LITMIR.BIZ

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fate. It hurts me like an actual pain not to know whether he is alive or dead," she said, with a sudden sob.

      "My poor pet!" murmured the Major, taking her hand in both his own. "Have you heard nothing about him since you left London?"

      "Not one word. People make believe that there was never any such person in this world."

      "They think it wiser to do so, in the hope you will forget him."

      "They might as well hope that I shall become a blackamoor," said Christabel, scornfully. "You have more knowledge of the human heart, Uncle Oliver – and you must know that I shall always – remember him. Tell me the truth about him just this once, and I will not mention his name again for a long, long time. He is not dead, is he?"

      "Dead! – no, Belle. What put such a notion into your head?"

      "Silence always seems like death; and every one has kept silence about him."

      "He was ill while he was in Scotland – a touch of the old complaint. I heard of him at Plymouth the other day, from a yachting man who met him in the Isle of Arran, after his illness – he was all right then, I believe."

      "Ill – and I never knew of it – dangerously ill, perhaps."

      "I don't suppose it was anything very bad. He had been yachting when my Plymouth acquaintance met him."

      "He has not married – that person," faltered Christabel.

      "What person?"

      "Miss Mayne."

      "Good heavens, no, my dear – nor ever will."

      "But he ought – it is his duty."

      "My dear child, that is a question which I can hardly discuss with you. But I may tell you, at least, that there is an all-sufficient reason why Angus Hamleigh would never make such an idiot of himself."

      "Do you mean that she could never be worthy of him – that she is irredeemably wicked?" asked Christabel.

      "She is not good enough to be any honest man's wife."

      "And yet she did not seem wicked: she spoke of him with such intense feeling."

      "She seemed – she spoke!" repeated the Major aghast. "Do you mean to tell me that you have seen – that you have conversed with her?"

      "Yes: when my aunt told me the story which she heard from Lady Cumberbridge I could not bring myself to believe it until it was confirmed by Miss Mayne's own lips. I made up my mind that I would go and see her – and I went. Was that wrong?"

      "Very wrong. You ought not to have gone near her. If you wanted to know more than common rumour could tell you, you should have sent me – your friend. It was a most unwise act."

      "I thought I was doing my duty. I think so still," said Christabel, looking at him with frank steadfast eyes. "We are both women. If we stand far apart it is because Providence has given me many blessings which were withheld from her. It is Mr. Hamleigh's duty to repair the wrong he has done. If he does not he must be answerable to his Maker for the eternal ruin of a soul."

      "I tell you again, my dear, that you do not understand the circumstances, and cannot fairly judge the case. You would have done better to take an old soldier's advice before you let the venomous gossip of that malevolent harridan spoil two lives."

      "I did not allow myself to be governed by Lady Cumberbridge's gossip, Uncle Oliver. I took nothing for granted. It was not till I had heard the truth from Miss Mayne's lips that I took any decisive step. Mr. Hamleigh accepted my resolve so readily that I can but think it was a welcome release."

      "My dear, you went to a queer shop for truth. If you had only known your way about town a little better you would have thought twice before you sacrificed your own happiness in the hope of making Miss Mayne a respectable member of society. But what's done cannot be undone. There's no use in crying over spilt milk. I daresay you and Mr. Hamleigh will meet again and make up your quarrel before we are a year older. In the meantime don't fret, Belle – and don't be afraid that he will ever marry any one but you. I'll be answerable for his constancy."

      The anniversary of Christabel's betrothal came round, St. Luke's Day – a grey October day – with a drizzling West-country rain. She went to church alone, for her aunt was far from well, and Miss Bridgeman stayed at home to keep the invalid company – to read to her and cheer her through the long dull morning. Perhaps they both felt that Christabel would rather be alone on this day. She put on her waterproof coat, took her dog with her, and started upon that wild lonely walk to the church in the hollow of the hills. Randie was a beast of perfect manners, and would lie quietly in the porch all through the service, waiting for his mistress.

      She knelt alone just where they two had knelt together. There was the humble altar before which they were to have been married; the rustic shrine of which they had so often spoken as the fittest place for a loving union – fuller of tender meaning than splendid St. George's, with its fine oaken panelling, painted windows, and Hogarthian architecture. Never at that altar, nor at any other, were they two to kneel. A little year had held all – her hopes and fears – her triumphant love – joy beyond expression – and sadness too deep for tears. She went over the record as she knelt in the familiar pew – her lips moving automatically, repeating the responses – her eyes fixed and tearless.

      Then when the service was over she went slowly wandering in and out among the graves, looking at the grey slate tablets, with the names of those whom she had known in life – all at rest now – old people who had suffered long and patiently before they died – a fair young girl who had died of consumption, and whose sufferings had been sharper than those of age – a sailor who had gone out to a ship with a rope one desperate night, and had given his life to save others – all at rest now.

      There was no grave being dug to-day. She remembered how, as she and Angus lingered at the gate, the dull sound of the earth thrown from the gravedigger's spade had mixed with the joyous song of the robin perched on the gate. To-day there was neither gravedigger nor robin – only the soft drip, drip of the rain on dock and thistle, fern and briony. She had the churchyard all to herself, the dog following her about meekly – crawling over grassy mounds, winding in and out among the long wet grass.

      "When I die, if you have the ordering of my funeral, be sure I am buried in Minster Churchyard."

      That is what Angus had said to her one summer morning, when they were sitting on the Maidenhead coach – and even West-End London, and a London Park, looked lovely in the clear June light. Little chance now that she would be called upon to choose his resting-place – that her hands would fold his in their last meek attitude of submission to the universal conqueror.

      "Perhaps he will spend his life in Italy, where no one will know his wife's history," thought Christabel, always believing, in spite of Major Bree's protest, that her old lover would sooner or later make the one possible atonement for an old sin. Nobody except the Major had told her how little the lady deserved that such atonement should be made. It was Mrs. Tregonell's theory that a well-brought up young woman should be left in darkest ignorance of the darker problems of life.

      Christabel walked across the hill, and down by narrow winding ways into the valley, where the river, swollen and turbid after the late rains, tumbled noisily over rock and root and bent the long reeds upon its margin. She crossed the narrow footbridge, and went slowly through the level fields between two long lines of hills – a gorge through which, in bleak weather, the winds blew fiercely. There was another hill to ascend before she reached the field that led to Pentargon Bay – half a mile or so of high road between steep banks and tall unkempt hedges. How short and easy to climb that hill had seemed to her in Angus Hamleigh's company! Now she walked wearily and slowly under the softly falling rain, wondering where he was, and whether he remembered this day.

      She could recall every word that he had spoken, and the memory was full of pain; for in the light of her new knowledge it seemed to her that all he had said about his early doom had been an argument intended to demonstrate to her why he dared not and must not ask her to be his wife – an apology and an explanation as it were – and this apology, this explanation had been made necessary by her own foolishness – by that fatal forgetfulness of self-respect which had

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