consequently he gives one the most confounded amount of trouble to be prepared for the precedents and opinions which we know he will bring forward against us. Our dear Leopold is an exceptional instance, but great ability is seldom allied to virtue; the latter charming quality more often accompanies stupidity, and the two together form the favourite compound out of which judges are made."

But although Mr. Leopold Moss, by the exigencies of his profession, was compelled to devote a large portion of his time to study, which in itself possessed a fascination for him, he by no means led the hermit life which Mr. Barnstaple ascribed to him. A knowledge of man was, as he rightly imagined, as useful to him as a knowledge of law, and he went a good deal into society (not amongst those peculiar classes more affected by Mr. Barnstaple), where his strange experiences and conversational powers rendered him a great favourite.

Such was Mr. Leopold Moss. He rose from his chair as the rector entered the room, and returning his host's salutation commenced by saying:

quently happens that it has become a joke against the doctor, and on his return we were prepared to banter him as usual; but he made his way straight to me, and asked me to come out into the ante-room to talk over a matter on important business. When the door was closed, he told me he had just returned from seeing a Mrs. Entwistle, who appears to be some relative of the accused, and a young lady named Pierrepoint"

"Good heavens! Rose Pierrepoint,” interrupted the rector.

"Yes," said Mr. Moss, "I think that was the name. At all events, this Miss Pierrepoint is engaged to be married to young Heriot. They were in an awful state of mind, for the superintendent down here, at Heriot's request, had telegraphed to Miss Pierrepoint the news of the arrest, and the ground of the accusation. Their first thought was to send for Doctor Asprey, who seems to be a kind of ami de la maison at Mrs. Entwistle's, and his first thought, after comforting the women, was to hurry back and secure me. I returned with him to Mrs. Entwistle's, and we sat talking long into the night. In the course of the conversation I learned that you had at one time warmly befriended Miss Rose Pierrepoint and her sister, Mrs.-Mrs. Pickering,' he said, referring to some notes, "who was housekeeper to the late Sir Geoffry; and I determined upon coming down by the first train, which left Paddington at six o'clock, and seeing you before I took any further steps in the matter. And now if you will please tell me, as succinctly as you can, all the facts of which you are in possession, but not stating any impressions which you may have formed.

The Back Numbers of the PRESENT SERIES of

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How was that? By whom were you retained ?"

"It came about in this way. I was dining at the monthly meeting of a little society of antiquaries to which I belong, when Doctor Asprey, the well-known physician, who is one of our members, was summoned from the table. This so fre

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THE WICKED WOODS OF TOBEREEVIL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "HESTER'S HISTORY."

CHAPTER XXI. THE END OF CHRISTOPHER'S

ROMANCE.

So the little party returned home under a cloud of gloom. As Miss Martha sat down thankfully under her own roof she called herself an old fool for castle-building and match-making, for worrying herself at her time of life when she ought to have peace. May felt like a stranger in returning to her home. Something had gone out of her life, and something had come into it, since she had last crossed the threshold for familiar room. But that was her own affair, and the walls must not know it. Paul looked pale and worn when he took his place at table with them that evening; as unlike as possible to the joyful Paul who had sat down there on that first evening, now more than a month ago.

He had fallen back so completely under the old shadow, that he was saying to himself as he ate his bread, that he was a man accursed, who could never expect to be loved. Already here was the working of his evil influence. These friends who had gladly welcomed him had grown cold and constrained. A shadow had come over May who had been so blithe with him at the first. He would take leave of her to-night, and for the future think no more of being happy.

The little brown parlour was full of starlight, when Miss Martha went out to talk to old Nannie about the pigs. And Paul snatched the opportunity, and began to say farewell to May.

He began to say it so suddenly, she was so utterly without the key to his meaning,

PRICE TWOPENCE.

that half of his wild things had been said before she began to guess what he was saying.

"I feared I should bring my shadow with me," he was declaring when she caught the drift of his words, " and I tried to keep away, and I could not. The memory of your face haunted me, and brought me back to your side. I love you as no one will ever love you again. What does it matter? You pity me I know. Some day I may be glad to remember it, but now it cannot help me. For I have been fool enough to hope that I could win your entire love: that you could save me from a curse; that I might live and die as blest a man as love ever made happy. Your pity has twice warned me, and yet I speak to you like this; but it is because you will never see me any more. I chill you with my presence, and I am going away. I trust you may be happy. I hope that Mr. Lee may love and cherish

Here Paul paused and panted, and looked able to punish Mr. Lee if the devotion of that unknown rival should be found faulty in its measure. Before he could finish his sentence the parlour door was thrown open, and Bridget thrust herself in, with a sly subdued grin upon her buxom face.

"There's a gintleman outbye wants to see ye, miss. Despert anxious he is, miss, if ye plase."

"A gentleman!" said May. With new life dancing at her heart, with an inclination to laugh and to cry, with fear and delight, and a slight sense of the ridiculous all struggling within her at once, she seized upon some flower-pots and began settling them in their stand, that Bridget might not see her face and the shaking of her hands. A gentleman! Bridget's announcement was as strange as if she had

VOL. VII.

169

said, "there is a picket of police come to arrest you." But May did not know at the moment whether it was a strange thing or not. She only wished that Bridget would go away, so that Paul might speak again. "Yes, miss. A fine big gintleman wid a spankin' horse. Misther Lee is his name, an' he says

Paul had turned his back upon the unwelcome Bridget, and was standing at the open window looking out. When Bridget said "Misther Lee" he put his hand on the sill, vaulted quickly out, and disappeared.

May sat down and stared pitifully at her handmaiden. Had the lass been but away she might have held out a finger to keep Paul by her side. But Bridget's presence was a broad fact, in every sense of the word; and Paul was gone away. Not for ever, oh, no, not for ever. That would be too mad, when she had not even answered him nor said good-bye.

"He said, miss," went on Bridget in her blissful ignorance, "that he would not come in, but axes as a faviour that yoursel' would spake a word wid him outbye."

"Very well; let him wait. Bridget, go for my handkerchief, if you please, on the table, in the drawer, in my room."

Bridget gone, she flew to the window, peeped across the sash, thrust herself across the sash. She could see faintly the moors, the meadows, the white path, the distant stile. But there was no Paul anywhere to be seen.

"Paul!" she whispered softly. "Paul !” she wailed more audibly. But he was not lurking anywhere within the reach of a timid voice. She drew back and leaned, sickening, against the wall. And then Bridget came back with the handkerchief, and then there was nothing to be done but to go out and meet Christopher Lee.

She did not doubt as she stood yet a minute longer, trying to steady her nerves, that Christopher had come to tell her of his full happiness, as she had bade him. She remembered that the curious crisis of his fate must be either past or close at hand. Perhaps he was already married; or perhaps he would be to-morrow. She was glad for his sake, but it was not so easy to spend good wishes on his bride, whose vanity had so wantonly wrought mischief. Yet she could now afford to laugh at the silly blunders that had been made. She could laugh, or she could cry, but there was no time for doing either. She must go out and show some courtesy to the visitor.

She stepped out into the starlight, looking right and left and over her shoulder, hoping to see Paul coming back. She could not but think still that he was sulking among the tombstones, or stamping out his passion behind some hedge. How she would laugh at him by-and-bye when he would come to finish his tragedy! How she would tease him about being so daunted by an unreality!

Yes; there was Christopher Lee, surely enough, in this unwonted place, and at this untimely hour. Till she really saw him, there in the night, at Monasterlea, she did not know how odd it was. It was very odd, and of course Paul thought it so. A little boy was holding a horse out on the road, and the rider was walking up and down by the ruined cloisters. In the clearness of the half-dark May could see that his clothes were white with dust, and his face like one distracted.

"Oh, Miss Mourne !" he said, hurrying to meet her, and grasping her hands painfully. "It is kind of you to come and speak to a ruined man!"

"Ruined! Oh, no, Mr. Lee, not that!" cried May, with an overwhelming sense of everything in the world having gone wrong at the same time.

"Quite ruined; utterly ruined!" said Christopher, grimly lingering on, and emphasising the fatal word.

"But how ruined? Surely it cannot be that Katherine

"Don't mention her!" he cried. "Don't name her name! A cruel, cold-blooded woman. Oh, I was warned and I would not listen! How could I believe the woman I loved, and who had vowed herself to me, to be a heartless actress, a mere shameful coquette? Now I am paying the penalty of my folly. Oh, I am maddened at the bare thought of it; that for months she has been laughing at me, while she made me play the fool for her amusement. She owned it to me to-day, when she laughed in my face. She laughed again when I was idiot enough to threaten her with what the world would think of her. She smiled and beamed, and it was all rapture to her, every reproach, every groan that I uttered; for I did give her this gloryI groaned."

The young man suited the action to the word, and looked fiercely at May, and over her head, as if she and the whole world had been to blame in this matter. Then, having gathered up his scattered breath, he made a fresh dash at his wrongs.

"Yes, I groaned," he went on, " and that gave her delight. She had looked forward to that hour, had willed it and planned it, so that a man might be drowned in ruin to give her beauty an unholy triumph. She will wear my wrecked life as a feather in her cap. Let her wear it, then! and may it be very becoming to her, especially when she is old and faded, and shall long for a kind heart near her own, and shall not find it! In the mean time let her world make a goddess of her, and let it join in her laugh against the idiot who is lost, lost for her sake!"

"No, no, not lost!" said May, in great awe of this excited grief, yet not knowing what to say.

"Not lost, do you say? Do you know that if I am a married man in three weeks hence I shall be the owner of twenty thousand a year for the remainder of my life? Think of what it means, that twenty thousand a year. It means to be a gentleman, to be of some use in the world, to have liberty to enjoy the sweet pleasant things of life. And all this I might have had, with somebody to be loved by, and to share it with, only for her. And oh! how I loved her and trusted in her!"

He buried his face in his hands, and sobbed like a child.

"And now I am a beggar!" he said, looking up again savagely. "A beggar, and a fool before the world. I have broken my mother's heart; I have destroyed my own future; I will not endure to live any longer."

"You are talking wildly," said May, touching his arm. "You cannot mean what you say. You are no coward ?"

I

"It does not matter what you call me,' he said; "call me anything you please. I am a coward, if that means a man who will not outlive his ruin and disgrace. came here to-night to say good-bye to you, May Mourne. You were very kind to me, and you are the last person I shall look on in this world. I will not see my mother's face again. You will, maybe, be good to her when I am gone, for I have sworn not to live another day!"

He was speaking in an unnaturally highpitched voice, like a suppressed shriek. It was getting wilder every moment. May was thoroughly terrified, but controlled herself with an effort.

"Then you must break your oath!" she said, in a strong, distinct voice, which shocked him from its contrast with her former pleading tones.

'You must break your rash oath," she repeated. "You see I am not afraid of you, though you are so desperate. I declare that I will not let you go away from this place to-night until you have sworn to me that you will do yourself no hurt!" "I might break that oath also," he said.

'No, you would not, and I will tell you why. You would not throw away your soul, because you have lost your love and your fortune. And if you do not give me the promise at once," she added, passing her arm through his, "I will hold you like this until you will give it to me."

He looked at her wonderingly. His passion seemed to have cooled down. He put her hand gently from his arm, and began walking rapidly up and down under the shadow of the cloisters. May stood by, silent; urging nothing; but watching. She saw that he was deliberating, or seemed to be so doing. He saw her standing there, patient, watchful, resolved. Every time he turned be could see the gracious white figure waiting unwearied, upon a mound of graves, whither she had followed him, and where he had left her; with a broken cross at her feet, and the stars about her head.

At last he approached her, humbly and quietly.

"You see I am quite calm now. I will rave no more." But he was not calm at all, though his voice was subdued, and there was a very strange wildness in his eyes. "Shall I dare to speak to you everything that is in my heart at this moment? Shall I tell you of a whisper that an angel has whispered to me?"

You

"Yes," said May, said May, "for angels whisper nothing that is horrible and wrong. know that I am your friend, and I will help you all that such a weak friend may help.'

He drew her hand through his arm, and placed it where she had before placed it herself. She did not hinder, because she was bent on saving him. They walked on a few steps, and then Christopher said abruptly:

'May Mourne, will you marry me?"
Marry you!" she cried.

"Yes," said he, "me. One who has been raving to you about the loss of another woman. A man who has been tricked and blinded, but has got his eyes opened at last. A man who can see you faithful and good, and can curse the days he ever loved one less noble. I will worship you all the years of my life. I will be a good husband

to you. I will strive to be a good man, in order to do you honour. I will have gold to share with you, gold which you will have bestowed on me as if you had brought it for a dowry. May Mourne, I will love you. Will you be my wife ?" "Oh, no," said May, oh, no!" "Ah! there it is," he cried. "I knew that you would refuse. But I can plead. You think I love Katherine ArchboldNay, I hate her; I hate her!"

66

Hush," said May.

jealous of her."

66

"God bless you! What is it then? Whisper, and tell me what it is that you are afraid of. Not of Christopher Lee? He would not hurt any one, though he was near drowning himself in the river an hour ago. He is a poor wrecked creature, whom you can save if you will. He has loved you already longer than you think. How beautiful you looked with all the stars about your head! She never had the stars about her head, curse her! There is a hard, cruel, blazing sun always shining and burning round her head, that scorches men's eyes, and withers up their brains."

He was lashing himself into a fury again. It was such a strange kind of fury, that May felt more frightened for him than annoyed for herself. She thought of him less as a sane man than as one sick and delirious. "Mr. Lee," she said, "will you come in and rest awhile? You are sadly tired, and you want refreshment."

"I want you," he said, wildly, "I want only you. You will be rest and refreshment, and all that I need. I will make you a princess. I will pour gold into your lap. You will rest my head on your knee, and cool it with your hands. It is burning hot, it is full of fire-and nobody will give me a drink of cold water, because it is known that I am a beggar."

"Come in," said May, soothingly, and drawing him gently, come in with me, and I will give you water-anything you like." She had felt the burning touch of his hand upon her own, and she dreaded the strange glare which she saw in his eyes. The man had got a fever, and his life might be in her hands.

"I will not go," he said, "I will not move, until you promise me that you will marry me to-morrow. Katherine! Katherine!" he cried, gnashing his teeth, and grasping her hands until he almost crushed the slight fingers, "promise that you will marry me to-morrow. Promise, or I will drown myself this night!"

"Nay, come in," said May, coaxingly, while she shivered with fear. "I am tired and cold. Come in, and we will talk about it."

your

"Curse you!" he said, flinging back her hands with such force that she nearly fell. "Curse your smooth promises, and coaxing, and your putting off. I will have no more of it." And with a cry like that of some hurt animal, he bounded from her side, and rushed, like a madman as he was, across the graveyard, towards the river.

But May was as swift-footed as a deer. She could run to save a life. She had no blinding flashes of the fire of madness before her eyes to make her stumble, and she had, besides, the cunning of sanity, and a natural presence of mind. She knew all the short cuts about Monasterlea. By means of her wit, and her speed, she met Christopher Lea before he reached the river side. She was a quarter of a mile from home, and she was at the mercy of a strong man bereft of reason; but she was not afraid.

She laid hold of him and clasped her two hands across his arm.

"Come with me, dear," she said. "I am your mother. You would not hurt me, Christopher? Not hurt your old mother?" For he was wrestling with her.

At the last words he stood still, as if shocked. "Hurt my mother!" he said. "Who asked such a question? When did I hurt you, mother ?"

"Never indeed, dear," said May. "And you will not now. I want you to help me with your strong arm, Christopher. Help me up the hill, and into the house."

He obeyed her, gentle as a lamb, but it was a terrible walk. Every moment she expected that he would break from her, but she kept the firm locked clasp of her two hands on his arm. At the door she met old Nannie and Miss Martha, going out to look for her in some dismay. She signed to them, and they gradually understood her. And after some fright and dif ficulty the two old women got Christopher put to bed; where a man sick of a fever ought to be. And then a doctor was sent for to the nearest post town; and the dis traught lover began a hard fight for his life.

Later he wrote to his mother in his convalescence:

"I am sorry for having brought so much affliction upon you, for I know that vexation must have been the cause of your illness. I am wise now, though my

wisdom