Dacres paused here, rubbed his hand violently over his hair at the place where the scar was, and then, frowning heavily, resumed: and so she was as cool as when I saw her last, and, what is more, just as young and beautiful." "The devil!" cried Hawbury. Dacres poured out another glass of ale and drank it. His hand trembled slightly as he put down the glass, and he sat for some time in thought before he went on. "Well, Lady Dalrymple introduced us. It was Mrs. Willoughby!" "By Jove!" cried Hawbury. "I saw you were coming to that." "Well, this afternoon I called again. They were at home. On entering I found three ladies there. One was Lady Dalrymple, and the others were Minnie and her friend Ethel-either her friend or her sister. I think she's her sister. Well, I sat for about five minutes, and was just beginning to feel the full sense of my happiness, when the door opened and another lady entered. Hawbury"-and Dacres's tones "Well, you know, the whole thing was so deepened into an awful solemnity-" Hawbury, sudden, so unexpected, and so perfectly overit was the lady that I saw in the carriage yes-whelming, that I stood transfixed. I said noterday. One look at her was enough. I was thing. I believe I bowed, and then somehow assured then that my impressions yesterday were not dreams, but the damnable and abhorrent truth!" or other, I really don't know how, I got away, and, mounting my horse, rode off like a madman. Then I came home, and here you see me.' There was a silence now for some time. "Are you sure that it was your wife?" "Of course I am. How could I be mis taken ?" "Are you sure the name was Willoughby? "Perfectly sure." "And that is the name your wife took?" years; but I must say I never expected to see "Was there not any change in her at all?" "Not so much as I would have supposed; certainly not so much as there is in me. But then I've been knocking about all over the world, and she's been living a life of peace and calm, with the sweet consciousness of having triumphed over a hated husband, and possess-hers-her own property, for she made it! ing a handsome competency. Now she mingles in the best society. She associates with lords and ladies. She enjoys life in England while I am an exile. No doubt she passes for a fine young widow. No doubt, too, she has lots of admirers. They aspire to her hand. They write poetry to her. They make love to her. Confound her!" Dacres's voice grew more and more agitated and excited as he spoke, and at length his tirade against his wife ended in something that was almost a roar. Hawbury said nothing, but listened, with his face full of sympathy. At last his pent-up feeling found expression in his favorite exclamation, "By Jove!" That was the woman that kicked me, that struck at me, that caused the destruction of my ancestral house, that drove me to exile, and that now drives me back from my love. But, by Heaven! it'll take more than her to do it; and I'll show her again, as I showed her once before, that Scone Dacres is her master. And, by Jove! she'll find that it 'll take more than herself to keep me away from Minnie Fay." "See here, old boy," said Hawbury, "you may as well throw up the sponge." "I won't," said Dacres, gruffly. "You see it isn't your wife that you have to consider, but the girl; and do you think the girl or her friends would have a married man paying his attentions in that quarter? Would you have the face to do it under your own wife's eye? By Jove!" The undeniable truth of this assertion was felt by Dacres even in his rage. But the very fact that it was unanswerable, and that he was helpless, only served to deepen and intensify his rage. Yet he said nothing; it was only in his face and manner that his rage was manifested. He appeared almost to suffocate under the rush of fierce, contending passions; big distended veins swelled out in his forehead, which was also drawn far down in a gloomy frown; his breath came thick and fast, and his hands were clenched tight together. Hawbury watched him in silence as before, feeling all the time the impossibility of saying any thing that could be of any use whatever. "Wouldn't I be justified in wringing her neck?" asked Dacres, after a pause. "And what's worse," he continued, without waiting for an answer to his question-"what's worse, her presence here in this unexpected way has given me, me, mind you, a sense of guilt, while she is, of course, immaculate. I, mind you— I, the injured husband, with the scar on my head from a wound made by her hand, and all the ghosts of my ancestors howling curses over me at night for my desolated and ruined home-I am to be conscience-stricken in her presence, as if I were a felon, while she, the really guilty one-the blight and bitter destruction of my life-she is to appear before me now as injured, and must make her appearance here, standing by the side of that sweet child-angel, and warning me away. Confound it all, man! Do you mean to say that such a thing is to being a long breath, in which he seemed to throw borne ?" Dacres was now quite frantic; so Hawbury, with a sigh of perplexity, lighted a fresh cigar, and thus took refuge from the helplessness of his position. It was clearly a state of things in which advice was utterly useless, and consolation impossible. What could he advise, or what consolation could he offer? The childangel was now out of his friend's reach, and the worst fears of the lover were more than realized. "I told you I was afraid of this," continued Dacres. "I had a suspicion that she was alive, and I firmly believe she'll outlive me forty "Well, old fellow," said Dacres at last, giv off some of his excitement, "you're right, of course, and I am helpless. There's no chance for me. Paying attentions is out of the question, and the only thing for me to do is to give up the whole thing. But that isn't to be done at once. It's been long since I've seen any one for whom I felt any tenderness, and this little thing, I know, is fond of me. I can't quit her at once. I must stay on for a time, at least, and have occasional glimpses at her. It gives me a fresh sense of almost heavenly sweetness to look at her fair young face. Besides, I feel that I am far more to her than any other man. No other man has stood to her in | when I meet her, and have a few additionthe relation in which I have stood. Recollect al recollections to turn over in my thoughts after I have left her forever. seems odd." how I saved her from death. That is no light thing. She must feel toward me as she has never felt to any other. She is not one who can forget how I snatched her from a fearful death, and brought her back to life. Every time she looks at me she seems to convey all that to me in her glance." "Oh, well, my dear fellow, really now," said Hawbury, "just think. You can't do any thing." "But I don't want to do any thing." "It never can end in any thing, you know." "But I don't want it to end in any thing." "You'll only bother her by entangling her affections." "But I don't want to entangle her affections." Perhaps this "I know all about that; but, old boy, it's only for a few weeks I ask it, and for my sake, "Then what the mischief do you want to as a particular favor. I put it in that light." do?" "Why, very little. I'll start off soon for the uttermost ends of the earth, but I wish to stay a little longer and see her sweet face. It's not much, is it? It won't compromise her, will it? She need not run any risk, need she? And I'm a man of honor, am I not? You don't suppose me to be capable of any baseness, do you?” "My dear fellow, how absurd! Of course not. Only I was afraid by giving way to this you might drift on into a worse state of mind. She's all safe, I fancy, surrounded as she is by so many guardians. It is you that I'm anxious about." "Don't be alarmed, old chap, about me. I feel calmer already. I can face my situation firmly, and prepare for the worst. While I have been sitting here I have thought out the future. I will stay here four or five weeks. I will only seek solace for myself by riding about where I may meet her. I do not intend to go to the house at all. My demon of a wife may have the whole house to herself. I won't even give her the pleasure of supposing that she has thwarted me. She shall never even suspect the state of my heart. That would be bliss indeed to one like her, for then she would find herself able to put me on the rack. No, my boy; I've thought it all over. Scone Dacres is himself again. No more nonsense now. Do you understand now what I mean?" "Yes," said Hawbury, slowly, and in his worst drawl; "but ah, really, don't you think it's all nonsense?" "What?" "Oh, well, really, dear boy, if you put it in that light, you know, of course, that I'll do any thing, even if it comes to letting myself be bored to death." "Just a visit a day or so." "A visit a day!" Hawbury looked aghast. "It isn't much to ask, you know," continued Dacres. "You see my reason is this: I can't go there myself, as you see, but I hunger to hear about her. I should like to hear how she looks, and what she says, and whether she thinks of me." “Oh, come now! look here, my dear fellow, you're putting it a little too strong. You don't expect me to go there and talk to her about you, you know. Why, man alive, that's quite out of my way. I'm not much of a talker at any time; and besides, you know, there's something distasteful in acting as-as- By Jove! I don't know what to call it." 'My dear boy, you don't understand me. Do you think I'm a sneak? Do you suppose I'd ask you to act as a go-between? Nonsense! I merely ask you to go as a cursory visitor. I don't want you to breathe my name, or even think of me while you are there." "But suppose I make myself too agreeable to the young lady. By Jove! she might think I was paying her attentions, you know." "Oh no, no! believe me, you don't know her. She's too earnest; she has too much soul to shift and change. Oh no! I feel that she is mine, and that the image of my own miserable self is indelibly impressed upon her heart. Oh no! you don't know her. If you had heard her thrilling expressions of gratitude, if you had "Why, this ducking and diving about to get seen the beseeching and pleading looks which a glimpse of her face." she gave me, you would know that she is one of those natures who love once, and once only." "Oh, by Jove, now! Come! If that's the state of the case, why, I'll go." "Thanks, old boy." "To talk about the weather, and that rot." "Yes." "IT'S HE!' SHE MURMURED." "Great bore, old fellow," said he; "but I did it. The old lady is an old acquaintance, you know. I'm going there to-morrow again. presence in Naples, and had come to call on Didn't see any thing to-day of the child-angel. But it's no end of a bore, you know." CHAPTER XI. FALSE AND FORGETFUL. THE day when Lord Hawbury called on Lady Dalrymple was a very eventful one in his life, and had it not been for a slight peculiarity of his, the immediate result of that visit would have been of a highly important character. This slight peculiarity consisted in the fact that he was short-sighted, and, therefore, on a very critical occasion turned away from that which would have been his greatest joy, although it was full before his gaze. It happened in this wise: On the day when Hawbury called, Ethel happened to be sitting by the window, and saw him as he rode up. Now the last time that she had seen him he had a very different appearance-all his hair being burned off, from head and cheeks and chin; and the whiskers which he had when she first met him had been of a different cut from the present appendages. In spite of this she recognized him almost in a moment; and her heart beat fast, and her color came and went, and her hands clutched the window ledge convulsively. "It's he!" she murmured. Of course there was only one idea in her mind, and that was that he had heard of her her. She sat there without motion, with her head eagerly bent forward, and her eyes fixed upon him. He looked up carelessly as he came along, and with his chin in the air, in a fashion peculiar to him, which, by-the-way, gave a quite unintentional superciliousness to his expression. For an instant his eyes rested upon her, then they moved away, without the slightest recognition, and wandered elsewhere. Ethel's heart seemed turned to stone. He had seen her. He had not noticed her. He had fixed his eyes on her and then looked away. Bitter, indeed, was all this to her. To think that after so long a period of waiting-after such hope and watching as hers had beenthat this should be the end. She turned away from the window, with a choking sensation in her throat. No one was in the room. She was alone with her thoughts and her tears. Suddenly her mood changed. A thought came to her which dispelled her gloom. The glance that he had given was too hasty; perhaps he really had not fairly looked at her. No doubt he had come for her, and she would shortly be summoned down. And now this prospect brought new hope. Light returned to her eyes, and joy to her heart. Yes, she would be summoned. She must prepare herself to encounter his eager gaze. Quickly she stepped to the mirror, hastily she arranged those little details in which consists the charm of a lady's dress, and severely she scrutinized the face and figure re First, of course, the art of novel-writing. Second, the art of writing editorials. Third, the art of writing paragraphs. After these come all the arts of oratory, letter-writing, essay-writing, and all that sort of thing, among which there is one to which I wish particularly to call attention, and this is: The art of small-talk. Now this art Hawbury had to an extraordinary degree of perfection. He knew how to beat out the faintest shred of an idea into an illimitable surface of small-talk. He never took refuge in the weather. He left that to flected there. The scrutiny was a satisfactory one. Face and figure were perfect; nor was there in the world any thing more graceful and more lovely than the image there, though the one who looked upon it was far too self-distrustful to entertain any such idea as that. Then she seated herself and waited. The time moved slowly, indeed, as she waited there. After a few minutes she found it impossible to sit any longer. She walked to the door, held it open, and listened. She heard his voice below quite plainly. They had two suits of rooms in the house-the bedrooms up stairs and reception-rooms below. Here Lord Haw-bunglers and beginners. His resources were of bury was, now, within hearing of Ethel. Well a different character, and were so skillfully manshe knew that voice. She listened and frowned. aged that he never failed to leave a very agreeThe tone was too flippant. He talked like a able impression. Small-talk! Why, I've been man without a care-like a butterfly of society in situations sometimes where I would have giv-and that was a class which she scorned. en the power of writing like Dickens (if I had Here he was, keeping her waiting. Here he it) for perfection in this last art. was, keeping up a hateful clatter of small-talk, But this careless, easy, limpid, smooth, natwhile her heart was aching with suspense. ural, pleasant, and agreeable flow of chat was Ethel stood there listening. Minute succeed-nothing but gall and wormwood to the listener ed to minute. There was no request for her. How strong was the contrast between the cool indifference of the man below, and the feverish impatience of that listener above! A wild impulse came to her to go down, under the pretense of looking for something; then another to go down and out for a walk, so that he might see her. But in either case pride held her back. How could she? Had he not already seen her? Must he not know perfectly well that she was there? No; if he did not call for her she could not go. She could not make advances. Minute succeeded to minute, and Ethel stood burning with impatience, racked with suspense, a prey to the bitterest feelings. Still no message. Why did he delay? Her heart ached now worse than ever, the choking feeling in her throat returned, and her eyes grew moist. She steadied herself by holding to the door. Her fingers grew white at the tightness of her grasp; eyes and ears were strained in their intent watchfulness over the room below. Of course the caller below was in a perfect state of ignorance about all this. He had not the remotest idea of that one who now stood so near. He came as a martyr. He came to make a call. It was a thing he detested. It bored him. To a man like him the one thing to be avoided on earth was a bore. To be bored was to his mind the uttermost depth of misfortune. This he had voluntarily accepted. He was being bored, and bored to death. above. She ought to be there. Why was she so slighted? Could it be possible that he would go away without seeing her? She was soon to know. She heard him rise. She heard him saunter to the door. "Thanks, yes. Ha, ha, you're too kindreally-yes-very happy, you know. To-morrow, is it? Good-morning," And with these words he went out. With pale face and staring eyes Ethel darted back to the window. He did not see her. His back was turned. He mounted his horse and gayly cantered away. For full five minutes Ethel stood, crouched in the shadow of the window, staring after him, with her dark eyes burning and glowing in the intensity of their gaze. Then she turned away with a bewildered look. Then she locked the door. Then she flung herself upon the sofa, buried her head in her hands, and burst into a convulsive passion of tears. Miserable, indeed, were the thoughts that came now to that poor stricken girl as she lay there prostrate. She had waited long, and hoped fondly, and all her waiting and all her hope had been for this. It was for this that she had been praying-for this that she had so fondly cherished his memory. He had come at last, and he had gone; but for her he had certainly shown nothing save an indifference as profound as it was inexplicable. Ethel's excuse for not appearing at the dinnerCertainly no man ever accepted a calamity | table was a severe headache. Her friends inmore gracefully than Hawbury. He was charm-sisted on seeing her and ministering to her sufing, affable, easy, chatty. Of course he was ferings. Among other things, they tried to cheer known to Lady Dalrymple. The Dowager could her by telling her of Hawbury. Lady Dalrymmake herself as agreeable as any lady living, ex-ple was full of him. She told all about his famcept young and beautiful ones. The conversa-ily, his income, his habits, and his mode of life. tion, therefore, was easy and flowing. Hawbury excelled in this. Now there are several variations in the great art of expression, and each of these is a minor art by itself. Among these may be enumerated: She mentioned, with much satisfaction, that he had made inquiries after Minnie, and that she had promised to introduce him to her the next time he called. Upon which he had laughingly insisted on calling the next day. All of |