The Beckoning Hand, and Other Stories Page 14

  _IN STRICT CONFIDENCE._

  I.

  Harry Pallant was never more desperately in love with his wife Louiethan on the night of that delightful dance at the Vernon Ogilvies'. Shewore her pale blue satin, with the low bodice, and her pretty necklet ofrough amber in natural lumps, which her husband had given her for abirthday present just three days earlier. Harry wasn't rich, and hewasn't able to do everything that he could have wished for Louie--ayoung barrister, with no briefs to speak of, even if he ekes out hispetty professional income with literary work, can't afford to spend verymuch in the way of personal adornment upon the ladies of his family--buthe loved his pretty little wife dearly, and nothing pleased him betterthan to see Louie admired as she ought to be by other people. And thatevening, to be sure, she was looking her very sweetest and prettiest.Flushed a little with unwonted excitement, in the glow of an innocentgirlish flirtation, as she stood there talking to Hugh Ogilvie in thedim recess by the door of the conservatory, Harry, watching herunobserved from a nook of the refreshment-room, thought he had never inhis life seen her look more beautiful or more becomingly animated.Animation suited Louie Pallant, and Hugh Ogilvie thought so too, as hehalf whispered his meaningless compliments in her dainty little ear, andnoted the blush that rose quickly to her soft cheek, and the suddendroop of her long eyelashes above her great open hazel-grey eyes.

  "Hugh's saying something pretty to Louie, I'm sure," Harry thought tohimself with a smile of pleasure, as he looked across at the sweetlittle graceful girlish figure. "I can see it at once in her face, andin her hands, playing so nervously with the edge of her fan. Dear child,how she lets one read in her eyes and cheeks her every tiny passingfeeling! Her pretty wee mouth is like an open book! Hugh's telling herconfidentially now that she's the belle of the evening. And so she is;there's not a doubt about it. Not a girl in the place fit to hold acandle to my Louie; especially when she blushes--she's sweet when sheblushes. Now she's colouring up again. By Jove, yes, he must bepositively making love to her. There's nothing I enjoy so much as seeingLouie enjoying herself, and being made much of. Too many girls, brightyoung girls, when they marry early, as Louie has done, settle down atonce into household drudges, and never seem to get any happiness worthmentioning out of their lives in any way. I won't let it be so withLouie. Dear little soul, she shall flit about as much as she likes, andenjoy herself as the fancy seizes her, like a little butterfly, justlike a butterfly. I love to see it!" And he hugged one clasped hand uponthe other silently.

  Whence the astute reader will readily infer that Harry Pallant was stillmore or less in love with his wife Louie, although they had been marriedfor five years and upwards.

  Presently Louie and Hugh went back into the ballroom, and for the firsttime Harry noticed that the music had struck up some minutes since forthe next waltz, for which he was engaged to Hugh's sister, Mrs. WetherbyFerrand. He started hastily at the accusing sound, for in watching hiswife he had forgotten his partner. Returning at once in search of Mrs.Ferrand, he found her sitting disconsolate in a corner waiting for him,and looking (as was natural) not altogether pleased at his ungallanttreatment.

  "So you've come at last, Harry!" Mrs. Ferrand said, with evident pique.They had been friends from childhood, and knew one another well enoughto use both their Christian names and the critical freedom of oldintimacy.

  "Yes, Dora, I've come at last," Harry answered, with an apologetic bow,as he offered her his arm, "and I'm so sorry I've kept you waiting; butthe fact is I was watching Louie. She's been dancing with Hugh, and shelooks perfectly charming, I think, this evening."

  Mrs. Ferrand bit her lip. "She does," she answered coldly, with half apout. "And you were so busy watching her, it seems, you forgot all about_me_, Harry."

  Harry laughed. "It was pardonable under the circumstances, you know,Dora," he said lightly. "If it had been the other way, now, Louie mighthave had some excuse for being jealous."

  "Who said I was jealous?" Mrs. Ferrand cried, colouring up. "Jealous ofyou, indeed! What right have I got to be jealous of you, Harry? She maydance with Hugh all night long, for all I care for it. She's danced withhim now three times already, and I dare say she'll dance with him asoften again. You men are too conceited. You always think every woman onearth is just madly in love with you."

  "My dear child," Harry answered, with a faint curl of his lip, "youquite misunderstand me. Heaven knows I at least am not conceited. Whaton earth have I got to be conceited of? I never thought any woman was inlove with me in all my life except Louie; and what in the name ofgoodness even she can find to fall in love with in me--a fellow likeme--positively passes my humble comprehension."

  "She's going to dance the next waltz but one with Hugh, he tells me,"Mrs. Ferrand replied drily, as if changing the conversation.

  "Is she? Hugh's an excellent fellow," Harry answered carelessly, restingfor a moment a little aside from the throng, and singling out Louie atonce with his eye among the whirling dancers. "Ah, there she is, overyonder. Do you see?--there, with that Captain Vandeleur. How sweetly shedances, Dora! And how splendidly she carries herself! I declare, she'sthe very gracefullest girl in all the room here."

  Mrs. Ferrand dropped half a mock curtsey. "A polite partner would havesaid 'bar one,' Harry," she murmured petulantly. "How awfully in lovewith her you are, my dear boy. It must be nice to have a man soperfectly devoted to one.... And I don't believe either she halfappreciates you. Some women would give their very eyes, do you know, tobe as much loved by any man as she's loved by you, Harry." And shelooked at him significantly.

  "Well, but Ferrand----"

  "Ah, poor Wetherby! Yes, yes; of course, of course, I quite agree withyou. You're always right, Harry. Poor Wetherby is the worthiest of men,and in his own way does his very best, no doubt, to make me happy. Butthere is devotion and devotion, Harry. _Il y a fagots et fagots._ Poordear Wetherby is no more capable----"

  "Dora, Dora, for Heaven's sake, I beg of you, no confidences. As a legalman, I must deprecate all confidences, otherwise than strictly in theway of business. What got us first into this absurd groove, I wonder? Ohyes, I remember--Louie's dancing. Shall we go on again? You must havegot your breath by this time. Why, what's the matter, Dora? You lookquite pale and flurried."

  "Nothing, Harry. Nothing--nothing, I assure you. Not quite so tight,please; go quietly--I'm rather tired.... Yes, that'll do, thank you.The room's so very hot and close this evening. I can hardly breathe, Ifeel so stifled. Tight-lacing, I suppose poor dear Wetherby would say. Ideclare, Louie isn't dancing any longer. How very odd! She's gone backagain now to sit by Hugh there. What on earth can be the reason, Iwonder!"

  "Captain Vandeleur's such an awfully bad waltzer, you know," Harryanswered unconcernedly. "I dare say she was glad enough to make someexcuse or other to get away from him. The room's so very hot andstifling."

  "Oh, you think so," and Dora Ferrand gave a quiet little smile, as onewho sees clearly below the surface. "I dare say. And she's not sorryeither to find some good reason for another ten minutes' chat with Hugh,I fancy."

  But Harry, in his innocence, never noticed her plain insinuation. "He'sas blind as a bat," Dora Ferrand thought to herself, halfcontemptuously. "Just like poor dear Wetherby! Poor dear Wetherby neversuspects anything! And that girl Louie doesn't half appreciate Harryeither. Just like me, I suppose, with that poor dear stupid oldstockbroker. Stockbroker, indeed! What in the name of all that'ssensible could ever have induced me to go and marry a blind old stick ofa wealthy stockbroker? If Harry and I had only our lives to liveagain--but there, what's the use of bothering one's head about it? We'veonly got one life apiece, and that we generally begin by making a mullof."

  II.

  Three days later Harry Pallant went down as usual to his rooms in theTemple, and set to work upon his daily labour. The first envelope heopened of the batch upon his table was from the editor of the _YoungPeople's Monitor_. It contained the week's correspondence. HarryPallant glanced over the contents hastily, and sin
gled out a fewenclosures from the big budget with languid curiosity.

  Of course everybody knows the _Young People's Monitor_. It is one of themost successful among the penny weeklies, and in addition to itssensational stories and moral essays, it gives advice gratis to all andsundry in its correspondence columns upon every conceivable subject thatour common peccant or ignorant humanity can possibly inquire about. Now,Harry Pallant happened to be the particular person employed by theeditor of this omniscient journal to supply the answers to the weeklyshoals of anxious interrogators _de omni scibili_. His legal learningcame in handy for the purpose, and being a practised London journalistas well, his knowledge of life stood him in good stead at this strangepiece of literary craftsmanship. But the whole affair was "in strictconfidence," as the _Monitor_ announced. It was a point of honourbetween himself and the editor that the secret of the correspondencecolumn should be jealously guarded from all and several; so HarryPallant, accustomed, lawyer-like, to keeping secrets, had nevermentioned his connection with the _Monitor_ in this matter even toLouie. It came as part of his week's work at his chambers in the Temple,and it was duly finished and sent off to press, without note or comment,on the same day, in true business-like barrister fashion.

  The first letter that Harry opened and listlessly glanced through withhis experienced eye was one of the staple _Monitor_ kind--Stella orEuphemia had quarrelled, in a moment of pique, with her lover, and wasnow dying of anxiety to regain his affections. Harry scribbled a fewwords of kindly chaff and sound advice in reply upon a blank sheet ofvirgin foolscap, and tossed the torn fragments of letter number one intothe capacious mouth of his waste-paper basket.

  The second letter requested the editor's candid opinion upon a shortset of amateur verses therewith enclosed. Harry's candid opinion,muttered to himself beneath his moustache, was too unparliamentary forinsertion in full; but he toned its verbal expression down a little inhis written copy, and passed on hastily to the others in order.

  "Camilla" would like to know, in strict confidence (thrice underlined),what is the editor's opinion of her style of handwriting. "A Draper'sAssistant" is desirous to learn how the words "heterogeneous" and"Beethoven" are usually pronounced in the best society. "Senex," havinghad a slight difference as to the buttered toast with his presentlandlady (in whose house he has lodged for forty years), would be gladof any advice as to how, at his age, he is to do without her. "H. J. K."has just read with much surprise a worthless pamphlet, proving that theinhabitants of the northern divisions of Staffordshire and Warwickshireare the lost Ten Tribes of Israel, and cannot imagine how this recklessassertion can be scripturally reconciled with the plain statements ofthe prophet Habakkuk, which show that the descendants of Manasseh arereally to be looked for in the county of Sligo. And so forth, thoughevery variety of male feebleness and feminine futility, in answer to allwhich Harry turned off his hasty rejoinder with the dexterous easeacquired of long practice and familiar experience.

  At last he came in due course to a small white envelope, of better paperand style than the others, marked "17" in red pencil on the back in theformal hand of the systematic editor. He turned it over with mechanicalcarelessness. To his immense amusement and no little surprise, he saw atonce, by the writing of the address, that the note came from his ownLouie!

  What could Louie have to ask of advice or information from the anonymouseditor of the _Young People's Monitor_?

  He stood for a moment, with a quiet smile playing about his lips,thinking to himself that he had often wondered whether he should everget a letter thus incognito from any person among his privateacquaintances. And now he had got one from Louie herself. How veryfunny! How truly ridiculous! And how odd too that she shouldn't evenhave told him beforehand she was going to write for counsel orassistance to the _Young People's Monitor_!

  And then a strange doubt flashed idly for a moment across his mind--adoubt that he felt immediately ashamed of. What possible subject couldthere be on which Louie could want advice and aid from an editor, astranger, an unknown and anonymous impersonal entity, rather than fromhim, Harry, her own husband, her natural guide, assistant, andcounsellor? It was odd, very odd--nay, even disquieting. Harry hardlyknew what to make of the unexpected episode.

  But next moment he had dismissed his doubts, though he stood stilltoying with the unopened envelope. He was half afraid to look inside it.Louie had only written, he felt sure, about some feminine trifle orother, some foolish point of petty etiquette--how to fold napkinsmitre-fashion, or whether "P.P.O." cards should be turned down at theupper right or the lower left-hand corner--some absurd detail aboutwhich she would have laughed outright at his personal opinion, but woulddefer at once to the dignity of print, and the expressed verdict of the_Young People's Monitor_. So great is the power of printer's ink, thatif you say a thing face to face, your own wife even will take no noticeof it; but if you set it up in type anonymously, she, and the world atlarge to boot, will treat it like an inspired oracle in stone fallendown direct from the seventh heaven.

  And yet somehow Harry Pallant couldn't make up his mind at once to breakopen the tiny envelope of that mysterious, incomprehensible letter.

  At last he broke it, and read it hurriedly. As he did so a terrible,ominous pang came across his heart, and the writing, familiar as it was,swam illegibly in dancing lines before his strained and aching vision.

  "Dear Mr. Editor," the letter began, somewhat shakily, "you give your advice and assistance to many people. Will you give it to me? Will you help me? Will you save me?

  "This is my position. I was married young to a man I did not love, but liked and respected. I thought love would come afterwards. It never came. On the contrary, the longer I have lived with him the less I care for him. Not that he is unkind to me--he is good enough and generous enough in all conscience; but he inspires me with no affection and no enthusiasm. Till lately this was all I felt. I did not love him, but I jogged along comfortably somehow.

  "Now, however, I find to my dismay that I am in love--not with him, but with another man a hundred times more congenial to my tastes and feelings in every way. I have done no wrong, but I think of him and live in him all my time. I cannot for a moment dismiss him from my thoughts. Oh, what am I to do? Tell me, help me!

  "I can never love my husband--of that I am certain. I can never leave off loving the other--of that I am still more confident. Can you advise me? Can you relieve me? This torture is too terrible. It is killing me--killing me.

  "Yours ever, in strict confidence, "EGERIA."

  Harry Pallant gazed at that awful accusing letter in blank horror andspeechless bewilderment. He could not even cry or groan. He could notutter a word or shed a tear. The shock was so sudden, so crushing, sounexpected, so irretrievable!

  He had never till that moment in the faintest degree doubted that Louieloved him as he loved her--devotedly, distractedly.

  Why, that very morning, before he came away on his journey to theTemple, Louie had kissed him so tenderly and affectionately, and calledhim "darling," and wished he hadn't always to go to that horrid City.How the memory stung him!

  Yes; that was the hardest thought of all. If Louie wrote it, Louie was ahypocrite. Not only did she not now love him--not only had she neverloved him, but, lowest depth of misery and shame, she had pretended tolove him when in her heart of hearts she hated and despised him. Hecouldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. In her own words, it wastoo terrible!

  If Louie wrote it? He turned the letter over once more. Ah, yes, therewas no denying it. It was Louie's handwriting--Louie's, Louie's. Hisbrain reeled, but he could not doubt it or palter over it for a moment.Not even disguised--her very own handwriting. It was the seal of doomfor him, yet he could not even pretend to disbelieve it.

  He sat there long, incapable of realizing the full horror of thatcrushing, destroying, annihilating disclosure. It was useless trying torealize it--thank God for that! It
so dazed and stunned and staggeredand bewildered him that he fell for a time into a sort of hopelesslethargy, and felt and saw and thought of nothing.

  At last he roused himself. He must go out. He rose from the table by thedingy window, took up his hat dreamily in his hand, and walked down thestairs, out of the gateway, and into the full tide of life and bustle inbusy Fleet Street.

  The cooler air upon his forehead and the sight of so many hurrying,active figures sobered and steadied him. He walked with rapid strides asfar as Charing Cross Station, and then back again. After that, he cameinto his chambers once more, sat down resolutely at his table byhimself, and began to write in a trembling shaky hand his answer to"Egeria."

  How often he had written a different answer to just the same type oftragic little letter--an answer of the commonplace conventionalmorality, a small set sermon on the duties of wives and the rights ofhusbands--as though there was nothing more in that fearful disclosurethan the merest fancy; and now, when at last it touched himself, howprofoundly awful in their mockery of the truth those baldly respectableanswers seemed to him!

  "EGERIA.--Your letter shall be treated, as you wish, in strict confidence. No one but ourselves shall ever know of it. You need not fear that H. P. will any longer prove a trouble to you. By the time you read this you will have learnt, or will shortly learn, that he is not in a position to cause you further discomfort. This is the only intimation you will receive of his intention. You will understand what it all means soon after you read this communication."

  He rang the hand-bell on the table for his boy, put the answers into along blue envelope, and said mechanically in a dry voice, "To the _YoungPeople's Monitor_. For press immediately." The boy nodded a mute assent,and took them off to the office in silent obedience.

  As soon as he was gone Harry Pallant locked the door, flung himself uponthe table with his head buried madly in his arms, and sobbed aloud interrible despondency. He had found at least the relief of tears.

  There was only one comfort. He was fully insured, and Hugh Ogilvie was arich man. Louie at least would be well provided for. He cared fornothing except for Louie. If Louie was happier--happier without him,what further need had he got for living?

  He had never thought before of Hugh, but now, now, Dora's words cameback to him at once, and he saw it all--he saw it all plainly.

  Heaven be praised, they had no children! If they had had children--well,well, as things now stood, he could do what was best for Louie'shappiness.

  III.

  For the next two days Louie could not imagine what sudden change hadcome so inexplicably over Harry Pallant. He was quite as tender and asgentle as ever, but so silent, sad, and incomprehensible. Louie coaxedhim and petted him in vain; the more she made of him the more Harryseemed to retreat within himself, and the less could she understand whaton earth he was thinking of.

  On the Thursday night, when Harry came back from his work in the City,he said to Louie in an off-hand tone, "Louie, I think of running downto-morrow to dear old Bilborough."

  "What for, darling?"

  "Well, you know, I've been fearfully out of sorts lately--worried orsomething--and I think three or four days at the seaside would be allthe better for me--and for you too, darling. Let's go to the Red Lion,Louie. I've telegraphed down to-night for rooms, and I dare say--I shallget rid there of whatever's troubling me."

  The Red Lion at Bilborough was the hotel at which they had passed theirhoneymoon, and where they had often gone at various times since fortheir summer holiday. Louie was delighted at the proposed trip, andsmoothed her husband's hair softly with her hand.

  "My darling," she said, "I'm so glad you're going there. I've noticedfor the last few days you looked fagged and worried. But Bilborough'sjust the right place. Bilborough always sets you up again."

  Harry smiled a faint, unhappy smile. "I've no doubt," he answeredevasively, "I shall leave all my trouble behind at Bilborough."

  They started by the early train next day, Louie hastily packing theirlittle portmanteau overnight, and got down to Bilborough before noon. Assoon as they were fairly settled in at the Lion, Harry kissed his wifetenderly, and, with a quiet persistence in his voice said, on a sudden,"Louie, I think I shall go and have a swim before lunch-time."

  "A swim, Harry! So soon?--already?"

  "Yes," Harry answered, with a twitching mouth, and looking at hernervously. "There's nothing like a swim you know, Louie, to wash awaythe cobwebs of London."

  "Well, don't be long, darling," Louie said, with some undisguisedanxiety. "I've ordered lunch, remember, for one."

  "For one, Louie?" Harry cried with a start. "Why for one, dearest? Idon't understand you.... Oh, I see. How very stupid of me! Yes, yes,I'll be back by one o'clock.... That is to say, if I'm not back, don'tyou wait lunch for me."

  He moved uneasily to the door, and then he turned back again with atimid glance, and drew a newspaper slowly from his pocket. "I've broughtdown this morning's _Young People's Monitor_ with me, Louie," he said,in a tremulous voice, after a short pause. "I know you sometimes like tosee it."

  He watched her narrowly to observe the effect, but Louie took it fromhim without a visible tremor. "Oh, I'm so glad, Harry," she said in hernatural tone, without betraying the least excitement. "How awfully kindof you to get it for me! There's something in it I wanted to see about."

  Something in it she wanted to see about! Harry's heart stood still for asecond within him! What duplicity! What temerity! What a terriblemixture of seeming goodness and perfect composure! And yet it was Louie,and he couldn't help loving her! He kissed her once more--a long, hardkiss--upon the forehead, and went out, leaving her there with the paperclasped tightly in her small white fingers. Though she said nothing hecould see that her fingers trembled as she held it. Yes yes, there couldbe no doubt about it; she was eagerly expecting the answer--the fatalanswer--the answer to "Egeria" in the correspondence column.

  IV.

  Louie stood long at the window, with the paper still clutched eagerly inher hand, afraid to open it and read the answer, and yet longing to knowwhat the _Young People's Monitor_ had to say in reply to "Egeria." Soshe watched Harry go down to the bathing machines and enter one--it wasstill early in the season, and he had no need to wait; and then shewatched them turning the windlass and letting it run down upon theshelving beach; and then she watched Harry swimming out and stemming thewaves in his bold, manly fashion--he was a splendid swimmer; and afterthat, unable any longer to restrain her curiosity, she tore the paperopen with her finger, and glanced down the correspondence column tillshe reached the expected answer to "Egeria."

  She read it over wondering and trembling, with a sudden awful sense ofthe editor's omniscience as she saw the letters "H. P."--her husband'sinitials--Harry Pallant. "H. P.!" what could he mean by it? And then avague dread came across her soul. What could "Egeria" and the editor ofthe _Young People's Monitor_ have to do with Harry Pallant?

  She read it over again and again. How terrifying! how mysterious! howdimly incomprehensible! Who on earth could have told the editor--thatimpersonal entity--that "Egeria's" letter had any connection with herown husband, Harry Pallant? And yet he must have known it--evidentlyknown it. And she herself had never suspected the allusion. Yes, yes, itwas clear to her now; the man about whom "Egeria" had written wasHarry--Harry--Harry--Harry. Could it have been that that had so troubledhim of late? She couldn't bear to distrust Harry; but it must have beenthat, and nothing else. Harry was in love with Dora Ferrand; or, if not,Dora Ferrand was in love with Harry, and Harry knew it, and was afraidhe might yield to her, and had ran away from her accordingly. He hadcome to Bilborough on purpose to escape her--to drag himself away fromher--to try to forget her. Oh, Harry, Harry!--and she loved him sotruly. To think he should deceive her--to think he should keep anythingfrom her! It was too terrible--too terrible! She couldn't bear to thinkit, and yet the evidence forced it upon her.

  But how did the editor ever come to
know about it? And what was thismysterious, awful message that he gave Dora about Harry Pallant?

  "You need not fear that H. P. will any longer prove a trouble to you."Why? Did Harry mean to leave London altogether? Was he afraid to trusthimself there with Dora Ferrand? Did he fear that she would steal hisheart in spite of him? Oh, Dora, Dora! the shameless creature! WhenLouie came to think it all over, her effrontery and her wickedness wereabsolutely appalling.

  She sat there long, turning the paper over helplessly in her hand,reading its words every way but the right way, pondering over what Harryhad said to her that morning, putting her own interpretation uponeverything, and forgetting even to unpack her things and make herselfready for lunch in the coffee-room.

  Presently, a crowd upon the beach below languidly attracted her passingattention. The coastguard from the look-out was gesticulatingfrantically, and a group of sailors were seizing in haste upon a boat onthe foreshore. They launched it hurriedly and pulled with all theirmight outward, the people on the beach gathering thicker meanwhile, andall looking eagerly towards some invisible object far out to sea, in thedirection of the Race with the dangerous current. Louie's heart sankominously within her. At that very moment the chambermaid of the hotelrushed in with a pale face, and cried out in merciless haste, "Oh,ma'am, Mrs. Pallant! quick! quick!--he's drowning! he's drowning! Mr.Pallant's swum too far out, and's got into the Race, and they've put theboat off to try and save him!"

  In a second, half the truth flashed terribly upon Louie Pallant'sdistracted intelligence. She saw that it was Harry himself who wrote thecorrespondence for the _Young People's Monitor_, and that he had swumout to sea of his own accord to the end of his tether, on purpose todrown himself as if by accident. But she didn't yet perceive, obvious asit seemed, that Harry thought she herself had written "Egeria's" letterin her own person. She thought still he was in love with Dora, and haddrowned himself because he couldn't tear himself away from her for ever.

  V.

  They brought Harry Pallant ashore, cold and lifeless, and carried him upin haste to the hotel. There the village doctor saw him at once, anddetected a faint tremor of the heart. At the end of an hour the lungsbegan to act faintly of themselves, and the heart beat a little in somefeeble fashion.

  With care Harry Pallant came round, but it took a week or two before hewas himself again, and Louie nursed him meanwhile in fear andtrembling, with breathless agony. She had one consolation--Harry lovedher. In the long nights the whole truth dawned upon her, clear andcertain. She saw how Harry had opened the letter, had jumped at once tothe natural conclusion, and had tried to drown himself in order torelease her. Oh, why had he not trusted her? Why had he not asked her? Awoman naturally thinks like that; a man knows in his own soul that a mancould never possibly do so.

  She dared not tell him yet, for fear of a relapse. She could only waitand watch, and nurse him tenderly. And all the time she knew hedistrusted her--knew he thought her a hypocrite and a traitor. ForHarry's sake she had to bear it.

  At last, one day, when he was getting very much stronger, and could situp in a chair and look bitterly out at the sea, she said to him in agentle voice, very tentatively, "Harry, Dora Ferrand and her husbandhave gone to spend the summer in Norway."

  Harry groaned. "How do you know?" he asked. "Has Hugh written to you?What is it to us? Who told you about it?"

  Louie bit her lip hard to keep back the tears. "Dora telegraphed to meherself," she answered softly. "She telegraphed to me as soon asever"--she hesitated a moment--"as soon as ever she saw your answer toher in the _Monitor_."

  Harry's face grew white with horror. "My answer to _her_!" he cried in aghastly voice, not caring to ask at the moment how Louie came to know itwas he who wrote the answers in the _Young People's Monitor_. "My answerto _you_, you mean, Louie. It was your letter--yours, not Dora's. Youcan't deceive me. I read it myself. My poor child, I saw yourhandwriting."

  It was an awful thing that, in spite of all, he must have it out withher against his will; but he would not flinch from it--he would settleit then and there, once and for ever. She had introduced it herself; shehad brought it down upon her own head. He would not flinch from it. Itwas his duty to tell her.

  Louie laid her hand upon his arm. He did not try to cast it off."Harry," she said, imploringly, persuasively, "there is a terriblemistake here--a terrible misunderstanding. It was unavoidable; you couldnot possibly have thought otherwise. But oh, Harry, if you knew thesuffering you have brought upon me, you would not speak so, darling--youwould not speak so."

  Harry turned towards her passionately and eagerly. "Then you didn't wantme to die, Louie?" he cried in a hoarse voice. "You didn't really wantto get rid of me?"

  Louie withdrew her hand hastily as if she had been stung. "Harry," shegasped, as well as she was able, "you misunderstood that letteraltogether. It was not mine--it was Dora Ferrand's. Dora wrote it, and Ionly copied it. If you will listen a minute I will tell you all, allabout it."

  Harry flung himself back half incredulously on his chair, but with anew-born hope lighting up in part the gloom of his recovered existence.

  "I went over to Dora Ferrand's the day after the Ogilvies' dance," Louiebegan tremulously, "and I found Dora sitting in her boudoir writing aletter. I walked up without being announced, and when Dora saw me shescreamed a little, and then she grew as red as fire, and burst outcrying, and tried to hide the letter she was writing. So I went up toher and began to soothe her, and asked her what it was, and wanted toread it. And Dora cried for a long time, and wouldn't tell me, and wasdreadfully penitent, and said she was very, very miserable. So I said,'Dora, is there anything wrong between you and Mr. Ferrand?' And shesaid, 'Nothing, Louie; I give you my word of honour, nothing. PoorWetherby's as kind to me as anybody could be. But----' And then shebegan crying again as if her heart would burst, worse than ever. And Itook her head on my shoulder, and said to her, 'Dora, is it that youfeel you don't love him?' And Dora was in a dreadfully penitent fit, andshe flung herself away from me, and said to me, 'Oh, Louie, don't touchme! Don't kiss me! Don't come near me! I'm not fit to associate with agirl like you, dear.... Oh, Louie, I don't love him; and--what'sworse--I love somebody else, darling.' Well, then, of course, I washorribly shocked, and I said, 'Dora, Dora, this is awfully wicked ofyou!' And Dora cried worse than before, and sobbed away, and wouldn't becomforted. And there was a copy of the _Monitor_ lying on the table, andI saw it open at the correspondence, and I said, 'Were you writing foradvice to the _Monitor_, Dora?' And she looked up and nodded 'Yes.' So Icoaxed her and begged her to show me the letter, and at last she showedit to me; but she wouldn't tell me who she was in love with, Harry; and,oh, Harry, my darling, my darling, I never so much as dreamt of itsbeing you, dear--the thought never even crossed my mind. I ran overeverybody I could imagine she'd taken a fancy to, but I never for amoment thought of you, darling. I suppose, Harry, I loved you too dearlyeven to suspect it. And then, I dare say, Dora saw I didn't suspect it;but, anyhow, she went on and finished the letter--it was nearly donewhen I came in to her--and after that she said she couldn't bear to sendit in her own handwriting, for fear anybody should know her andrecognize it. So I said if she liked I'd copy it out for her, for bythat time I was crying just as hard as she was, and so sorry for her andfor poor Mr. Ferrand; and it never struck me that anybody could everpossibly think that I wrote it about myself. And--and--and that's all,Harry."

  Harry listened, conscience-smitten, to the artless recital, which boreits own truth on the very surface of it, as it fell from Louie'strembling lips, and then he held her off at arm's length when she triedto fall upon his neck and kiss him, whispering in a loud undertone, "Oh,Louie, Louie, don't, don't! I don't deserve it! I have been toowicked--too mistrustful!"

  Louie drew forth a letter from her pocket and handed it to him silently.It was in Dora's handwriting. He read it through in breathless anxiety.

  "Louie,--I dare not call you anything else now. You know it all by this time. We
have heard about Harry's accident from your sister. Nobody but ourselves knows it was not an accident. And I have seen the answer in the _Monitor_. Of course Harry wrote it. I see it all now. You can never forgive me. It is I who have brought all this misery upon you. I am a wretched woman. Do not reproach me--I reproach myself more bitterly than anything you could say would ever reproach me. But don't forgive me and pity me either. If you forgive me I shall have to kill myself. It's all over now. I will do the only thing that remains for me--keep out of your way and his for ever. Poor Wetherby is going to take me for the summer to Norway, as I telegraphed to you. We are just starting. When we return we shall winter in Italy. I will leave London in future altogether. Nobody but our three selves need ever know or suspect the reason. Harry will recover, and you two will be happy yet. But I--I shall be as miserable for ever, as I truly deserve to be.

  "Your wretched friend, "D. F."

  Harry crumpled up the letter bitterly in his hand. "Poor soul," he said."Louie, I forgive her. Can I myself ever hope for forgiveness?"

  Louie flung herself fiercely upon him. "My darling," she cried, "we willalways trust one another in future. You couldn't help it, Harry. It wasimpossible for you to have judged otherwise. But oh, my darling, what Ihave suffered! Let us forgive her. Harry, and let us love one anotherbetter now."