute.? Standish before they were with- 
 in speaking distance. 
 
 Jack shook his head, and as soon as they stood face to 
 face, said, in a low voice, ' ' Bad — couldn't be worse. A 
 chap has just come down to tell me that my boat has been 
 
248 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 nl 
 
 m 
 
 picked up by the fishing smack Mary Jane, with tlio 
 Colonel's clothes, iMS watch and chain and purse. The poor 
 gentleman is lost, that's plain enough. Likely got cramp 
 and went down, for he was a strong swimmer." 
 
 Standish stood s^ill and silent. Was this the end of the 
 story — the last act of a pitiful tragedy to 'vhich two inno 
 cent sufferers had been driven by blind fate ? 
 
 ' * I suppose it is folly to hope ?" he forced himself to say 
 at last. 
 
 " Ay ! no good at all, sir. I r^on't see a.s there is a spark 
 of hope, nohow ! He was a grand ggntleman," continued 
 the old boatman, beginning to fill his pipe with an unsteady 
 hand. " That kind and thoughtful for them as worked 
 with him ; but one you wouldn't care to say ' no' to. I don't 
 think he was quite right, sir, since them Spanish swabs 
 murdered his poor lady ! By Gad, sir," with sudden fire, 
 ' ' I'd like to string 'em up to the yard-arm with my own 
 hand. 
 
 '* It is an apprUing finale." muttered Standish to him- 
 self. 
 
 " It is so, sir ; but the Lord, he only knows the heart !" 
 
 An utterance which showed Standish the drift of the old 
 man's thoughts. 
 
 " Where can I find these fishing people and the boat ?^' 
 
 Jack Goold immediately offered to guide him, and, tired 
 as he was with five or six hours' mental and physical 
 strain, Standish had no thought but for the task still be- 
 fore him, and proceeded at once to the weli-remembered old 
 dock, where the fishing smack lay. 
 
 The clothes, etc. had been already handed over to the 
 police. These Standish had no difficulty in reco2:nising. 
 He was assured that all attempts to search for the body 
 would be useless- Some of the currents that existed out- 
 side the bay might have swept it out to sea, or the tide 
 might cast it out. 
 
 As thare was no more to be done 9,*; present, Standish, 
 though greatly shaken, was obliged io think of his own 
 duties, public and private. His temporary leave was near- 
 ly expired, and his chief had siiown him so much consider- 
 ation, taat he was anxious not to out-stay it. Then none 
 save himself must break the sad news to Dorothy. How 
 would she bear this last blow V 
 
 He, th^reforo, telegraphed to Colonel Callander's solicitor 
 to come down himself, or send some capable employ ?>e to be 
 
 1 
 1 
 c 
 
 f 
 
 c 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 249 
 
 DOr 
 
 be 
 
 •a the spot, should act-ion of any kind prove necessary, 
 adding that he would wait his arrival. 
 
 A reply wire soon reached him to the effect that Mr. 
 Brierly himself v/ould come down by the three-ten train. 
 
 Standish was thus enabled to confer with the greatly 
 distrassed lawver (who was a personal friend of Callander's) 
 before he started for town, 
 
 It was nearly nine o'clock when he reached his rooms, 
 and he debated with himself whether he should attempt 
 to see Dorothy that night or not. " No," was his conclu- 
 sion; •' she shall have this night at least, undisturbed." 
 Indeed after the tremendous strain of tnat tryin- day, he 
 felt quite unable to meet her. 
 
 " Mr. Egerton is below, sir," his servant announced. 
 " Shall I show him up V" 
 
 •' Yes; show him up," sard Standish, sudden vigor and 
 fire replacing his exhaustion at the sound of his name. 
 
 He remained standing, and the next moment Egerton 
 en .ered. 
 
 »' Very glad to find you at last," he cried, in his usual 
 genial, pleasant voice, as he advanced, with outstretcht d 
 hand ; " I am longing to know " 
 
 He stopped, silenced and astonished by the aspect of 
 Standish, his stern face, and the sight of his hand closed 
 and resting on the table, quite irresponsive to Egerton's 
 friendly gesture. 
 
 " What is the matter, Standish ?" 
 
 " I will explain. You must hear me without interrup- 
 tion, for what I am going to say is sufficient strain on my 
 self-control. 1 have heard the whole truth which under- 
 lay the tragedy in which we have both played a part. I 
 know the brutal villainy of your conduct towards your 
 friend's wife. 1 know that the suspicion which should 
 have fallen on you were directed to me, and I have it from 
 Callander himself that he, too, had learned the truth, that 
 he was aware of the debt he owed you. and was resolved 
 to pay it in full; therefore you are untit to touch the hand 
 of a gentleman, to sit in the room with a decent woman ! 
 You took the heart, the will, of a weak, innocent child by 
 false stratagem into your iron, pitiless bauds, and for the 
 gratification of a base passion, destroyed her soul's life, as 
 certainly as her r-iui derer struck her dead !" 
 
 '* Whiie he spoke Egerton's large, dark eyes grew larger, 
 
250 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 Wf\ 
 
 fiercer, and fixed themselves unflinchingly on those of Stan- 
 iish. 
 
 " Yes !" he returned in a harsh voice. " This is how, I 
 fuppose, a moral, blameless man like yourself looks upon 
 me, and this is how I look upon myself : — I found one of 
 the sweetest, fairest creatures my eyes ever rested on, 
 whose indefinable charm fascinated my heart, and thrilled 
 my senses as no other woman amon 4 the numbers I have 
 known ever did before. 1 found her tied to a cold, half- 
 indifEerent man, whose age, whose dull nature checked and 
 repressed hers. She feared him, she wanted the companion- 
 ship of a younger, a more sympathetic man? She was 
 formed for me, and all that was needed to secure such hap- 
 piness as men and women rarely taste was that she should 
 take courage and burst her bonds. It would have been but 
 a nine day's wonder, soon forgotten, and I could have given 
 her everything. But she dared not ! God never created an 
 angel purer or more self-denying than Mabel ! Whether 
 right or wrong, I have but one regret, that I did not suc- 
 ceed in carrying her away from the oppression of her home 
 to the heaven my love could have created — from the cruel 
 madman who destroyed her sweet life, to the shelter of my 
 arms. My love for her gave me superior rights ! I shall 
 never repent or regret my share in the past !" 
 
 " You too, are insane," exclaimed Standish, amazed at 
 his self-deception, and struck by his allusion to Callander. 
 " You must have lost your balance or been born without 
 moral sense !" 
 
 "Moral sense? What is moral sense? the cumbrous 
 lacquer with which the needs of society compel us to over' 
 lay our nature ! There are circumstances which excuse 
 our casting off this outer husk. But 1 understand what 
 preachers such as you will think. To the moral sense of 
 year ward Dorothy, her sister owes her death. Had she 
 11 Jt interfered Mabel would now be living, recovered from 
 ♦ lie shock of following the dictates of her own heart, and 
 glowing with the joy she gave and received. 
 
 " And Callander?" asked Standish, sternly. 
 
 " Dead, or in a lunatic asylum — what is that to me ?" 
 
 " Your recklessues is revolting." 
 
 " Is it? Remember, I have conquered myself for her 
 sake ! Feeling convinced from some strange innate con- 
 viction Lha Callander murdered his wife I forced myself 
 to endure his company rather than give cruel tongues any 
 
BLIND FATE. 
 
 261 
 
 )d at 
 ider. 
 tout 
 
 Irous 
 
 (ver- 
 
 louse 
 
 hat 
 
 ie of 
 
 she 
 
 rom 
 
 and 
 
 her 
 jon- 
 
 jself 
 jauy 
 
 «hance of touching the truth. 1 bore the bitter reproaches 
 ot her sister. I will bear in silence — no broath from me 
 jh»l\ ever tarnish the pure name of my beloved dead ! Do 
 you think that all the suffering has been on the husband's 
 and sister's side. You little know the absolute physical 
 agony I have endured ! For her sake I listen to your abuse 
 without seeking the satisfaction I should otherwise gladly 
 demand ! But no! 1 do not care enough for your opinion 
 — for yourself or for anything else in life — to enjoy shoot- 
 ing you ! You are of your kind—honorable, phlegmatic, 
 high-principled — not with living fire in your veins as I 
 have! We cannot help our natures 1 But you and I have 
 the honor of Callander's name, the safety of his life in our 
 hands, and though we shall keep far apart in future, we 
 must guard it well." 
 
 " His honor, yes ; for the rest— no earthly judge can 
 toueh him now." 
 
 '♦ My God !" cried Egertoa, with a sudden revulsion of 
 feeling. " Is he dead ?" 
 
 " I have reason to believe so," and Standish told the oc- 
 currences of the day as rapidly as he could. 
 
 "Then that chapter iz finished!" exclaimed Egerton. 
 " We can never meet again as friends ; but for tiie sake of 
 the dead we must not seem enemies. Dorothy may rest 
 satisfied wkh her work," he added, with a sneer. 
 
 " She has reason to be satisfied," returned Standish, 
 gravely. " Better mourn over her sister's early grave, than 
 blush for a faithless wife, a dishouored motner." 
 
 Egerton stood a moment in silence. Than he said, more 
 to himself than to St aidish, " I shall leave England to- 
 morrow." With one steady, defiant look into the face of 
 his accuser he left the room and the house. This last in- 
 terview completed the exhaustion of the day. Standish 
 forced himself to take some lood, and then stupified witu 
 fatigue slept heavily till mornintr. Ho felt that there was 
 yet a severe trial before him in breaking the news to Do- 
 rothy. He profoundly feared the results of such repeated 
 shocks on her sensitive, sympathetic nature. He must guard 
 her from the knowledge that Callander's hand had robbed 
 her of her sister. 
 
 ♦ •♦♦♦♦♦ 
 
 When Standish reached Prince's place next morning ho 
 found Dorothy alone at the breakfast table; she was look- 
 
252 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 
 I 
 
 ing a little brighter than usual, and rose to receive him. 
 with a welcoming smile. 
 
 " I am so glad you have <Jome, dear Paul ! I am dying 
 to hear how you and Herbei't met. If he is friends with 
 you and trusts to you, he may recover something' of his 
 old irame of mind." 
 
 *' Yes, Dorothy, I will tell you everything," returned 
 Standish, holding her hand half unconsciously in both his 
 own. " But come into the study, we shall be undisturbed : 
 Have you finished your breakfast?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, quite— Heuiietta has a headache, so she did 
 not come down ; but she wants to see you before you go/' 
 
 While Dorothy spoko she led the way into the study ; a 
 small fire was burning, and the window was open upon a. 
 neat little garden, where the sunshine of an early spring; 
 morning seemed to promise a future crop of grass and 
 flowers. 
 
 " It is cold still," said Dorothy, closing the window and 
 turning to Standish, who stood still and silent ; something; 
 in his face, in his compassionate eyes, struck her heart. 
 
 " Paul-— dear Paul— how dreaaf ully ill you look ! some- 
 thing has happened ! something to Herbert ! Tell me at 
 once." 
 
 " Yes ! my dearest Dorothy ! We greatly fear-~that an 
 
 accident — bathing — sudden cramp, perhaps " Standish 
 
 could hardly form his words. 
 
 " Oh Paul ! say it at once. Is he dead ?" 
 
 " Sit down, my child," drawing her to the sofa, and 
 holding her hands in his. " We cannot say certainly that 
 he is ! but I fear that we shall never see him again— I will 
 tell you all " 
 
 Dorothy listened with wide open dry eyes. 
 
 " Might he not have been taken up by some other ship, 
 Paul ?" she exclaimed in a tremulous voice. " Oh ! I want- 
 e<\ him to have a few peaceful days with you and me and 
 the poor children, he has been so miserable ! and you two 
 never met again ! It is all too cruel !" She trembled vio- 
 lently but could not weep. '' And Mr. Fortescue— you know 
 him-'-he came with us that day so long ago, in the yacht 
 to B 'okstone. Well, he was at luncheon yesterday, and 
 said he had seen Herbert at Fordsea, and thought him 
 looking better than he expected ; he spoke so nicely, so 
 synipathetici»!.ily, that X felt che^^red. And now all is over 
 
BUND FAR 
 
 2^4 
 
 11 
 
 'O 
 
 d 
 
 — the children are ^uite orphans ? Oii ! 1 feel that ka is 
 indeed dead ?" 
 
 " I rather think he must be! Bat if he tl ied without 
 much suffering, don't you think it better for him to be at 
 peace — perhaps united to Mabel —as Christians are per- 
 mitted to believe such things possible? Have you no tears, 
 Dorothy ? It frightens me, dear, to see your poor eyes so 
 dry — to feel how you tremble." 
 
 " I tell you what terrifies me, Paul ! Do you — do you 
 think he did it himself ?" and she clung shuddering to him. 
 
 " No, certainly not !" returned Scandish, promptly, 
 " Why — he ordered breakfast for himbelf and f'^c me (for 
 he seemed to have expected me), and in his letter he spoke 
 of objects to live for! No Dorothy — put that thought out 
 of your he<\d." 
 
 " He wrote to you, then?" 
 
 " Yes, Y&cy kindly and frankly, just like his old selt" 
 
 " Ah ! how good lie was, how kind he was — how gentle, 
 how true — why, why has one bad man been allowed to de- 
 stroy our happi'^'^ss? My head feels oii fire '' 
 
 " Think of these poor little children, so unconscious of 
 their desolation," began Stan dish, at his wits' end to draw 
 tears to the poor strained eyes, when the door burst open 
 and Henrietta, her eyes reJ with weeping and a handker- 
 chief in her hand, came in. 
 
 " Oh ! Have you told her ? Isn't it too dreadful? Oh, 
 poor, dear, Dorothy, how I feel for you ! Yet what can your 
 grief be to mine ? I loved him all my life, quite all my 
 life," and sitting down, she covered her fac. ; and sobbed 
 aloud. 
 
 " How did you know ?" asked Standish. '' I did not say 
 anything in my note, to save murdering sleep for one 
 night ?" 
 
 " It was this morning. Collins read it in the papers and 
 told Celestine, and she rau, of course, to me. I kept out of 
 the way \i\ my room, for 1 knew 1 should talk to Dorothy, 
 and I to] (i Lliom to keep ail the [)apers below. Now you 
 mustteli mu the whole Jioadful ^iory." 
 
 Standish complied- - noticing tiie constant fits of trembl- 
 ing that shook Dorothy's slight frame. 
 
 "Now," sail H';nriett;i. rising, '^ I hope you will not 
 mind being left alone Dorothy, but 1 am going off 
 iltnost ininuid lately to catch the mid-day Calais boat. 1 
 mcI 1 ouglii to lutjik !lii:. dreadlul news to my aunt In 
 
254 
 
 BLIND FATK 
 
 losing hf^r son she loses everything, and nobody seems to 
 think of her." 
 
 "lojitainiy do!" said Standish, grimly. " Had it not 
 been for her " he stopped. 
 
 '^ Ob ! yes, I know, she growled and grumbled and made 
 herself disagreeable, but then she meant well ! At any 
 rate, I>orothy, I feel I ought to go to Aunt Callander." 
 
 " Yes, Henrietta. I don't mind staying with Nurse, I 
 am so fond of her, and Paul will come and see me. I think 
 I will go and lie down, my head and eyes ache dread- 
 fully." 
 
 " Well, do, dear. I shall see you settled before I go." 
 
 " Good-bye, Paul. How good and kind you always are 
 to me f At last the gracious tears came, and Dorothy 
 hurried from the room. 
 
 '^ Thank God she can weep at last !" cried Standish to 
 Henrietta. ^' For Heaven's sake come back as soon as you 
 can. I feel certain she is going to be ill ! But I daresay 
 Mrs. McHugh will take good care of her." 
 
 " I declare you don't seem to have a thought for anyone 
 but Dorothy," said Henrietta, impatiently. 
 
 " Not many," he returned tersely. 
 
 Henrietta stared at him. 
 
 " You will be sure to telegraph to me to Meurice's if you 
 have any news or in any case. If this day passes over 
 without his return, we have seen the last of poor Herbert!" 
 She again burst into tears, and shaking hands v/itii him, 
 followed Dorothy upstairs. 
 
 Standish returned to his chambers on his way to the 
 Foreign Office, and found a telegram from Brierly: — 
 
 " Body cast up by tide on western spit. Shall do all 
 that is needful. Come as soon as you can." 
 
 Despatching this by a messenger to Miss Oakley, Stan^ 
 dish perforce continued on his way, that he might clear off 
 some work, and make what arrangements he could to at- 
 tend the funeral of his unfortunate friend. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 It was all over. The mortal remains of poor Callander 
 
 were hud to re&t beside those of the wife ne loved too well. 
 
 The only members of his family who followed him to the 
 
 t^rave were a couple of distant cousins. Mrs. Callander 
 
BLDID FAT& 
 
 was fai a Birange state of nervous depression. Henrietta 
 in Paris. Dorothy laid up with a severe attack of low 
 fever. Egerton — no one knew where. Of all the pleasant 
 party that used to assemble at The Knoll, Standish was 
 the sole representative. 
 
 Those officers who had any acquaintance with Callander, 
 begged to be allowed to testify their respect by attending 
 his funeral. 
 
 Then Standish felt that be oould do more, and the curtain 
 fell upon the last act of the sad drama. 
 
 He was profoundly anxious about Dorothy, and greatly 
 feared her strength would not be equal to the strain upon it. 
 
 A few days after he had ouce more settled to the ordinary 
 routine of his life, he paid a visit to the lawyer at his re- 
 quest, for Colonei Callander, a few days before his unex- 
 pected deiith, had, by a codicil, revoked his appointment 
 of Egerton as executor, and named Standish in his place, 
 requesting that so long as Dorothy was unmarried she 
 should remain with his children. 
 
 Together Mr. Brierly and Standish went carefully through 
 the will, which was simple and reasonable enough. He had 
 little more than a competence to leave his children, but 
 that was judiciously disposed. The will had been made 
 just before he went to India, and the only changes in it 
 were since the death of Mabel. Then the wish for Dorothy's 
 superintendence of the children was put in ; and Egerton's 
 name substituted for that of Standish. This was again 
 altered as described, and a further appointment of Standish, 
 as guardian of the children, added. 
 
 " There is no sign of unsoundness of intellect in this," 
 said the lawyer, folding up the document as he spoka 
 " Yet I must confess there was much in our poor friend's 
 manner and conduct latterly which showed that he had 
 somewhat lost his mental balanca His poor young wife's 
 strange and dreadful end supervening on the impaired con- 
 dition of his health, would account for much. As we are 
 speaking conlideiuially, and are equally interested in my 
 client, may i venture to ask you if it has ever occurred to 
 you that his death was voluntary V" 
 
 I " Yes, it has occurred to me ; but, on reflection, I have 
 rejected the idea. The only letter I had from him for some 
 time was just before his deatli, and in it ho spoke of ulte- 
 rior objects, forwliichhewished to live. He seemed to have 
 fully intended returning to breakfast that morning. No ; 
 
256 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 1 do not think we 
 ;,uilty of suicide." 
 
 " 1 am glad to hear you say 
 
 are at all justified ia supposiu^^ him 
 
 so," returned the lawyer ; 
 
 but i.e had certainly been for some time in a remarkable 
 state of elespondency." 
 
 " Ho was, indeed." There was silence for some moments. 
 
 Then iJrierly resumed : — " It has been an extraordinary 
 affair altogether. I don't suppose we'll ver ^■. t) a mur- 
 derer V" 
 
 " No ; I don't suppose we shall. Thort ,ievev "^as much 
 chance of it." 
 
 "I am very glad Colonel Callander put your namj in as 
 executor and guardian. Mr. Ej»erton was too much a man 
 of fashion and of pleasure for the office, thouy;h a very 
 sincere friend — quite devoted." 
 
 "Yes, remarkably so." 
 
 After a little further conversation, Staudish left Lim, 
 and walked towards his own lodgings in somewhat deep 
 thought. 
 
 He was uneasy about Dorothy, who had not left her room 
 since the day he had broken the news of Callander's dis- 
 appearance to her. She was very weak, Mrs. McHugh re- 
 ported, and apparently quite content to lie still, without a 
 desire for anything. 
 
 Certainly the doctor assured him there was no need for 
 alarm. It was a case of nervous prostration. As soon as 
 the weather was a little warmer, they must get her away 
 if fresli scenes, new interests, could be presented, this 
 would, no doubt, effectually restore tone and vitality. 
 
 "I wonder if she has any girlish fancy for that young 
 Fortescue? He is a nice young fellow, and in the midsb 
 of her urief about Callander, she thought of the pleasure 
 his company' had ^iveu her. Bat ho is a mere boy ; by no 
 means a fit mate for a girl whose mind is as mature as 
 Dorothy's, and quite incapable of appreciating her. What 
 an age it is since I have seen her, and nurse says she will 
 not be downstairs again for three or four days." Then his 
 thoughts wandered to Dillon. His silence and non-appear- 
 ance puzzled Standish. He certainly was not likely to 
 renounce the claim he had made for hush money. He 
 must know well that Colonel Callander's family would 
 shield the reputation of the dead as carefully as they 
 would have guarded the safety of the living. He was up 
 to some mischief. '*I should like to see him," mused Stan- 
 
fOAKD FATE. 
 
 257 
 
 hall not seek biiri. JTe will be sure to pre- 
 
 ie has been well paid so far, but I should 
 
 A liis silence. The awful truth must never 
 
 s humilat.ng to think that \/e are at f.he 
 
 h & scamp as Dillon. Rut he must be 
 
 Standish, reading 
 shall be at home 
 
 disli ; "Imfc I 
 
 sent himself, 
 like to be sure 
 come out. It 
 mercy of sc; 
 silerced." 
 
 .'4 vndlsh liere hailed a ha .aom and drove to his own 
 abode. As sometimes happens, he found his thoughts had 
 been prophetic The servant of the house, hearing his 
 latch-key in the lock, came out of the front parlor. "If 
 you please, sir," presenting a card, "the gentleman said he 
 would call again.** 
 
 **If he does, show him up," returned 
 the inscription, "Luke C. Dillon." "I 
 most of the afternoon." 
 
 "The decisive moment has come a little sooner than I ex- 
 pected," said Standish, as he sat down to his writing-table. 
 "How shall I deal with the fellow V he is really master of 
 the situatioi.. I don't want to hold any communication 
 with Mrs. Callander. In spite of all the mischief she has 
 done, I am rather sorry for her. Her son's confession 
 must have been a deadly blow- a blow that must have 
 shattered her pride and ambition, and made the only 
 affection she was capable of a source of torture." 
 
 He began a letter to Henrietta, for he was anxious that 
 she should return to her temporary home and to Dorothy 
 
 His lubrications were cut short by the announcement of 
 " Mr. Dillon," and the detective entered, fresh, cool, self- 
 satisfied, and red as ever. 
 
 '* Q-ood morning!" said Standish, rising. 
 
 " G-ood afternoon!" returned Dillon, and both sat down 
 opposite each other, with civil faces and watchful eyes. 
 
 " Thought I'd look you up," began the detective. "You'll 
 have been wondering what has become of me V" 
 
 "Well, no! You see there is nothing more to do, as 
 — — " Standish paused. 
 
 " Just so I Nothing more to do— and ' pretty tidy job I 
 made of it, eh, Mr. Standish ?" 
 
 " I readily acknowledge your remarkable ability," re- 
 turned Standish, cautiously. 
 
 Dillon laughed a short laugh, as if ho did not value the 
 compliment. 
 
 '' Well, sir, the poor gentleman made away with himself 
 soouw than I expected." 
 
263 
 
 BLIND FATE. 
 
 u 
 
 How do yow know that he made away with himself?" 
 
 " Why, Mr. Srandish, you and I who kuow the whole 
 truth, need not beat about the bush when we are face to 
 face, and no witnesses by, 1 daresay there's doubt euou^ii 
 as to intention to entitle you to deny it was suicide, but 
 what you think is another pair of shoes. Between you 
 and me, it's the best thing the poor fellow could have done! 
 His life was over — any life worth living — so he was right 
 to get siiUt of it." 
 
 '■^ We need not discuss the question," returned Standish, 
 haughtily. *' We are not likely to agree on abstract ques- 
 tions." 
 
 " Like enough I" with careless superiority. " Now the 
 veason 1 have called is to show you that I have a good 
 deal of what 1 believe you top-sawyers call delicate con- 
 sideration mixed with a due regard for my own interest.** 
 He paused. 
 
 " Pray continue; I am much interested." 
 
 " You'll be more so presently. When last you and I had 
 a talk, Mr. Standish, we differed about one or two trifles. 
 One was the amount due to me for information which 
 would certainly lead to the discovery of the murderer, and 
 also for an undertaking to hold by tongue as to the same. 
 Now on reflection I decided not to trouble you. You were 
 not of the family, you could not be exactly a judge of how 
 far their feelings would urge them; so 1 just crossed over 
 to Paris and asked the old lady, Mrs. Callander, to grant 
 me the honor of an interview." 
 
 " You did !" cried Standish. " This is exactly what I 
 should wished to liave spared her !" 
 
 " I daresay, but 1 suspect the old lady would rather do 
 business with me. Anyway, she saw me pretty quick. 
 Lord, what a taking she was in — shaking like an aspen ! 
 She is just fifteen years older than when I last saw her. 
 She's dying by inches, of fright. She soon let out that her 
 son had confessed his crime, and that she was ready to pay 
 me any amount if she could. only ensure my silence. But I 
 am a man of principle, Mr. Standish, always was ; so I 
 kept down the figure, and told her that two thousand was 
 heavy enough to sink the business deep down out of sight 
 for ever. She was quite amenable to reason, not to say in 
 a hurry to draw me a cheque, and wished to add a trifle 
 for travelling expenses. However I directed her how the 
 matter was to be done; not all iu a lump to create suspi- 
 
BLINB PATE. 
 
 2^0 
 
 ktl 
 
 cion. That's neither here nor there — ai^ way, I have bag- 
 ged the cash. Fortunately I got the matter settled before 
 the news of the Coloners death reached her." Dillon 
 paused, but Stand ish did not apeak. Had he op^ied his 
 lips he felt sure his words would not have been compii- 
 mentary. After waiting with expectant eyes, Dillon re- 
 sumed once more. 
 
 " I thought it right to tell you this, and as I am just 
 going to start for Australia on a curious lay to let you 
 know that all's square. I needn't tell you, as I am a man 
 of honor, that you may make your minds easy, the family 
 secret is safe with me." 
 
 " Unless," replied Standish, yielding to an irresistible 
 impulse, *' some one offers you three thousand for it." 
 
 Dillon smiled, not an amiable smile '' No, Mr. Standish, 
 my character for secrecy and reliability is worth more 
 than that!" He rose and so did Standish. '^ Now, I've 
 finished with you, and so I'll bid you good-bye ; but I'll 
 not be so uncivil as to put you to the necessity of refusing 
 my hand ; though its a curious contradiction that you dis- 
 dain the man whose work is so necessary to you in your 
 straits." 
 
 " It would be less a problem to you, Mr. Dillon, if you 
 cared to remember that there are more methods than one of 
 doing the work ; a grain or two of more disinterestedness 
 alters the aspect of things wonderfully." 
 
 ^' Faith, may be so. Good morning, sir, and if ever an 
 
 enemy wants yon for any little delinquency, pray Ood he 
 
 may not put me on your track ! With a defiant nod Dillon 
 
 leftthe room, and by an instinctive action, Standish threw 
 
 . open the window as if to breathe purer air. 
 
 4c * * * ♦ 4r • 
 
 " The day drags on, though storms keep out the sun," 
 and spring was now far enough advanced to make Standish 
 think it was time that Henrietta Oakley took Dorothy to 
 Switzerland or North Italy. She had been full of the 
 scheme at first, but for the last week or two seemed dis- 
 posed to postpone their departure, till Standish determined 
 to go and settle the date at which they should start for 
 Brussels, a town Dorothy wished to visit. 
 
 It was a fine, bright Saturday in mid-April, when 
 Standish drove up to the well known house in Prince's 
 Place. 
 
266 
 
 BUND FATE. 
 
 " Miss Oakley was not at home," said the mournful Col- 
 lins, " butMihs VVyun is in the drawinj/ room." 
 
 The room looked delitjhtf ully home-like ; the bright sun- 
 shine tempered by outside blinds, the atmosphere rendolent 
 of violets. Dorothy was at the piano when Standish came 
 in, and rose with a quiet smile to shake hands with him. 
 She looked less delicately pale than formerly ; there was a 
 pale, shell-like pinky tinge in her cheeks, but her great, 
 dark-grey eyes were more pathetic than ever. 
 
 " I am glad to see you at the piano once more,Dorothy," 
 said Standish. *♦ You are a good girl to try and get over 
 your morbid feelings." 
 
 " Yes, I must conquer my dread of hearing music," she 
 said, with a slight sigh, " though I don't like to think it 
 is morbid. But if I do not resist, it will take too strong a 
 hold on me. it will not do to be melancholy with those 
 poor dear children. 
 
 *' No, certainly not. You are looking better mj dear 
 ward," still holding her hand. 
 
 " I am gaining strength," she returned, gently withdraw- 
 ing it. ' This is the occupation that cheers and soothes 
 me most. I must have the soul of a seamstress," and open- 
 ing a work-basket, she drew out a little white embroidered 
 frock, half made. " This is for Dolly. I am taking lessons 
 from dear old Nurse, who is a past mistress of needlework." 
 She displayed it with a smile, then seated herself on a low 
 basket-chair, and began to ply the needl& 
 
 Standish leaned on the end of the sofa, and looked at her 
 with tender regret for the young days which sorrow had 
 so deeuly shaded. 
 
 " It is time you were away in some sunny new place. 
 Where is Henrietta ? 1 am determined to put matters en 
 train to-day, and we can do nothing decided without 
 her." 
 
 " I am afraid you will not see Henrietta to-day, nor to- 
 morrow either ; she has just gone down to stay with Lady 
 Kilruddery t Twickenham, till Monday." 
 
 ''Lady Kilruddery? I did not know she was a friend 
 of Henrietta's !" 
 
 " She is going to be more than a friend," said Dorothy, 
 with a gleam of her former fun in her eyes. 
 
 *■ ' She told me a wonderful tale this morning. She has 
 Accepted Major St. John. 
 
 Is it pussibl 
 
 o ?" cr 
 
 d Stiinil. 
 
 h. 
 
BLIND FATK 
 
 d61 
 
 »> 
 
 to- 
 
 idy 
 
 3nd 
 
 
 " Yes; that was whai, i said, ati'l you know Henrietta's 
 frank, out-spoken way. ' I i^ally ihinU it is the best thiii^ 
 J can do,' she said. ' He is nice lookiuj^, and quite fond of 
 me. Then, his eldest brother, the invalid, you know, died 
 about six weeks ago, so Major St. John will be Lord Kil- 
 ruddery ; indeed, he said he would not have had the face to 
 ask mu but for this. It sounds horrid,' she added, ' but 
 there is really no harm in it.' So she has gone down to 
 stay with her future mother-in-law. She says she is get- 
 ting sick of living by herself, and as eyery thing has been 
 miserable of late, she wants a fresh interest ; then she is 
 told that Irishmen make rather pleasant husbands, and 
 she will take care he does not squander her money." 
 
 " This is, indeed, a piece of news! I hope she will be 
 happy; she is a good soul, though a little ilighty,'' said 
 Standish, 
 
 '• Yes; very good. How kind she has been to me! 1 
 like htr so much that 1 am in a way vexed and disajipoint- 
 ed that she should treat such an awful serious affair as 
 marriage so lightly and carelessly. Just think of being 
 tied for life to Major St John !" 
 
 " There are worse fellows. He will let Henrietta do as 
 she likes, and I think he admires her." 
 
 "Ah. well!" Dorothy slightly shrugged her shoulders, 
 and put her head on one side with an air of disapproba- 
 tion. 
 
 " 1 should like to know more of your ideas on this im- 
 portant subject, Dorothy," said Standish smiling. "You 
 have withdrawn youi confidence Irom me of late." 
 
 " Oh, no," carelessly. ' Whenever i fall desperately in 
 love, I shall come and teii you, of course." 
 
 Standish did not reply, and Dorothy looked up. 
 
 " Why Paul, how ill and worn \ ou look I" she exclaim- 
 ed in q.iite a different tone. " Are ^, ou ill V" 
 
 " Physically, 1 am quite well ; mt-ntally, ill at ease," in; 
 returned, and, walking to the lire\Jaoe, he stood leaning 
 against the side of the iiiauteli).'eG«. 
 
 " I've got promoviou at last, Dorothy. 1 am to be Secre- 
 tary of Legation at C ." 
 
 'i At C y And how long are you to stay there?" 
 
 " That I am not sure— three years, at least." 
 
 Dorothy did not speak. She began to fold up her work 
 with unsteady hands, and grew very whitt-, even to her 
 lips. 
 
268 
 
 liLlNL FATE. 
 
 I 
 
 " Three years, Paul V 
 
 That is a lifetime. Henrietta 
 What — what is to become of 
 
 married wid you away! 
 
 me?* 
 
 " We must arrange something for you, Dorothy," he 
 said in an odd, absent manner. ^' I shali not go for a month 
 or six weeks." He paused ; Dorothy rose, and went to the 
 window, as if to escape his eyes. 
 
 " Though you will not co*iiide in me, Dorothy," he re- 
 sumed in a low, earnest tone, " do you care to hear a con- 
 fession of — well, 1 fear I must call it weakness — from 
 me?" 
 
 '' Of course I do," she s&id, while an awful thought 
 dashed across her. " Is he going to say he is in love with 
 Henrietta? She belie /ed he was." 
 
 '* To you I dare say it will seem folly in a man who has 
 left youth behind him," continued Standish, grasping the 
 top of a chair near him with a nervous grip, " but I have 
 fallen, no, rather grown into love, deeper and more intense, 
 perhaps, than many a younger fellow could feel, with a 
 girl almost young enough to be my daughter. I don't know 
 that everyone would think her a beauty; to me no otlier face 
 or form was ever so — so fascinating. To sit and watch 
 the endless change* of the one, the grace of the other, is 
 happiness *^o me. She has her faults ; she is a little hasty, 
 a little self-willed ; but so true, so generous, so unseltish, 
 so kind to me, whom she has known all her life. I see her 
 sweet, sad eyes brighten when 1 come near, but dare I hope 
 it is anything beyond the almost filial affection which 
 might be her natural feeliug for me, .hat speaks in them? 
 Shall I ask her to be my wife ? Is it not possibl(3 that for 
 kindness, gratitude, pity's sake, she might say Y-js, when 
 nature might dictate No? Can I trust her to be true to 
 herself as well as to me ?" 
 
 " Let me confess, too, before I answer," returned Doro- 
 thy, clasping and twisting her lingers nervously, while her 
 heart beat so fast it stin»;ed the folds of her black dress. 
 " I, too, ha\e been foolis'n, for I have let myself fall in love 
 with a man older, wiser, better -oh, a thousand times bet- 
 ter — than myself, and I have been very unhappy, because 
 I am ashamed of loving one who could only think of me as 
 a half. formed, incomplete creature, to whom, however good 
 he might be, I could only be an object of charity in the way 
 
 of affection or regi»,rd. To know he loved me -" Breath 
 
 and utterance failed tier. 
 
'ietta 
 ^e of 
 
 " he 
 lonth 
 )0 the 
 
 he re- 
 ap con- 
 -from 
 
 ought 
 > with 
 
 lo has 
 
 Qg the 
 I have 
 itense, 
 ivlth a 
 : know 
 ler face 
 watch 
 her, Is 
 hasty, 
 seltish, 
 see her 
 I hope 
 which 
 them? 
 hat for 
 when 
 true to 
 
 Doro- 
 
 lile her 
 dress, 
 lin love 
 les bet- 
 |)ecause 
 me as 
 )r good 
 le way 
 iBieath 
 
 BLIND FATK 
 
 263 
 
 '* And his name?" cried Standish, imperiously seizing 
 her cold, trembling hands. 
 
 " Is Paul," whispered Dorothy, as she gave her soft 
 mouth to his and leant unresistingly against his breast, 
 locked in a tender, loving embraco. 
 
 It is well that in this brief, troubled life of ours, mo- 
 ments of pure and unalloyed delight are given once or 
 twice in its chequred course. They may be but short, yet 
 they remain a blessed memory, in heart and mind, like a 
 strain of heavenly music. 
 
 •* Lonia:, long be our hearts with suoh memories fll'od. 
 Like a vase in which roses have once been distilled, 
 
 You mav break— you may ruin the vase if you will, 
 But the scent of the rosea will cling round it stilL" 
 
 After a delightful interval spent in a rather disconnect- 
 ed and interjectional review of past experiences, doubts, 
 fears, and mistakes, the lovers came partly down to earth, 
 The influence of their old free happy companionship en- 
 abled them to speak with complete frankness. 
 
 To think of being always with you, never to be alonu 
 and adrift any more ! It is wonderful !*' murmured Do- 
 rothy. 
 
 " Wonderful and heavenly, Dorothy ! Then, my darling, 
 you will come with me at once ? In this deep mourning;- 
 our wedding needs no parade, no preparation, and we know 
 each other so well." 
 
 " Yes ; that is best of all. I will do whatever you think 
 best. But Paul, dear Paul — what about the poor dear 
 children ? I must not part with them." 
 
 ' ' Why should you ? We will take them with us. C 
 
 may be very cold, but the climate is dry and healthy. 
 We will take all possible care of them, and they will de- 
 velop into energetic, vigorous young Scandinavians." 
 
 •' Ah, h .d our dear IVLabel and Herbert lived ! How glad 
 they would have been to see us united. 11 that cruel, dread 
 — Randal Egerton " 
 
 " Hush, dear Dorothy; do not think of him to-day. Put 
 him out of J onr mind altogethe^^/ There is a Judge who 
 knows the measure of his guilt, and can mete out punish' 
 mentmore just, more subtle, than any wo couid devise." 
 
 [THE END.] 
 
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