me mad. Not yet, at least. The fact is I must leave your hospitable roof, and that forth- with, You remember a talk we had ono night, a fortnight back, about—-you know whom I mean. I was not frank with you then, Eves- ham. I saw the danger every whit as clear aa you did, but I chose to walk into it, More- over, I was a hypocrite in offering to go. I knew all the time that, when E put the case to you as I did, yon would no more let me leave your house than you would have picked my pocket. The thing has gone on as those things always do. I told you there would be no question of love-making between me and Frank Newton’s wife. Well, there has been. I have broken my word.”
It was now my turn to speak. I, too, had my confession to make, and I told Norman what I had seen and heard at Ashwick, and in the park. His brow clouded as I spoke, but
"Well, Charlie,” said he, "I know perfectly well that you did what you thought best, and perhaps it was. You have saved me from telling a long story, and, any way, there is this comfort, you know the worst. By Jove, sir,” he went on fiercely, “I love that child madly, now,—better than I loved her before—better than I have ever loved any woman. I believe in my soul that if I said to her ‘come,’ she would come—she could not help herself: but I know also that it would kill her. I know I should be a villain both to you and to poor Newton ; but yet, on my solemn word of honour, I am only just able sot to be that villain. For the last ten years of my life, I have never denied myself anything I greatly cared to have, and now flesh and blood are furious at the curb, I am really afraid of myself. You know what I am, and can fancy what this is to me.”
I could, and I still feared the result. It was impossible to say anything in the way of consolation, even had he been the man to care for it.
"You are right,” said I, “you must go, for your own sake, no less than for hers. Tell me what I can do for you. When do you go, and where?”
"I go at once,” he answered, "I dare not risk seeing so much as the hem of her dress again.
discretion——and—swe her—yourself—alone, | 1 gave some tritling message which Jane had | sud toll her Tam youe, Sho will know why. | charged me with, then walked to the window
Now I am going to have a bath, and dress. Will you have some conveyance to take me | to the station? Don’t come yourself; Lhad | rather you did not, really. I shall be ready — in twenty minutes.”
He left me. I rose, dressed myself hastily, gave the necessary orders, and went down te see hitn off, ‘The dog-cart stood at the door, and in a few mmutes Norman appeared. ‘Let mo hear from yeu soon,” said 1
- You shall,” he answered, “but not just |
yet, Now, Evesham, remember what I want | you to do, and good-by. It is a bad bnsi- © ness ; but I suppose, from first to last, I have brought it on myself, and I must ‘dree my | own weird.’ ”
“I can't hear you to go like this,” said I; “but it must be.”
Once more we shook hands, and he was gone.
My morning meditations were anything but
pleasant as I paced up and down the garden,
waiting till I thought Sir Ralph would probably be rising, I had made up my mind
what course to take with him.
“‘Uncle,” said I, as I entered hia dressing- || room, ‘‘ Norman has left us suddenly this morning, Ihave just scen him off. I know | the season, but would rather you did not | ask me.” :
My uncle fixed his keen grey eyes, wn- dimmed by years, upon me. “ He has gone alone, Charlie,” he asked.
"Alone,” I replied,
- ‘T am very sorry te lose him,” said my |
uncle, with a sigh; ‘but TI fear it was time. | I used to know something of such matters, Charlic, and I suspected i, However, we — will not talk of this, and will try to forgot all.” a
It was no difficult matter to frame an excuse for Norman’s departure which should satisfy my unsuspecting cousin. She was of course full of regret, the more so when she heard that there was no Vikelihcod of his’ roturning for a wholly indefinite period, inne- ceutly adding, ‘*She was sure the Newtons | would be so sorry.” I was anxious to get the painful part of ny commission executed, so in | | the course of the morning I walked down to | ‘the Rectory, choosing a time | Ishall go without stopping to Trieste, | cortain Newton would nat be a mn || and thence to Kgypt. I niust try what in- | Newton was sitting listlessly with || cemant movement will do for me, You can | her hands, which she manifestly was not read- | do this, if you will—make my adiewx to your | ing, Tho colour came to hor cheek as I |
uncle and cousin, and explain my audden de- | entered: she rose, and looked eagerly to the
| partury ax you think best. 1 leave it to your | door, plainly expecting to see some one el |