Having thus clearly explained her sentiments, Leonarda sailed majestically out of the room, and Don Luis stood dumfoundered. In his case, perhaps, the sudden revulsion of feeling had not been quite so painful as in the case of Don Juan, but still it was bad enough to produce a mental fog, that lasted for some minutes. The mist was dispersed by a sudden resolution. Don Luis resolved to set off at once for Madrid, and to see Don Juan there.

Consequently, when we learn that Don Juan and his valet, resting outside an inn on the high road from Toledo to Madrid, heard the tramp of a horse at full speed, we need have no doubt that the rider was Don Luis. On dismounting from his horse, that gentleman affected a tone of strong indignation, declaring that it was unpardonable ingratitude in Don Juan to leave Toledo, without so much as bidding him farewell. The Andalusian pleading that his flight was sufficiently justified by its nature, Don Luis haughtily replied that it was a presumption on the part of any man in Spain to fancy that he could be more magnanimous than a Ribera. a Ribera. A friend who had not the highest opinion of his friend's generosity, was unworthy that name. Deeply annoyed as he had been, Don Luis insisted that Don Juan should return with him as a prisoner. In the midst of his confusion Don Juan implicitly obeyed the command. Whether he thought that Don Luis derived some sort of official authority from his father, the corregidor, whether he merely succumbed to the weight of his discourse, or whether he slightly suspected that his friend did not precisely mean what he said, history does not record. The probability is that just at that moment he had no clear view on any subject whatever.

All will guess what happened when Don Luis returned to Toledo with his captive, and brought him back to the house which he had so abruptly quitted. Still pursuing his tone of indignation, he declared in the presence of Don Fernando and Leonarda that he looked upon Don Juan as a very ungrateful man, who had behaved badly to his three best friends. Not only had he (Don Luis) been wronged in the manner

violation of the laws of hospitality, and insulted Leonarda by repaying her love with a hasty flight. The unanimous verdict was that he should be punished with imprisonment for life, in other words, that he should be bound by the chains of wedlock to the peerless Leonarda.

People long talked of the splendid wedding that united the noble houses of Aguilar and Saavedra. And that nothing might be wanting to complete the happiness of Don Juan, it turned out that Don Pedro, who was killed at the beginning of this story, was the very person whose deed caused him to take his eventful trip to Toledo.

CASTAWAY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "BLACK SHEEP," "WRECKED IN PORT," &c. &c

BOOK III.

CHAPTER VII. MADGE'S CONFESSION. THE news which had been conveyed to her in her sister's letter had a great effect on Madge Pierrepoint. It placed the relation of Rose and Gerald entirely in a dif ferent view before her. When the young man, renewing the boy-and-girl acquaintance which had existed between them at Wexeter, had merely been in the habit of paying her sister pretty compliments, and of meeting her now and then in her walks, Madge, quite confident in Rose's strength of mind and knowledge of what was right and proper, was content to let matters be as they were. She re remembered Gerald's impulsive manner and the homage which he was naturally inclined to pay to any pretty girl, and she thought this was merely a flirtation, softened it might be by the recollection of what had passed in those days which seemed now so long away. She had no desire to play the elder sister's part, to warn her of the danger of the course she was pursuing; she knew right well that Rose was perfectly able to take care of herself, and that Gerald was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of any impression which he might make, and she thought that the whole affair would die out as so many hundreds of similar affairs die out daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly, without any permanent harm being done to the persons interested in them.

But when she found that she had been mistaken in her idea, and that the young

man had become so fond of her sister as to make her an offer of marriage, and to renew that offer, and insist upon its fulfilment at a time when his worldly prospects were cloudy, and his fortune anything but assuring, Madge deemed it necessary to throw herself into the breach and to help the young people with all the resources at her command. To say that she did this without a certain amount of struggle and irresolution, without much painful reflection and many tears, would be to say that Madge was not womanly human, and she was very womanly human indeed. As a girl raw and unsophisticated, she had been fascinated by the sham glitter and tawdry sentiment of Philip Vane, but as a woman of the world, young, indeed, but experienced, she had for the first time received that which no woman can ever forget, the undisguised selfless devotion of a fresh young heart which throbs responsive but to one touch, which pulsates but to the dictates of one idol. Gerald Hardinge's was the heart, and she was the idol, in those days now so long ago! And she had abdicated voluntarily, or as it seemed to him voluntarily, and he had taught his heart another allegiance—and it was all for the best!

The circumstances stated in the letter from Rose had placed matters in an entirely new light. It was no longer a question of lovers' meetings and tender episodes in Kensington Gardens; Gerald was determined to push his way through the world, taking Rose with him as his companion and his safeguard; that seemed to be his one hold on life. And Rose, though she did not say so positively, was evidently prepared to share his fate, being only desirous that before their start in life was made, a reconciliation should be effected between Gerald and his father. That was left for her to do," and you can do this, Madge, and I know you will. You see the importance of the task I have intrusted to you, and you will throw your whole heart into it." Madge decided that Rose should not be deceived. She would throw her whole heart into it, and she would succeed. She re-read the letter throughout, smiling somewhat sadly at the reference to the manner in which Gerald employed his leisure while at Wexeter, but laying down the paper with a full determination to do all that was asked of her.

And this determination was not arrived at without a full appreciation of the difficulties to be surmounted, the self-sacri

fices to be made. Madge knew she could not broach the subject to Sir Geoffry without representing herself in what was, at least, an unenviable light; without acknowledging her previous intimacy with Gerald Hardinge; without confessing that at the very time the young man was the topic of conversation between them, she had listened to all his father had to say, she had taken her part in the discussion as though its subject had been entirely unknown to her, and had given her suggestions from what one might imagine by her confession to be anything but a disinterested point of view. The whole story of the old life must be raked up again and submitted to the examination of a hard and austere man, who would have but little compunction or compassion for such human frailties as were concerned in it, and whose anger at finding that he had been misled, however unintentionally, would probably induce him to pursue the course exactly opposite to that which was desired. However, the experiment must and should be made.

Madge was unable to carry her proposed scheme into execution as speedily as she could have wished. The mental excitement involved in his dealings with Messrs. Delabole and Vane, and the subsequent examination of their documents and schemes, seemed to have been a little too much for him. He complained of dizziness and lassitude; his favourite occupation of worrying and dogging the gardener seemed somewht to have lost its usual charm; he became silent and preoccupied, and for a long time he seemed to shun even the society of Mrs. Pickering, omitting to pay his usual morning visit to the housekeeper's room, and to send for her to read to him in the evening. Madge for her part fell in with the drift of the general's humour, knowing that no slight was intended to herself, and thinking it better that he should be left to recover at his own time and after his own fashion. When this new state of things, however, had lasted for more than a week, without any sign of change, Madge thought it advisable to send for some physician; but on the proposition being made to Sir Geoffry, he negatived it promptly and decisively. "He was quite well, he had never been better in his life; nothing ailed him beyond a slight chill, easily got in this wretched climate at the fall of the leaf. He must beg that Mrs. Pickering would not think of summoning the services of any doctor,

who would not understand his constitution, and merely tend to make matters worse."

But though the old general could and would do without calling in a physician, he very soon found that the pleasant company of his housekeeper had become an absolute necessity to him. After about ten days' solitude, in which he nearly moped himself to death, Sir Geoffry, according to his old custom, knocked at the housekeeper's door, and on being bidden to come in, entered as usual with his formal greeting. He remained but a very little time in the room, being slightly ill at ease, and obviously afraid that Madge might make some reference to his prolonged absence; but before leaving he expressed his wish that Mrs. Pickering should favour him with her company in the evening, and that their pleasant readings might be resumed.

Accordingly, when the general had finished his dinner, Madge repaired to the library, and found Sir Geoffry ready to receive her, the newspapers, cut and folded, were in their usual place, and the book which they had last been reading lay ready to her hand. Madge took her seat and began to read aloud, but after some little time, glancing over at the general, she noticed that his attention was fixed upon the fire, and to her astonishment she noticed the traces of something like tears upon his cheek.

Madge stopped reading, and, recalled to himself by the abrupt cessation, Sir Geoffry made a hasty endeavour to recover his composure.

64

"Is there anything the matter," he said, that you stopped reading so suddenly, Mrs. Pickering ?"

"No," she replied. "I did not quite know whether it was agreeable to you.' "Most certainly," he replied. "I should not have asked you to read to me unlessAh!" he said, with an effort, "it is useless to continue this. I was inattentive to the reading; I was thinking of something very different. Tell me, Mrs. Pickering, for I know I can trust you to speak frankly to me, do I seem much changed during the last few days?"

"Frankly, then, yes, Sir Geoffry. You have been more than usually quiet, and much less than usually interested about the affairs of the house, and what has been going on around you. You have been very much preoccupied, and still are, I venture to think, a little out of health."

"I don't know that I am actually ailing

at the present moment," said the general, quietly, "but I have had a sort of presentiment that I shall not live very long."

"Sir Geoffry!" interrupted Madge, with a start.

'Oh, the mere fact of death would not alarm me. One who for so many years has carried his life in his hand is accustomed to look with tolerable calmness on death's approach; but there are one or two matters which I should like to have settled before I die, and when my attention strayed from your reading, I was thinking that I could not do better than discuss them with you."

A gleam of hope flashed through Madge's brain. Was it not possible that Sir Geoffry, of his own free will, might relieve her of the irksomeness of the task she had undertaken ?

66

"You will recollect, Mrs. Pickering," said the general, after a pause, a conversation which took place between us some short time ago about some-some family matters of mine; you will recollect my telling you of my son, of the reasons which had induced me to exile him from home, and to refuse to receive him when the other day he attempted to effect a reconciliation ?"

"I remember it all, perfectly."

"You did not approve of my behaviour in that matter from first to last ?"

"I did not agree with it," said Madge. "If I am to speak frankly to you, I will say that your first decision, when it was a question of Mrs. Heriot's conduct, was arrived at when you were much younger and more impulsive than you are now, and was the foundation of a series of errors which you have since carried out. From what I learn from you, your son has acted in a noble and a manly manner throughout, and instead of being ashamed, you ought to be proud of him!"

"I have thought so more than once within the last few days, Mrs. Pickering," said Sir Geoffry, quietly. "I do not mind making that confession.'

There was a pause for a few moments, after which Madge said:

"I, too, have a confession to make in this matter."

"You, Mrs. Pickering ?"

"I have a confession to make to you, and your pardon to ask, for a certain amount of deception which I have practised towards you." "Deception!"

Nothing more nor less. Do you know

Captain Cleethorpe told me, but I have almost forgotten. In the telegraph-office, were you not ?"

'Ay, but before that ?"

"I confess I have not an idea."
"I was

an actress in the Wexeter Theatre. In that same theatre where your son was a scene-painter."

"Good God! had he sunk so low as that? Had he dragged my name so deeply through the mire ?"

"You need not fear for your name," said Madge, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice; "he had abjured it, as he told you he should, and was known as Mr. Gerald Hardinge. And as for his position there, neither he nor those about him saw any thing to be ashamed of in it. He earned his living honestly, and by the industry

and exercise of his talent."

"Granted," said Sir Geoffry, biting his lips. "And now tell me further. Was he much in your society ?"

"We were thrown constantly together." "And with the result that might be expected, I suppose? He fell in love with you ?"

"He asked me to become his wife, but that was impossible, as at the time I was already married."

"You already married, and he did not know it ?"

"It is not unusual in the theatrical profession for ladies, although they may be married, to retain their maiden name. Such was my case; moreover, as my husband was not an actor, nor in any way connected with the company, Mr. Heriot would have no chance of knowing that I was anything but what I professed to be." "I beg your pardon," said Sir Geoffry, stiffly, "I am not acquainted with the etiquette observed amongst theatrical people."

Exactly," said Madge, "and that is why I explain it to you.'

66

So Mr. Heriot made you an offer of marriage, which you refused ?"

"No," said Madge, "I did not refuse. There are circumstances in the story which it is unnecessary that I should explain, but which made me think it better to leave the place abruptly, and to give Mr. Heriot no chance of seeing me again."

66 And you did so ?"

Pickering," said Geoffry, taking Madge's hand and bending over it; "I am certain they were right and proper ones. To think that you have known George, and that he should have asked you to marry him. Poor George! poor George!"

The tone in which he pronounced these last words was so soft and sad as to inspire Madge with fresh hope.

"There are stranger things to come yet, Sir Geoffry," she said. "George is in love with some one else now."

"How do you know that? You said you had not seen him since," said the general, quietly.

"From the best of all possible authorities-the lady herself," said Madge.

"He has not fallen in love with any more actresses, I hope," said the general. "I could overlook anything in you, Mrs. Pickering: but I confess it is not from behind the scenes of a theatre that I should wish my daughter-in-law to be selected."

"You run no risk of that, Sir Geoffry. The young lady in question is my own

sister."

66

What, the young lady whom I have heard Cleethorpe and Mr. Drage speak about, who lived for some time with you, and was so pretty and so clever ?"

"The same.

Gerald-I cannot call him anything else-took great notice of her when she was a child; gave her drawing-lessons, and was very kind to her."

"That was for her sister's sake," said the general, shortly.

"Undoubtedly; but it seems he has renewed the acquaintance in London, and cares for her entirely for herself. He has outgrown that foolish fancy of his boyhood, and settled down into a sober, serious regard."

"And does-George-propose to marry your sister ?"

"He does. In a letter which I have just had from her, she explains that his earnest wish is that they should be at once married, and emigrate to some distant country, where they can commence a new life."

"And does he mean to leave England ?”

"So I learn from Rose. Since Gerald's last interview with you, he is, she says, quite a changed man. He seems to find it impossible to get over the wrong which has been done him; the treatment which he

"I do not ask you for your reasons, Mrs.

the injustice he received at your hands in your suspicion that his story of having

discovered his mother's innocence was merely a fabrication, intended to do him good in your eyes. You bade me speak frankly, Sir Geoffry," added Madge, looking at the old general, who had fallen back into his previous attitude, and, with his head sunk on his breast and his hands spread out on his knees before him, was glancing vacantly into the fire; "you bade me speak frankly, and I have done so; I fear to your distress and annoyance."

“I have brought the distress and annoyance on myself, and must make the best of it. Pray God it has not gone too far! This self-exile that he contemplates, can it be averted ?"

"If he knew himself forgiven by you, if he only knew you acknowledged that you had misconstrued his intention in his last attempt to see you, I will answer for your being able to do what you wish with him."

"What I wish," said the general, in a low voice, "is to see him once again before I die."

"You must not speak in that manner, Sir Geoffry," said Madge, rising in her seat and bending over his chair."I must ask permission to insist on acting as I proposed some days since, on calling in a physician."

"He could do me no good," said the old man. "I have no illness, no pain, nothing save a strong conviction that my death is close at hand. And that thought would trouble me but little if I could see George again.'

"You shall see him again, and, please Heaven, live many happy years with him, in which all this troublous time shall be forgotten. But I tell you candidly I will not move in the matter, and you know you cannot move without me," she added, with a smile, "unless you let me send for proper medical advice.'

"Let it be as you wish, my dear," said the general, "only recollect what is now the one desire of my life." And he sank back in his chair and sighed wearily.

Madge had no idea that within a few days he could have become so feeble and so prostrate.

Availing herself of the permission implied in Sir Geoffry's last words, Madge sent to Doctor Chenoweth, one of the most celebrated physicians at Springside, and asked him to come up to Wheatcroft and see the general. Her selection was made, partly because Doctor Chenoweth was a member of Sir Geoffry's club, and was

already on terms of club familiarity with his intended patient; partly because the doctor had the reputation of being so much a man of the world as to believe in nature, rather more than in the pharmacopoeia, and inclined to ascribe to diseases a special cause and a special treatment, rather than to generalise verbosely and dogmatically, as was the case with most of his brethren.

Doctor Chenoweth, coming out to Wheatcroft in his trap, found the general seated in the library, moody and preoccupied, as he had been for many days before. Madge at first had an idea that it would be better if the doctor seemed to have dropped in accidentally; but on a little reflection she abandoned this notion, and receiving Doctor Chenoweth in the hall, rapidly explained the state the patient was in before he saw him. With Sir Geoffry the doctor was closeted some considerable time. Madge, sitting in her own room, with the door open, intent upon seeing him before he went, heard his words of farewell: "And you will recollect, Sir Geoffry, that, above all, I enjoin upon you the strictest quiet and freedom from all mental disturbance. I will not hear for an instant of your giving your attention to business matters, even of your mixing yourself up with your domestic affairs. You have a prime minister fully competent to deal with them, and in her hands you must leave them. Understand, I have assumed dictator's powers, and I require them to be obeyed. To a military man I know I need amplify no more."

He closed the door behind him as he spoke, and the next instant was in the passage, where he was confronted by Madge.

"In your room, my dear Mrs. Pickering," said he, answering her eager look; "let us go into your room, if you please. In matters of this sort I have learned to distrust giving any opinion, or even making a remark, in open passages. Now," he continued, when they had regained her room, and he had motioned her to be seated, “I am ready to speak freely. Sir Geoffry is in anything but a healthy condition; he has had, if I mistake not, some serious mental worry, which has had its due effect upon him. Am I correct in this supposition ?"

"You are. Sir Geoffry has recently had a great deal of anxiety, but he is anxious that it should not be referred to."

"Like all other people in the same plight. And yet, of course, he keeps on perpetually preying upon it and hugging it to himself. Now this is all very well with hypochon