CHAPTER L. ALICE IMPARTS HER DISCOVERIES. THE next day was the Sabbath. Peace shone from the clear autumn sky, and glorified the common things of earth. Birds sang, flowers opened wide, streamlets and falls seemed to dance, as they rippled and rolled in the light. The freshness of the morning was over the cultured fields; the freshness of the morning was over the barren moor; the freshness of the morning sparkled in the dewy glen. Neil had promised his old nurse to" step into her sheiling," his mother being absent, and go with her to church; for which the old woman was already pinning on her snowy cap, and best shawl, and smiling, not at herself, but at a vision of Niel, in her glass. Alice asked sadly and demurely, and very anxiously, if she might walk with her half brother, and if he would mind setting out half an hour "too soon," as she had something very particular to say to him. Sir Douglas consented. They walked in utter silence great part of the way, as far as the broomy knowe," where Alice had first talked with him of "kith-and-kin love." There they halted, and there they sat down, there she reminded him of that day! There -in a sort of frightened, subdued whispering voice Alice said, "I know well that since that day I myself have forfeited much of my claim to brother's love, though it seems to me even now that I love you better than allay, even better than my dream of wedded love! But whether I have forfeited or not, I feel cannot bear others should deceive you; and I've brought to this place what must be shown, though it wring my heart in the showing, and yours in the reading. It's all I can do, in return for your mercy and indulgence to me. All I can do in return is to prevent your being deceived by others! God knows what we are all made of! I've not had an hour's peace since I picked this up. Kenneth trampled it under foot just as you went to speak with him yesterday morning; and I was out gathering flowers; and then I thought it looked so unseemly in the garden-ground; and then as I gathered it up I saw - I could not help seeing- some strange words; and at lastat last-oh! Douglas, do not have any anger with me! nor much with her; for it's my belief there is witchcraft round her, and none can help loving her that sees her." Sir Douglas looked strangely into Alice's eyes as she handed him the gravel-soiled, earth-stained papers. It was Gertrude's writing; of that there could be no doubt And what was not Gertrude's was Ken neth's. Oh, God of mercy, what was to come today, after that yesterday of pain? Sir Douglas lifted his bonnet from his brow and looked up to the serene heaven before him. "Thy will be done. THY will be done," said the trembling human lips. And hard was the struggle to echo the words in the shuddering human heart. Much has been said and written of the tortures of the Inquisition, and the cruelty of those who look on and yet not show mercy. But what are physical tortures to tortures of the mind? What "grand Inquisitor" ever looked on with more stony indifference to unendurable suffering than Alice Ross as she watched the flush of colour rise to cheek and temple - fade to ghastly paleness and big drops stand on the marble brow; while the breath of life seemed to pant and quicken as if suffocation would follow. Even she started at the long moan which burst from that over-charged bosom, as her half-brother closed his eyes and leaned back on the bank. He had read it all. ALL. - was Not in vain had Alice Ross paid her long visit to the blind beggar with the indented scar on his thin right hand. Not for the first time -no nor for the hundredth that hand exercising its unequalled skill at imitation and forgery; nor that apt and tortuous brain devising schemes of ruin or vengeance on those who had offended. The passionately torn letter, gravel-stained and soiled, had apparently its corres ponding half, also gravel-stained and soiled (and carefully had Alice's light heel and clever hand sought the very spot where Kenneth's mad passion had ground it into the earth in the morning.) But the half that corresponded in form, altered the whole sense of the letter. The sentences referring to her love for Sir Douglas were apparently addressed to Kenneth. Her notice that she would be in Edinburgh read like an ap pointment to him to meet her there. Her allu sions to the necessity - "if all this torment continued ". of confession to her husband, barely escaped the sense that she had to make confession of a return of his unlawful passion. The letter only stopped short at a clear implication of sin. Perhaps even the two bold accomplices employed in its concoction felt that on that hinge the door of possible credence would cease to open. All was left in doubt and mystery. Except that to that bold avowal of guilty love an answer had been secretly delivered, conveying all the encouragement it was possible to give referring to the old day of Naples; to the little note of adieu, telling him they were parting "for a time, not for ever," that it was better for him, for her, for all." The passage that hoped he "would see the decency, the necessity, of withdrawing from Glenrossie," was a little fragment wanting in the torn sheet. No one could read the letter and still think Gertrude a true and holy-hearted wife; though those who choose to give her "the benefit of the doubt," might believe sin only imminent, not yet accomplished. The part that was forged was not more stained or spoiled than the portion, which was no forgery. Every word fitted naturally in every sentence. If ever human being held what looked like proof incontrovertible leading to miserable conviction, Sir Douglas held it that day, as he sat on the wild, fair hill with all the peace and beauty of nature spread around him. He rose at length, and held his right hand out to Alice; his left was bandaged and in pain. She put her slender fingers forward to meet his touch, and felt the icy dampness that speaks of faintness at the heart. He cleared his throat twice before speaking, and then said with an effort: "I believe you have done right. Be satisfied that you have done right: it was a duty not to let me remain in ignorance." Then he stood still and looked wistfully out on the lovely scenery, the lake below, the hills above, the grim rocks of Clochnaben, the valley where smiled Glenrossie, the speck of white light that denoted where lay the Hut, with a still tinier spark of scarlet reflected from the flag, set up on the days they meant to visit it. "Fair no more! pleasant never, never again!" he murmured to himself, as he gazed; then he turned slowly to Alice. "We must go on to church. Say nothing of all this to any fellow-creature. Be as usual; I shall, I trust, be as usual. This is the battle of LIFE." At the gate of the churchyard were the usual groups of men, women, and children uncovered, greeting with smiles and respectful curtseys their beloved chieftain and landlord. In general he had a kind word or sentence for each and all. He tried twice, but his voice faltered, for they inquired in return after "her Leddyship at the Castle," and the answer choked in his throat. His boy Neil turned into the gate, holding the old nurse by the hand, and carry ing her huge brown leather psalm book, wrapped in a clean white cotton pockethanderchief. Neil gave it gently into her withered grasp, with a kindly pat on her shoulder, and turned to accompany his father to their usual seat. Sir Douglas passed onwards as in a dream, his face was very pale. "Papa's hand, that he hurt yesterday, seems to pain him very much," Neil whispered to Alice. She nodded demurely without speaking. It was not right to speak in church. Neil ought to know that. Sir Douglas sat very pale, still, and stately by the side of his handsome little son, and many a kindly glance wandered to the pew when the boy's full, sweet, and strong voice rose to join the psalmody. The young laird was the idol of Sir Douglas's tenantry. "He was just what auld Sir Douglas himsel' had bin; a thocht stouter, may be, but just the varry moral o' him." So the service went on, till all of a sudden Sir Douglas gave a deep audible groan. They were reading the first chapter of the Gospel of St. Matthew, and had come to the nineteenth verse: "Then Joseph, her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a public example, was minded to put her away privily." Young Neil started at the groan, and clasping his father's hand in his own, looked anxiously up in his face, and half rose from his seat, as though expecting him to leave the church from illness. But Sir Douglas sat still, his eyes steadily fixed on the minister. It is strange that women who have been falsely accused, never think of drawing consolation from the fact that the holiest of all women whose lives are recorded, the one woman who was permitted to be as it were the link between earth and heaven, according to the transmitted history of the Christian religion, had to endure her share of earthly shame. Nor only that, but that a lesson as to the fallibility of all human judgment lies wrapped in the written account of the conduct of her husband Joseph. He was a "just man. A good man, merciful, affectionate, anxious to do that which was right in the sight of God; anxious to bear himself fitly and with all indulgence to his neighbor. But his human mercy extended only to "putting her away privily." He would not put her to public shame, though his own trust was broken. That was the sum of all, till the angelic vision made all clear. "I may be away more days than you expect, dear Neil. You will do all as if I were here lessons: conduct: care in shooting: all-won't you?" As Sir Douglas listened, he also leaned a tender little kiss, the bandage over the to the side of that incomparable merey wounded hand. which would spare shame. He knelt a little longer in final prayer than usual, before he passed out into the sunshine and greeted the assembled groups with a degree less of abstraction, still holding Neil by the hand. Arrived at Glenrossie, he shut himself up in the library and wrote. "I will, father; I will. Trust me, father, You can trust me, can't you?" and the boy smiled, with his sweet candid eyes fixed full upon his father's face. "Yes yes! Oh God! let me trust You, my son, if I never again trust any other human being!" And to the consternation of Neil, Sir Douglas flung his arms round his son's neck and sobbed like a child. In the morning, while dawn was yet breaking and Neil lay yet wrapped in happy boyish slumbers, rapid wheels once more sounded softly along the great fir-avenue; the caressing feathery branches that had bent over Gertrude's departure the previous day, brushed over the roof of the carriage that now bore her husband from home. The squirrel leaped and scampered up the brown stems, and the scattering cones fell to the earth, and lay on the dewy grass in silence. Great was the silence in Glenrossie that day: the master had departed. common objectionable appearances or flavours of preserved meat; and, being ready cooked, is exceedingly cheap at the retail price of 7d. the pound without bone. This is not more than 6d. a pound with bone; and if it be true that one company alone in Australia could send us annually the beef of 10,000 fat oxen at this price, some of us may yet live to see beef coming down in price in the general markets of this country. THE following are the results, says the Me- | tins hermetically sealed. It has none of the chanics' Magazine, of the trials of various American breech-loading rifles as reported by the military commissioner appointed to examine them. The Roberts breech-loader fired 84 balls in six minutes, an average of 14 in one minute, all striking inside the target, and penetrating 15 one-inch planks laid side by side. The Sharpe's rifle fired 100 balls in less than seven minutes, and penetrated the thirteenth plank. The Millbank rim-fire gun fired 99 balls in six minutes and a half, and penetrated the eleventh plank. The Lansom gun fired 12 balls in one minute. Ball's carbine expelled 75 balls in nine minutes and a half. The Prussian needle gun, which was tested in the same way as the others, fired an average of six to seven balls a minute, and penetrated the eleventh plank. The Remington breech-loader fired 100 balls in 6 minutes and 53 seconds, and penetrated the eleventh plank. PAY OF MAGAZINE WRITERS. The Springfield Republican, in its literary gossip, tells us: "The Atlantic pays generally five dollars per page for prose, though some writers receive much more than this. Edmund Kirke got one hundred dollars for his Chicago Conspiracy.' The market value of poetry seems to vary a good deal. One poet says, that for some of his best productions he has received from the Atlantic only five dollars, while, for far poorer ones, ten dollars have been awarded him. Those who have had experience in bargaining at this establishment, for the sale of literary wares, opine that the price paid there for, depends a good deal upon the mood of the editor-in-chief; if he is in good humour, the seller is liberally compensated; otherwise, not. Harper's rates are about the same, five dollars per page for prose." PART II. Phi The next morning Ursula and I had a long talk together about Monsieur Jacques. She told me that she had known him ever since she was sixteen years old, and that he was established in Florence when she and her father were living there; and then she said, in a sort of natural way which went to my heart, "He had nobody, and I had nobody, and So we drew together." "But Colonel Hamilton was with you then, wasn't he?" said I. "Oh, yes," she answered; "but papa never cared at all about the things I cared for, and then I usedn't to see much of him -I never was much with him- but I loved him dearly for all that," - and her eyes filled with tears. "At first I was too young to go into the world, and then Jacques used often to come and spend the evening with me because it was so lonely when papa was away dining out or at the theatre." "And used you to be left quite entirely alone?" said I. "Had you no woman in the house to look after 99 you ? "Oh, I had the Meneghina, our old Italian maid," she replied. "She generally used to bring in her work and sit with us. When I was eighteen, I thought that, perhaps, papa would then take me out with him, but I think he liked best going out by himself; it left him so much more free and independent. I suppose that was the reason why he never introduced me to any of his friends, or took me to the houses of the people that he knew." "Then did you never go out at all?" said I. "Oh, yes, I went out a little, but into quite a different set from papa's. I went to Giambattista's parties Giambattista Giacomelli was my singing master. Such a dear old fellow! and he had delightful musical parties every Sunday, to which papa allowed me to go." "Well," said I, "but did you go to these parties alone? " "No," she answered. "Our landlady, the Del Nero, went to them, and I went with her. She lived in the floor above us, and I used often to go up there of an evening when papa went out and they were at home. It was there that I first met Jacques. The Del Nero used to play splendidly on the piano, and he used to accompany her on the violin. She, too, had musical evenings which were charming; the society was entirely Italian, composed of doctors, lawyers, artists and literary men- all clever and Her account of her life sounded very Certainly nothing could be much more strange than the state of things between Ursula and her friend. At first I supposed it must be foreign;- it was, however, evidently not so much foreign as individual, for it excited far greater indignation in Madame Olympe's mind than it did in mine. I had certainly never seen any manners in the slightest degree resembling theirs; but after the movement of surprise which they created in me at first, I soon got accustomed to them, and the whole relation had a side so touching and pretty, that, notwithstanding its somewhat unusual manifestations, I began by accepting, and ended by sympathizing with it. Ursula's strength and decision were like health to the little morbid mortal who looked up to her as morally far superior to himself, and his devotion and knowledge of the world were everything to so young a woman, | Madame Olympe and myself, and was putwhose impulsiveness, combined with her ting her au courant of the affairs of the vilextreme simplicity of character, tended to lage. They did not appear to be in a very put her greatly in the power of designing people. In spite of the weakness of his nature, the singleness of his desire after her welfare invested him in some sort with the authority of a father or a brother. flourishing condition, as far as morality was concerned, for he continually began accounts of proceedings which, after the three first suggestive words, had to be imparted in a whisper, to the great annoyance of poor Madame Olympe, who neverthe less could not help laughing at the absurdity of the thing. The curé would begin:- "Madame la Comtesse has doubtless heard about Thérèse Pichon? Is she aware that only three nights ago. . . .?" aud then a long whisper. I endeavoured immediately to begin a little subject with Monsieur Kiowski; but I saw, by his absence of all rejoinder, and the frightful vacancy of the eye he riveted upon me, that he was straining every nerve to catch the luckless Thérèse's little adventure. A minute afterwards it would be, with great gravity, "Has Madame la Comtesse been told that Auguste Leroy is going to leave the village? It appears that on Wednes day last, one of the keepers going his rounds in the forest at midnight, found him. . . ." Then another whisper, and at the end, The change of air and of surroundings had already done me so much good, that on the Wednesday morning I was actually able to take a little walk with Margery before breakfast. The park is not very large, but there are charming walks all round it not shrubbery, but regular woodland paths; it being, in point of fact, simply a bit of the forest enclosed. The weather was quite heavenly, and the purity and elasticity of the air something enchanting; one felt all the time as if one were drinking vivifying draughts of some electric water. The soil is sandy, drying directly after the heaviest rain, and the air is of the light, exhilarating quality which always goes with that particular kind of soil. Poor Margery asked me anxiously when I meant to go home, and was greatly relieved when she found that I did not mean to exceed the limit I had originally fixed to my visit. She" His brother says that after that he will was comfortable enough, she said, but they were an unsociable set, and did not live in the least like English servants. At about eight in the morning every one went down, took a little bowl from a shelf on the wall, got it filled with cafe au lait, and drank it with a little bit of bread-and-butter, standing. There was nothing like breakfast table, and nobody thought of sitting down. They then all dispersed, and did not meet again until after our dejeûner a la fourchette at about twelve, when they had their second breakfast. This was devoured in all haste, "The boat! where's the boat! let me see after which they again separated. There the boat!" cried Monsieur Kiowski, throwwas nothing like a servants'-hall, as in our ing himself impetuously into the spirit of great houses, and no assembling in the the thing, and nearly overturning the table kitchen as in our small ones. The men- in the wild excitement with which he tore servants remained by themselves, and the women sat entirely in their own rooms. Excellent rooms they were, Margery told me; large, airy, with every comfort, and a look of prettiness and elegance that was quite unknown with us. Supper, which took place after our late dinner, brought them together again, but only for the purpose of eating-which ceremony, like the previous one, was got over as speedily as possible. At breakfast we had Monsieur le Curé, from Marny a stalwart, weather-beatenlooking man, with a demure, rather sly, but not bad countenance. He sat between keep him no more. Dame! It is the third time that it happens!" At last there came a story, in which "la Malheureuse" played a great part, and was repeated with strong reprobatory emphasis. This story was a very long one, and presently reached such an appalling crisis that even poor Madame Olympe, who was, as one may say," to the manner born," could stand it no longer, but calling out, "The boat! the boat!" hastily jumped up from table, and ran to the window. to the window. It was only the boat which I do not think that in the whole course of my life I ever beheld any human creature devour as Monsieur le Curé did: he ate largely of soup, of both the hot dishes and of the three cold ones, besides the salad and 2 |