'It is impossible, Count Ernest; my life flows from me; see, I am bleeding-ill-I sink-Í faint-I cannot sign.'

'You can sign. You are neither dead nor dying, and you must sign. Captain Warburton and these gentlemen, pointing to the gendarmes, will be witnesses to your signature. If you refuse, you know what I can and will do. I stay by you till you write me your name on that paper, afterwards, I shall consign you to better care than mine.'

The Pole was a figure to gratify revenge while he sat there with his unsightly wound and strange pallor, and with shaking fingers wrote his faint signature. Captain Warburton came forward and entered his own name as witness, in letters of a size and strength which might be accepted as a type of his satisfaction in the task.

Now this work is done,' said the Count, you have signed your shame you have unsaid your slanders-you have avowed your atrocious project for making yourself master of the estates of Hildenburg-you have sworn never to return to this Duchy-you have put your name to the innocence of your wife you have confessed yourself a swindler, a liar, and a miscreant; we all know you to be a coward, and more might be told against you, and we might retain you here for further punishment; but why should we look upon abomination, or what can we desire so much as your departure? You shall go; upon my responsibility you shall go; I consign you for the present to the care of these officers, who will be the companions in due time of your journey forward to Paris. If you ever reappear in these dominions, it will be at the risk of your liberty, or perhaps of your life. Gentlemen, take your prisoner away.'

Seeking to conceal his complete humiliation under the semblances of a severe physical suffering, the Pole was led off by the gendarmes.

Ernest now turned to Captain Warburton, and fervently grasped his hand. It is done,' said he;

VOL. LXIV. NO. CCCLXXIX.

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it is done; yet not all; no, not all. God forgive me for the temptation that besieged me when I threw that knife away. He is disfigured, Captain, he is disfigured, I think, for life; he will carry on his face that recollection of me; but I did not strike him purposely, for how could I do a coward's act? Oh, Captain, had I but stood there without a friend near me. Could we but have met alone, man to man.'

I can perfectly understand that wish, Count Ernest; I can guess how much it must have cost you not to fall upon him-not to destroy him utterly, and pound him to death and crush him to powder; but you were right to hold back, and I respect you for it.'

This was a great admission from the Captain, who esteemed himself so highly that there was little room left for respect for other men ; but he had rendered a service to the Count, and this expression of approbation might have proved on a strict analysis nothing more than a residue from an increased quantity of self-conceit on that account, only he was agitated and had no time for introspection, nor was introspection the habit of his mind.

'Well, I must say,' he continued, it is a very lucky thing that I saw what the infernal dirty brute the sneaking, treacherous hound was up to with his knife. You know I always admired his sleight of hand, and I can tell you he was marvellously quick in whipping out his weapon. It is a good thing he had not all slow people to deal with; his next step, of course, would have been a dash out of the window, and your dull German police would never have dashed after him. I should like to see them try it; he would not have been caught, he would have been a murderer let loose on society, and your death, Count, would never have been properly paid for. Those gendarmes of yours take it all out in size. Confounded staring louts they are large and lazy. It is well that we were too much for him without them.'

'Yes, Captain, it is well, for I

F

have much left to do; but the task is hard. Oh! Dorothea. You are an only child, Captain Warburton. I remember I have heard you lament it; but when you go home to-night fall down upon your knees and thank God that he has not given you a sister. Farewell for the present; I must be alone with her for a little while.'

Richard silently wrung the hand which was extended to him, and went out of doors to seek the relief of fresh air for unaccustomed emotions that made his eyes moist and his steps less steady than usual, while Ernest unlocked and opened the door of the apartment where he had left the Countess.

The feelings which shook the brother's heart and disordered his aspect when he went to his cruel duty, deepened when he saw his sister in her position of abject misery. Crouched in a remote corner of the room as if in a passion of terror, her head buried on her knees, she was rocking to and fro as those do who are in sharp bodily pain, seeking to ease it by mechanical exercise. The dark bonnet and shawl which had been used to conceal her face and figure had been cast away on the ground, probably with an impetuous action, for her yellow hair was hanging loose about her. She pushed it back from her face at the sound of the door opening, and the sight of Ernest, with his altered looks and his dress stained here and there with the marks of blood, startled her with a new fear; she rose and shrilly called upon her brother to say what he had done with the man from whose side he had torn her. She called upon him to answer for each drop of blood she saw, and demanded how he dared to enter her presence with the signs of his murder showing on his garments. Then he remaining sternly silent while the tide rolled on-there came an ebbing of this fury, and she sank down again in a hopeless exhaustion. So impetuous now was the flow of her affliction, that the drop of her tears upon her silk dress could be heard like rain. She dragged herself

along with a fresh effort to her brother's feet, and clinging to his knees, cried, 'Brother, brother, hear me-forgive me I know it is not true, I know it is only my wicked dream, and you could not do it, for you said you could not; you promised me, and you cannot lie. Oh! how could I ever think that you could lie; you are neither cruel nor a coward; you are not; I know so well that you are a brave, merciful man; only pity me, pity me tell me the truth, and make me understand it. Ernest, Ernest, I do not know what I am saying; I cannot tell what I have said; you tell me you tell-you who are so much stronger, tell me what has come to pass-help me! help me!'

'Help you? Oh, Dorothea, you have made that difficult. But lift yourself up from this prostration, which is useless; for what is the prostration of the body? Subdue your thoughts, my sister, while you listen to me.'

He raised her as he spoke and placed her in a chair, standing opposite to her, and fixing his eyes steadily upon her while he continued, she at intervals hiding her face and then uncovering it again, and by her changing gestures betraying the moving passions of her soul. To her scared thoughts her brother's voice sounded like the awful voice of the last judgment.

'Dorothea, the man from whose hands I have released you is still alive, but not to you. You will never see him again. You will not have to undergo such punishment as that. These spots of blood which shock your sight are his; they come from a slight cut-a cut I gave him unintentionally in shifting the point of the blade with which he attempted my life. Yes, he attempted my life; but why should you change colour for that? Do you not know that it would have been the least of his crimes, or how should anything touch you now, graceless, trustless, false-hearted? I told you what this man was; you knew it all. Oh, shame! you knew the existence of his wife, and better-much better-you would have done by me if you had long

ago taken that knife from him to strike the blow yourself, that I might not see this day, that I might be cold and dead to your disgrace. But listen to me now. He, like a coward, has cast all the sin on you. He has slandered you with a gross lie. Be still; do not start-do not leave your seat. Give way to no more ecstasies, for we have had too many of them. Be dumb, and let his name never again pass your lips or mine. But hear me, I say, for I must speak. I must speak as the voice of your conscience coming to life after long death. You must confess what you have done-your cruelty and your crime. Have you not betrayed the affianced lover of your choice who trusted you? Have you not given yourself up to a depraved passion? Have you not degraded the name of your father and the image of your mother? You have! You have made yourself a blot upon that long line of virtue which is the just pride of our house. You have invoked dishonour with your corrupt, deceitful heart. But the God whom your mother served has suffered me to save you from the abhorred pollution. Thank him fervently Thank him fervently for that-devoutly, humbly, honestly.'

Brother-brother-brother!'

'What are these sobs for, Dorothea? What is this clamour of grief? Lift your voice in thanksgiving. Can you not see your own salvation, and do you not know what I delivered you from when I stopped you here? Must I name the thing you might have been? I cannot. No, I cannot even now in your presence speak such a word. A lost creature and friendless-do you hear, do you listen to me? What comfort could you have looked for then? The worst, that you had deserved your fate-continual suffering and continual remorse-man's contempt and God's displeasure. I do not know what your thoughts are. Will you hear mine? You have robbed me of my hope and my faith. You have fixed in my soul an endless sorrow and the sting of disgrace. I looked to you in the time of trouble; I built

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up my heart's shelter in your home of peace. Like the senseless architect, I built my house on the loose sand. Yes, such fools we are; and we discover the madness only when we see the ruin. Shortsighted, credulous, heedless, do we not read again and again the records of betrayed affection, the imbecility of all trust, the worthlessness of all enthusiasm, and to no purpose? for we still shape our presumptuous hope and defy past history. We dare our fate, but, poor idiots, we shudder and hide our faces when we see it coming to tread us down. In whose shape does it come upon me? Is this you? Is it really you?

He grasped her hands while he spoke, and looked closely in her face as if to assure himself of the identity of those fair features.

'Is it can it be my sister, my wonderfully beautiful sister, my own dear sister, my little sister?'

These last words came with the sweet sound of other days-came with the influence of early love, and passionate, tender-thoughted tears flowed after them. Dorothea, accustomed to admire in Ernest a model of manly strength, stared wondering in his face.

'Ah,' said he, in reply to that bewildered look, 'you wonder at this sign of weakness, and well you may; but strangely the old days of our childhood came back to me just then, and with them this child's trick-the days of our Ichildhood which have lost their meaning for me now-those days when my sister was so precious to me that the love of her was a part of my heart's religion. It seems to me now nothing more than a delusion of disease-a mere sickness of the brain. Let it go, then; let it go.'

He loosened his grasp, and pushed her hands away from him.

'Only care is left. I take you back to our home to-day; but though it is the home of both, distance will be between us. In an hour's time we leave this place for Badheim. Wretched Dorothea, use that hour for prayer and rest, for you require both.' With his

strong hand he led her sinking, almost dying, to the bedchamber he had ordered for her use, and there he left her to silence and to misery.

CHAPTER XXIII.

While Ernest was going through his bitter trial, Ida was dealing with a new and unexpected trouble at home, which turned her thoughts away from the dismissal of the governess and the grief of Dorothea, and fixed them upon a subject still more painful. It was on the morning of Dorothea's unsuspected flight that Harry sought Ida's side, and began to question her concerning the distress he had found her in, which she had left him without explaining. Her reply was hardly intelligible, and he proceeded to mention to her some hints that had been dropped to him by Célestine de Valincourt, and now and then touched upon by Richard Warburton, of an impending German marriage. Was it true that his cousin was to be a German Countess? Ida replied with passionate energy that it was not true. She was angry: she could not endure to be kneaded into food for the gossips of Badheim, to be the subject of false rumours. Tears rose to her eyes. Harry begged her not to suffer such things to annoy her. It was enough that it was untrue-enough for him, at least. The thought of this German marriage had struck him painfully, but now he felt himself a new man, inspired with a new hope for an urgent suit of his own. In short, Harry Conway entreated Ida to think of him as her lover and her future husband. Ida heard and trembled. It seemed to her that the worst moment had come, and a grievous contention arose in her mind. It appeared equally impossible to her to refuse or to accept Harry's suit. She loved him with a trusting love; but there was a recollection in her heart of a different affection, intense and absorbing -of such a love as Harry might obtain one day from another woman -but not from her. Yet how could

she resolve to banish him from her side, him whom she had looked on as her brother restored, how could she inflict a pang upon him who had come to her in the shape of a comforter, and to her father as a new hope in life? She stood silent, suspended between these thoughts. Harry urged her to speak, and pressed upon her the fact that her father encouraged his hope, and wished him success. On this she called up her courage to reply. She told Harry that her love for him was a sister's love, and entreated him to ask no more. He treated this as an impossible romance. She became stronger in denial as he became stronger in his demands. She loved him too well to deceive him. He could not understand her. If her heart were free, let her grant him time to win it. It was her father's wish. She wept. She begged Harry to desist, and finally she threw herself upon his generosity. She had no aversion to him herself. Where was the hidden obstacle? Her heart, indeed, belonged to no other man, and there was no living rival; but secretly in a whisper she told that there was a recollection. She implored Harry to withdraw his suit; if he persevered in it, he would bring misery upon her. In moving accents she prayed for a happy, tender friendship, which would be the truest blessing to them both. Harry's affection was noble and true. He promised to cease from a solicitation which he saw afflicted her so deeply; but he could not any longer remain as a member of her home. He must tear himself away -he must return at once to England. He left her in order to tell Sir Archibald the result of his appeal, and she remained utterly miserable in the prospect of his departure. She was losing her dearest friend. Her affliction was interrupted by the entrance of her father, from whom she had to endure a long and severe strance. He urged with extraordinary fervour every argument in favour of Harry's proposal. He was a passionate man, and he spoke with the eloquence of passion. He

remon

had cherished in his heart the project of this union. It offered every advantage to his daughter, and revived a dead hope for himself. Harry looked to him like his own son. He might live to see his grandson the heir of Holybrook. Holybrook would again become a happy home.

It was strange to Ida to be appealed to by her father. He spoke to her in the voice of entreaty, and she had to turn to him and say No. It was now that she knew for the first time the power of an angry man. In his reply, indignation and irony were poured down upon her in equal force. She was the subject of all the bitterness that speech is capable of; and when at last Sir Archibald left her presence, with the threat of a future infelicity which she had invited for herself, the tremor of her heart assured her that the rest of life was not to be happy. Aunt Kitty came to her, but it was less to comfort than to exhort, for she hoped to change her resolution; and when she became convinced that this was impossible, she fell into a prolonged expression of regret, with varied pictures of future unhappy consequences. Harry would be lost to them; Sir Archibald would marry Félicie, and become a confirmed gambler; Ida would be driven from her natural home, and live in an inferior position.

Ida had nothing to answer. Her mind was made up, but she was suffering, and could think of no arguments to oppose to these assertions, which might have been extended to any length had not the door been flung violently open to cut the thread of Aunt Kitty's discourse, while Carlotta Schulz burst into the room without any form of salutation, and stood gasping and panting before them, forcing her breath to speak in a high, unnatural key, so high charged with news that it vented itself in a series of sharp explosions.

'Ach! da habe ich so viel geschwitzt, Miss Conway. Miss Ida, I have never so much sweated since the day (and on the 30th of May it was three years ago this thing

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happened) when Miss Twopenny took herself away with the old Major Goldworthy, which was a crafty, ugly, and vicious man, but rich. And Miss Twopenny was my pupil in German, and good heavens! Miss Ida, Countess Dorothea was my pupil in embroideries. I have run like a hare; there has been no one here in advance of me' (she looked anxiously round the room as she spoke); 'I bring the news first, I hope. Oh! I have vowed so strong you shall hear it first from me; but Madame Stein is close on my back, perhaps. It is a hot race. She gallops, but she gallops like a tortoise, she has so much flesh. I am meagre, I thank God; but I have run so hard, see, I have lost my shoe in the race.'

At the name of Dorothea, Ida ran eagerly forward.

Speak, Carlotta; tell at once what you have to tell.'

But Carlotta was too practised a newsmonger to yield up her treasure all at once; she dallied in expletives and reflections.

Ach! it is so dreadful bad to tell, and this story of Miss Twopenny was also a greatly strange event. The Major he was sixtynine, but the Chevalier-ah! the wicked Chevalier! Do not press me, my dear young lady; you shall know only too quick. Have I not lost my shoe? See how my white stocking is spoiled in the dust. I should be grateful for a slipper to borrow.'

Carlotta was ill-advised in the delay she used her antagonist was gaining upon her with every word she spoke; and now, to her dismay, that lady made a vigorous entrance, with both shoes on her feet and one in her hand. With short decided steps she went straight to Ida, and in the weighty accents of her German French gave out the intelligence which the other had held back too long.

Safez-vous, Miss Ida, que la Comtesse Dorothée c'est une forte maufaise fille? It is an infaymous girl.'

'You need not say,' interrupted Carlotta, 'have I not been here five minutes advancing you, and shall