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in a very low condition of mind and body. Her maid Willis, whose life was rendered a burden to her by the perpetual and always contradictory orders which she was receiving from the invalid, could have vouched for this; and so could Doctor Asprey, who was in such constant request, and had his valuable time so much intruded upon by his eccentric patient, that he was compelled to speak out frankly, and to come to an understanding with her.

"Your guineas, my dear Mrs. Entwistle," said the great physician, blandly," are as good to me as any one else's, and if I thought I earned them honestly I should not have the smallest scruple in taking them. Further, I am bound to say that were I, as I was some years ago, a struggling man, to whom fees are an object, my scruples would trouble me infinitely less than they do now. But the fact is, there is a large number of persons anxious for my advice, to whom I can be of real service, while to you I can do no possible good. Your bodily health is certainly no worse than it was previous to your last attack, no worse, that is to say, in itself. If you suffer yourself to be preyed upon by any mental disquietude, you at once put yourself ont of the range of my art. I cannot minister to a mind diseased, my dear Mrs. Entwistle, nor should I presume to suggest to you where you would most probably receive the necessary consolation." Thanks, doctor, for your reticence," said Mrs. Entwistle, with a faint smile. "A man of less savoir faire would certainly have recommended me to apply to the incumbent of the parish. However, my mental disquietude, as you term it, is not of any great moment, and I will take care not to pester you causelessly any more.'

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In declaring that the trouble which preyed upon her mind was of no great moment, Mrs. Entwistle scarcely spoke the truth. Ever since she had revealed to Gerald the history of her early days, and of the manner in which, for the sake of gratifying her own longings for vengeance, she had practised upon his father's jealousy, the aspect of life had changed to her.

Other persons would have found such a life passed on an invalid's sofa, whence, as she knew well, she would never be carried but to her grave, sufficiently blank and colourless. But from the day on which Gerald Hardinge first took up his abode with her, to that on which she saw the tear steal down his face, as he listened to the story of his mother's wrongs, the woman, whom all the

world looked upon with pity, and half her little world regarded with contempt, had enjoyed a wealth of quiet happiness, such as was granted but to few of her friends.

From the day she told her story, Gerald's manner had altered towards her. He was not less affectionate; on the contrary, whenever he was with her she could see that he strove to pay her constant attention, and to be specially loving, both in language and manner, whenever he addressed her. But the young man was changed, changed in every way, and, as Mrs. Entwistle thought, very much for the worse. The society into which she had introduced him, and in which he had taken such delight, had no longer any charm for him. Formerly his absences from home were comparatively rare, and on his return he would generally bring with him some anecdote of the company in which his time had been passed; now he was away constantly from morning till night, and, as regarded most of his actions, was silent as the grave.

There was one subject, however, on which Gerald had spoken to his aunt, and spoken frankly. That girl, whose acquaintance he had made when he was amongst those theatrical people, and whom he had met in London on her way to some low employment which she had-he had spoken about her. When he first mentioned his accident of encountering with Rose in the street, narrating at the same time how he had known her as a child, and given her drawing-lessons at Wexeter, Mrs. Entwistle gave no hint of objection to his renewal of the acquaintance, but, on the contrary, expressed a wish that Rose should be brought to call upon her, and patronised her, as we have seen. After she had received a visit from the young girl, and noticed her rare and delicate beauty, her simple self-possession, and the general air of refinement and high breeding which characterised her, more espe cially after she had marked the effect which these charms had unmistakably produced upon Gerald, it occurred to Mrs. Entwistle that certain relations might eventually arise between the young people, of which she would be supposed to be in ignorance, but which would necessarily prevent her from receiving Miss Pierrepoint in her house. Mrs. Entwistle was a woman of the world, and of that world which now-a-day is not reticent in its remarks about matters which our ancestors discreetly ignored; so she took an opportunity of mentioning what

better disposed towards the person of his choice. She felt herself in duty bound to request Gerald to bring Rose constantly to her house, by which means she herself saw far more of her nephew than she otherwise would have done. For the lovemaking between Gerald and Rose at this period of their career was by no means so offensive as such proceedings are generally supposed to be; and their meetings were usually held in Mrs. Entwistle's boudoir, where they sat by the side of the invalid's sofa. Mrs. Entwistle had bitterly opposed Gerald's plan for going down to Springside, and acquainting his father with the details of the story which she had told him, not merely because it would incense Sir Geoffry against her and place her character in a most disadvantageous light-as for that she cared nothing-but the result of the interview, whatever it might be, might have the effect of hastening Gerald's marriage. For if Sir Geoffry, believing what was told him, and repenting of his former rigorous conduct, clasped his son to his heart and reinstated him in his position, he would be too glad in the excess of his joy to agree to anything his son wished, and to accept as daughter-in-law no matter who might be proposed. While, on the other hand, should the attempt at reconciliation prove a failure, there was the chance that Gerald in his fury would instantly ally Rose's fate with his own, and forgetful of the promise which he had made to remain with his aunt until her death, would start off with his wife to seek their fortune in a new land. And although her fears had not been verified, Mrs. Entwistle was still not without alarm. She had seen how much Gerald had taken to heart the rebuff and the insult he had received. She had noticed-she could not help noticing and grieving over

she had in her mind to Gerald, and received a reply which, both in words and meaning, was stronger and sterner than anything which she had yet heard from his lips. Mrs. Entwistle shrugged her shoulders; her nephew was a purist, she supposed, and the young men of the present day, if he were to be taken as an example, were notably different from those of her time. His friendship with this young girl was, she supposed, one of those queer fancies which were part and parcel of his artistic nature. It never occurred to her for one moment that George Heriot, no longer an outcast, but, though not yet restored to his position and his name, yet well placed before the world as her adopted heir, could ever intend to offer marriage to Rose Pierrepoint, an unknown person, who earned her living by her own labour, and when Gerald announced to her that he had proposed, and been accepted by this same young person," and was only awaiting the result of his interview with his father to carry the project into execution, Mrs. Entwistle was furious. It is probable that in her rage she might have ordered her nephew to quit the house, had not Gerald in the same speech announced to her, with all expressions of gratitude for her past kindness, his intention of being solely selfreliant for the future, and of seeking his fortune in a foreign country. Then her love for the boy, which had been growing up for the last few years, increasing year by year as his manhood developed, asserted itself with fullest force, and in the bitterness of her despair at the idea of parting from him, the proud woman humbled herself to pour forth a plaint which no one could have listened to unmoved. Why should his marriage, which ought to be a joy to them both, prove a source of sorrow to her? What necessity was there for him the change in his appearance and manner, to go away? Could he not bring his wife the loss of the fire and energy which to that house, which for years he had formerly characterised his every thought looked upon as his home, where she should and movement, the dull, moody, brooding be received as a daughter, and of which state into which he had fallen, and from she should be made the mistress? Ah, which even Rose's companionship somewould he not wait by her a very, very times failed to rouse him. He had told her little time longer, until-until-and then -for in all his communications with her her voice broke, and Gerald, profoundly Gerald was consistently frank-that his touched, whispered that her wishes should one great aim in life was to be reconciled to be obeyed. his father, that he had told Rose as much, and that she had given him fresh hope. It appeared that Rose-how, or through whom, she would not say-had the means of bringing certain influence to bear upon Sir Geoffry Heriot, and this influence was to be strongly exercised in Gerald's favour.

But when this excited emotion, which lasted for a very short period with Mrs. Entwistle, had passed away, she found herself not one whit more inclined to approve of what she held to be her nephew's intention of mésalliance, not one atom

Mrs. Entwistle, being really in her heart extremely doubtful of the existence of any such power as that described by her nephew, at first endeavoured to inveigle Rose into a discussion in which a judicious series of cross-questioning might either have exposed the pretence, or elicited from her the source and means of her influence with Sir Geoffry. Finding this to be a total failure, and utterly discomfited by the quiet manner in which the girl parried all her attacks, Mrs. Entwistle was reduced to uttering small scraps of sarcastic doubt, and even of these she was compelled to be chary in her nephew's presence.

See her now, stretched out on the sofa, her head thrown back, her thin hand, still clasping the light fire-screen, fallen passively by her side. Doctor Asprey may he right; that dull, dead, white complexion, those hollow cheeks, those puckered lips, may belong to what has become her normal state, but it is a grewsome aspect nevertheless, and one suggestive of dire illness, if not of immediately impending dissolution, to the uninitiated beholder.

A light firm step in the passage outside, and hearing it the invalid at once changes her attitude, manages by an effort to prop herself into a less recumbent position, and takes up a book which she had let fall by her side on the sofa. A vain pretence this, as she recognises immediately by putting it back again, the dusk having supervened since she fell into her reverie, and there being no longer daylight sufficient to read by. Onward comes the footstep, and her brow grows more stern. Her eyes are closed when the door opens, remain closed until the incoming figure, Rose Pierrepoint, dressed in a neat hat and veil, with a long dark cloak, is standing beside her.

Then she opens them wearily, says wearily, "It is you-Rose?" with a marked hesitation before the utterance of the christian name.

"It is I, Mrs. Entwistle! I feared to disturb you, as I thought you were asleep." "No, I read until I could see no longer, and then I closed my eyes, principally, I fancy, to keep myself from glaring into the fire and seeing uncomfortable visions there. You have brought Gerald with you?"

No, I thought to find him here." Have you any news for him?" asked the invalid, suddenly turning her face towards her companion.

"None at all," said the young girl, shaking her head sadly.

"Then your mysterious influence, the

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"It,"" repeated Mrs. Entwistle, with a sarcastic inflection of her voice. "Your prudence, especially for so young a person, is quite wonderful. By saying it,' you commit neither yourself nor any one else. If any other man than Geoffry Heriot had been in question, I would have wagered you had said she.''

"I am forbidden to state the means by which I am in hopes of winning Sir Geoffry to our side, and as you are aware, Mrs. Entwistle, Gerald, who is equally ignorant as everybody else about them, absolves me from telling him.

"I am aware of that, Rose," said Mrs. Entwistle, with a repetition of her former hesitation, "and I am sure I do not desire to press you upon the subject. It will be sufficient for us to know the name of our benefactor when-well, when we have derived any benefit from it."

At this juncture Gerald entered the room, and after bending over his aunt's sofa, and greeting Rose, he threw himself into a chair, and sat with his hands plunged into his pockets, silent and moody, waiting to be spoken to, so unlike the Gerald Hardinge of a few months previous.

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"It is useless to ask you whether you have any news, Gerald, I suppose ?" said Mrs. Entwistle.

"None at all," he replied. "No news now would have any interest to me, unless it came through Rose here, and I know she has none, or she would have rushed at me with it directly she came in."

"You judge rightly, Gerald," said Rose. "I have heard nothing-nothing at all."

"Our dear Rose's oracle takes a long time for deliberation," said Mrs. Entwistle, clipping out the words between her lips. "Let us trust that when it is induced to speak its utterances may be favourable."

"Whether it speaks or not, matters very little to me now," said Gerald. "Not, dear one," he added, extending his hand to Rose, "that I mean to be in the least degree unkind to you. I know all that you have done has been for the best, and in the belief that you would be able to carry out all you hoped. But I find I cannot exist under this mental pressure any longer, and I fear, unless some result, no matter whether favourable or unfavourable, be speedily arrived at, my mind will give way.

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There is no torture, to me, at least, to equal this agony of suspense. "What do you propose to do, then ?" asked Mrs. Entwistle, anxiously.

"To make one more effort to see my father, and set myself right with him. If I succeed, my one aim in life will be accomplished; if I fail, I shall be able to settle myself down with the conviction that I, as a mortal, had done my best, and that the fates were against me."

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Will you not let me try once more to see whether I cannot help you ?" said Rose; "I am sure that

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"I am sure that you have done all you can, my dear child, and that any further attempt would be useless. Indeed, I would rather come upon my father, taking him as unprepared even as I did last time, than that he should imagine I was currying favour with his friends to influence him in my behalf.” "If you would take the advice of one who has seen much more of the world than you, and who knows the tempers of men in general, and of Geoffry Heriot in particalar," said Mrs. Entwistle, "you will think twice before you act on that determination. So far as you are aware, nothing has transpired since your previous visit to your father to warrant you in anticipating any better reception than you then experienced. We, who are devoted to you, Rose and I, can judge of the effect which that former visit had upon you. You cannot yourself pretend to be ignorant of, you cannot pretend to deny, that since then you are a completely changed man, and you owe it as much to us as well as to yourself, to think over and weigh well what might be the result of a repetition of such insults."

While she was speaking these words, Mrs. Entwistle managed to raise herself upon her elbow, and emphasised her speech with telling gesture. Her cheeks were flushed, and her voice rang out in tones such as Gerald had never heard it utter. When, as she ceased speaking, she fell back faint with the exertion, Gerald rose from his chair, and quickly crossing the room, caught her in his arms and pressed his lips upon her forehead.

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which you have raised up before me; and I still think it right to go through with the task which I have set myself, and to attempt at least to perform what I still conceive to be my duty. If I fail, we three shall not be the less strongly knit together. If I succeed

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"If you succeed, you will regain your father's love, but you will not permit him, however much cause he may have, to teach you to hate me," said Mrs. Entwistle in a broken voice. "You will have to bear with me for such a very little time."

"I am not likely to forget," said Gerald, kissing her cheek, "that when I was forsaken by him, you proved my friend."

"When do you intend going to Springside, Gerald ?" asked Rose.

"If your friend is not able to gain me an interview this week, which I fear there is now little chance, I shall certainly go on Monday next."

"Monday next," repeated Rose to herself; "that would give me plenty of time to write again to Madge, if she felt that her intercession could now do us any good."

Just about the time that Gerald Hardinge announced his determination to his two companions, Mr. Philip Vane rang at the outer door of the house in Piccadilly, in which Mr. Delabole's chambers were situate. Admitted by the hall-porter, who rang a bell on hearing for whom inquiry was made, Mr. Vane ascended to the first floor, where he was received by Fritz, and informed that Mr. Delabole expected him. The valet added that his master was dressing for dinner, but that he had given orders to be told of Mr. Vane's arrival.

Indeed, Philip Vane had scarcely seated himself in an easy-chair, and taken up the evening paper, in which he turned by force of habit to the money article (though he had come straight from the City, and was probably at least as well informed about what had been going on there as the writer), when Mr. Delabole's jolly voice was heard from the inner room; and Fritz having opened the door of communication, Philip passed through and found his friend in a gorgeous dressing-room, with his short black hair standing straight on end awaiting the attention of the valet.

"What a luxurious dog it is," said Philip Vane, sardonically, after he and his friend had exchanged greetings. "He is absolutely too rich and too idle to brush his own hair!"

"Not at all, dear boy, not at all," said

Mr. Delabole. "He is never too rich or too idle to comb anybody else's hair, if he thinks they want it done for them, and to use a particularly small-toothed rasper for the occasion. As for his own hair, the manliness of his figure is so much developed, that he finds he cannot get conveniently at the back of his head, and is obliged to call in artificial aid."

"You sent me a line to the City, saying you wished to see me here. I presume you have something of more importance than your hair to talk to me about?"

"My hair is of the utmost importance to me, my dear Philip," said Mr. Delabole, placidly, "but I do not expect you to take equal interest in it. That will do, Fritz; if you will put out the rest of the things I shall not want you any more. Now," he continued, when the valet had left the room, "I can tell you what I wanted to see you about, as it is not my habit to chatter before servants. You recollect the conversation we had at the office immediately after my return from my little country trip ?"

"I am not likely to forget it," said Philip Vane.

"You will recollect my mentioning to you the necessity of our getting Mr. Irving to join us, and the impossibility of our doing so unless he saw his friend Sir Geoffry Heriot's signature to our registered memorandum of association?"

"I recollect it perfectly."

"That signature is not yet there, I think," said Mr. Delabole, pausing in the act of tying his cravat, and looking round at his friend.

"See here, Delabole," said Philip Vane, under his breath. "Do you know what you are asking me to do ?"

"To help yourself to a handsome wife with sixty thousand pounds. Nothing further that I know of."

"You have a hold over me in that matter, and you know it," said Vane, "but be careful how you

"Doctor Asprey is at the door," said Fritz. "Will you see him ?"

"By all means," said Mr. Delabole. "Show him up." Then turning to Vane, he said, "Mind you sit him out. matter must be decided to-night.

This

Well,

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"An old Indian officer, a certain Sir Geoffry Heriot. A man of mark in his time, I believe, though his time is nearly over now.

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"You consider it a bad case, then ?" "Couldn't well be worse. Cannot possibly live more than a few days-heart disease and other complications. Well, I must be going; we shall meet to-morrow. Good-night, Mr. Vane." And the doctor took his departure.

"You heard what he said," said Delabole, as soon as the door had closed; "the old man cannot live. This reduces the risk to nil. The signature would be supposed to have been obtained while we were at Springside. Luckily there was lawyer, nor any one else in Sir Geoffry's confidence. Do you see your way to it now ?"

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Certainly more clearly than I did,” said Philip Vane, in a firm voice.

JUST PUBLIShed, the

EXTRA DOUBLE NUMBER FOR CHRISTMAS, 1871,

ENTITLED

SLAVES OF THE LAMP.

Now ready, price 5s. 6d., bound in green cloth, THE SIXTH VOLUME

OF THE NEW SERIES OF

ALL THE YEAR ROUND.

To be had of all Booksellers.

The Right of Translating Articles from ALL THE YEAR ROUND is reserved by the Authors.

Published at the Office. 26, Wellington St Strand. Printed by C. WHITING, Beaufort House, Duke St.. Lincoln's Inn Fields

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