My Lady's Money

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER XXI.

  HARDYMAN went on to the cottage. He found Isabel in some agitation.And there, by her side, with his tail wagging slowly, and his eye onHardyman in expectation of a possible kick--there was the lost Tommie!

  "Has Lady Lydiard gone?" Isabel asked eagerly.

  "Yes," said Hardyman. "Where did you find the dog?"

  As events had ordered it, the dog had found Isabel, under thesecircumstances.

  The appearance of Lady Lydiard's card in the smoking-room had been analarming event for Lady Lydiard's adopted daughter. She was guiltilyconscious of not having answered her Ladyship's note, inclosed inMiss Pink's letter, and of not having taken her Ladyship's advice inregulating her conduct towards Hardyman. As he rose to leave the roomand receive his visitor in the grounds, Isabel begged him to say nothingof her presence at the farm, unless Lady Lydiard exhibited a forgivingturn of mind by asking to see her. Left by herself in the smoking-room,she suddenly heard a bark in the passage which had a familiar sound inher ears. She opened the door--and in rushed Tommie, with one of hisshrieks of delight! Curiosity had taken him into the house. He had heardthe voices in the smoking-room; had recognized Isabel's voice; andhad waited, with his customary cunning and his customary distrust ofstrangers, until Hardyman was out of the way. Isabel kissed and caressedhim, and then drove him out again to the lawn, fearing that Lady Lydiardmight return to look for him. Going back to the smoking-room, she stoodat the window watching for Hardyman's return. When the servants came tolook for the dog, she could only tell them that she had last seen himin the grounds, not far from the cottage. The useless search beingabandoned, and the carriage having left the gate, who should crawl outfrom the back of a cupboard in which some empty hampers were placed butTommie himself! How he had contrived to get back to the smoking-room(unless she had omitted to completely close the door on her return) itwas impossible to say. But there he was, determined this time to staywith Isabel, and keeping in his hiding place until he heard the movementof the carriage-wheels, which informed him that his lawful mistress hadleft the cottage! Isabel had at once called Hardyman, on the chancethat the carriage might yet be stopped. It was already out of sight, andnobody knew which of two roads it had taken, both leading to London. Inthis emergency, Isabel could only look at Hardyman and ask what was tobe done.

  "I can't spare a servant till after the party," he answered. "The dogmust be tied up in the stables."

  Isabel shook her head. Tommie was not accustomed to be tied up. He wouldmake a disturbance, and he would be beaten by the grooms. "I will takecare of him," she said. "He won't leave me."

  "There's something else to think of besides the dog," Hardyman rejoinedirritably. "Look at these letters!" He pulled them out of his pocket ashe spoke. "Here are no less than seven men, all calling themselves myfriends, who accepted my invitation, and who write to excuse themselveson the very day of the party. Do you know why? They're all afraid of myfather--I forgot to tell you he's a Cabinet Minister as well as a Lord.Cowards and cads. They have heard he isn't coming and they think tocurry favor with the great man by stopping away. Come along, Isabel!Let's take their names off the luncheon table. Not a man of them shallever darken my doors again!"

  "I am to blame for what has happened," Isabel answered sadly. "I amestranging you from your friends. There is still time, Alfred, to alteryour mind and let me go."

  He put his arm round her with rough fondness. "I would sacrifice everyfriend I have in the world rather than lose you. Come along!"

  They left the cottage. At the entrance to the tent, Hardyman noticedthe dog at Isabel's heels, and vented his ill-temper, as usual with malehumanity, on the nearest unoffending creature that he could find. "Beoff, you mongrel brute!" he shouted. The tail of Tommie relaxed from itscustomary tight curve over the small of his back; and the legs of Tommie(with his tail between them) took him at full gallop to the friendlyshelter of the cupboard in the smoking-room. It was one of thosetrifling circumstances which women notice seriously. Isabel saidnothing; she only thought to herself, "I wish he had shown his temperwhen I first knew him!"

  They entered the tent.

  "I'll read the names," said Hardyman, "and you find the cards and tearthem up. Stop! I'll keep the cards. You're just the sort of woman myfather likes. He'll be reconciled to me when he sees you, after we aremarried. If one of those men ever asks him for a place, I'll takecare, if it's years hence, to put an obstacle in his way! Here; take mypencil, and make a mark on the cards to remind me; the same mark I setagainst a horse in my book when I don't like him--a cross, inclosed in acircle." He produced his pocketbook. His hands trembled with anger ashe gave the pencil to Isabel and laid the book on the table. He had justread the name of the first false friend, and Isabel had just foundthe card, when a servant appeared with a message. "Mrs. Drumbladehas arrived, sir, and wishes to see you on a matter of the greatestimportance."

  Hardyman left the tent, not very willingly. "Wait here," he said toIsabel; "I'll be back directly."

  She was standing near her own place at the table. Moody had left oneend of the jeweler's case visible above the napkin, to attract herattention. In a minute more the bracelet and note were in her hands. Shedropped on her chair, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions that rosein her at the sight of the bracelet, at the reading of the note. Herhead drooped, and the tears filled her eyes. "Are all women as blindas I have been to what is good and noble in the men who love them?" shewondered, sadly. "Better as it is," she thought, with a bitter sigh; "Iam not worthy of him."

  As she took up the pencil to write her answer to Moody on the back ofher dinner-card, the servant appeared again at the door of the tent.

  "My master wants you at the cottage, miss, immediately."

  Isabel rose, putting the bracelet and the note in the silver-mountedleather pocket (a present from Hardyman) which hung at her belt. In thehurry of passing round the table to get out, she never noticed that herdress touched Hardyman's pocketbook, placed close to the edge, and threwit down on the grass below. The book fell into one of the heat crackswhich Lady Lydiard had noticed as evidence of the neglected condition ofthe cottage lawn.

  "You ought to hear the pleasant news my sister has just brought me,"said Hardyman, when Isabel joined him in the parlor. "Mrs. Drumblade hasbeen told, on the best authority, that my mother is not coming to theparty."

  "There must be some reason, of course, dear Isabel," added Mrs.Drumblade. "Have you any idea of what it can be? I haven't seen mymother myself; and all my inquiries have failed to find it out."

  She looked searchingly at Isabel as she spoke. The mask of sympathy onher face was admirably worn. Nobody who possessed only a superficialacquaintance with Mrs. Drumblade's character would have suspected howthoroughly she was enjoying in secret the position of embarrassment inwhich her news had placed her brother. Instinctively doubting whetherMrs. Drumblade's friendly behavior was quite as sincere as it appearedto be, Isabel answered that she was a stranger to Lady Rotherfield, andwas therefore quite at a loss to explain the cause of her ladyship'sabsence. As she spoke, the guests began to arrive in quick succession,and the subject was dropped as a matter of course.

  It was not a merry party. Hardyman's approaching marriage had been madethe topic of much malicious gossip, and Isabel's character had, as usualin such cases, become the object of all the false reports thatscandal could invent. Lady Rotherfield's absence confirmed the generalconviction that Hardyman was disgracing himself. The men were allmore or less uneasy. The women resented the discovery that Isabelwas--personally speaking, at least--beyond the reach of hostilecriticism. Her beauty was viewed as a downright offense; her refined andmodest manners were set down as perfect acting; "really disgusting,my dear, in so young a girl." General Drumblade, a large and mouldyveteran, in a state of chronic astonishment (after his own matrimonialexperience) at Hardyman's folly in marrying at all, diffused a widecircle of gloom, wherever he went and whatever he did. His accomplishedwife, forcing her high spirits on everyb
ody's attention with a sort ofkittenish playfulness, intensified the depressing effect of the generaldullness by all the force of the strongest contrast. After waiting halfan hour for his mother, and waiting in vain, Hardyman led the way to thetent in despair. "The sooner I fill their stomachs and get rid of them,"he thought savagely, "the better I shall be pleased!"

  The luncheon was attacked by the company with a certain silent ferocity,which the waiters noticed as remarkable, even in their large experience.The men drank deeply, but with wonderfully little effect in raisingtheir spirits; the women, with the exception of amiable Mrs. Drumblade,kept Isabel deliberately out of the conversation that went on amongthem. General Drumblade, sitting next to her in one of the places ofhonor, discoursed to Isabel privately on "my brother-in-law Hardyman'sinfernal temper." A young marquis, on her other side--a mere lad,chosen to make the necessary speech in acknowledgment of his superiorrank--rose, in a state of nervous trepidation, to propose Isabel'shealth as the chosen bride of their host. Pale and trembling, consciousof having forgotten the words which he had learnt beforehand, thisunhappy young nobleman began: "Ladies and gentlemen, I haven't anidea--" He stopped, put his hand to his head, stared wildly, and satdown again; having contrived to state his own case with masterly brevityand perfect truth, in a speech of seven words.

  While the dismay, in some cases, and the amusement in others, was stillat its height, Hardyman's valet made his appearance, and, approachinghis master, said in a whisper, "Could I speak to you, sit, for a momentoutside?"

  "What the devil do you want?" Hardyman asked irritably. "Is that aletter in your hand? Give it to me."

  The valet was a Frenchman. In other words, he had a sense of what wasdue to himself. His master had forgotten this. He gave up the letterwith a certain dignity of manner, and left the tent. Hardyman opened theletter. He turned pale as he read it; crumpled it in his hand, and threwit down on the table. "By G--d! it's a lie!" he exclaimed furiously.

  The guests rose in confusion. Mrs. Drumblade, finding the letter withinher reach, coolly possessed herself of it; recognized her mother'shandwriting; and read these lines:

  "I have only now succeeded in persuading your father to let me writeto you. For God's sake, break off your marriage at any sacrifice. Yourfather has heard, on unanswerable authority, that Miss Isabel Millerleft her situation in Lady Lydiard's house on suspicion of theft."

  While his sister was reading this letter, Hardyman had made his way toIsabel's chair. "I must speak to you, directly," he whispered. "Comeaway with me!" He turned, as he took her arm, and looked at the table."Where is my letter?" he asked. Mrs. Drumblade handed it to him,dexterously crumpled up again as she had found it. "No bad news, dearAlfred, I hope?" she said, in her most affectionate manner. Hardymansnatched the letter from her, without answering, and led Isabel out ofthe tent.

  "Read that!" he said, when they were alone. "And tell me at once whetherit's true or false."

  Isabel read the letter. For a moment the shock of the discovery held herspeechless. She recovered herself, and returned the letter.

  "It is true," she answered.

  Hardyman staggered back as if she had shot him.

  "True that you are guilty?" he asked.

  "No; I am innocent. Everybody who knows me believes in my innocence.It is true the appearances were against me. They are against me still."Having said this, she waited, quietly and firmly, for his next words.

  He passed his hand over his forehead with a sigh of relief. "It's badenough as it is," he said, speaking quietly on his side. "But the remedyfor it is plain enough. Come back to the tent."

  She never moved. "Why?" she asked.

  "Do you suppose I don't believe in your innocence too?" he answered."The one way of setting you right with the world now is for me to makeyou my wife, in spite of the appearances that point to you. I'm too fondof you, Isabel, to give you up. Come back with me, and I will announceour marriage to my friends."

  She took his hand, and kissed it. "It is generous and good of you," shesaid; "but it must not be."

  He took a step nearer to her. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "It was against my will," she pursued, "that my aunt concealed the truthfrom you. I did wrong to consent to it, I will do wrong no more. Yourmother is right, Alfred. After what has happened, I am not fit to beyour wife until my innocence is proved. It is not proved yet."

  The angry color began to rise in his face once more. "Take care," hesaid; "I am not in a humor to be trifled with."

  "I am not trifling with you," she answered, in low, sad tones.

  "You really mean what you say?"

  "I mean it."

  "Don't be obstinate, Isabel. Take time to consider."

  "You are very kind, Alfred. My duty is plain to me. I will marry you--ifyou still wish it--when my good name is restored to me. Not before."

  He laid one hand on her arm, and pointed with the other to the guests inthe distance, all leaving the tent on the way to their carriages.

  "Your good name will be restored to you," he said, "on the day when Imake you my wife. The worst enemy you have cannot associate _my_ namewith a suspicion of theft. Remember that and think a little before youdecide. You see those people there. If you don't change your mind by thetime they have got to the cottage, it's good-by between us, and good-byforever. I refuse to wait for you; I refuse to accept a conditionalengagement. Wait, and think. They're walking slowly; you have got someminutes more."

  He still held her arm, watching the guests as they gradually recededfrom view. It was not until they had all collected in a group outsidethe cottage door that he spoke himself, or that he permitted Isabel tospeak again.

  "Now," he said, "you have had your time to get cool. Will you take myarm, and join those people with me? or will you say good-by forever?"

  "Forgive me, Alfred!" she began, gently. "I cannot consent, in justiceto you, to shelter myself behind your name. It is the name of yourfamily; and they have a right to expect that you will not degrade it--"

  "I want a plain answer," he interposed sternly. "Which is it? Yes, orNo?"

  She looked at him with sad compassionate eyes. Her voice was firm as sheanswered him in one word as he had desired. The word was--

  "No."

  Without speaking to her, without even looking at her, he turned andwalked back to the cottage.

  Making his way silently through the group of visitors--every one of whomhad been informed of what had happened by his sister--with his head downand his lips fast closed, he entered the parlor and rang the bell whichcommunicated with his foreman's rooms at the stables.

  "You know that I am going abroad on business?" he said, when the manappeared.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I am going to-day--going by the night train to Dover. Order the horseto be put to instantly in the dogcart. Is there anything wanted before Iam off?"

  The inexorable necessities of business asserted their claims throughthe obedient medium of the foreman. Chafing at the delay, Hardyman wasobliged to sit at his desk, signing checks and passing accounts, withthe dogcart waiting in the stable yard.

  A knock at the door startled him in the middle of his work. "Come in,"he called out sharply.

  He looked up, expecting to see one of the guests or one of the servants.It was Moody who entered the room. Hardyman laid down his pen, and fixedhis eyes sternly on the man who had dared to interrupt him.

  "What the devil do _you_ want?" he asked.

  "I have seen Miss Isabel, and spoken with her," Moody replied. "Mr.Hardyman, I believe it is in your power to set this matter right. Forthe young lady's sake, sir, you must not leave England without doingit."

  Hardyman turned to his foreman. "Is this fellow mad or drunk?" he asked.

  Moody proceeded as calmly and as resolutely as if those words had notbeen spoken. "I apologize for my intrusion, sir. I will trouble you withno explanations. I will only ask one question. Have you a memorandum ofthe number of that five-hundred pound note you paid away
in France?"

  Hardyman lost all control over himself.

  "You scoundrel!" he cried, "have you been prying into my privateaffairs? Is it _your_ business to know what I did in France?"

  "Is it _your_ vengeance on a woman to refuse to tell her the number of abank-note?" Moody rejoined, firmly.

  That answer forced its way, through Hardyman's anger, to Hardyman'ssense of honor. He rose and advanced to Moody. For a moment the two menfaced each other in silence. "You're a bold fellow," said Hardyman, witha sudden change from anger to irony. "I'll do the lady justice. I'lllook at my pocketbook."

  He put his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat; he searched hisother pockets; he turned over the objects on his writing-table. The bookwas gone.

  Moody watched him with a feeling of despair. "Oh! Mr. Hardyman, don'tsay you have lost your pocketbook!"

  He sat down again at his desk, with sullen submission to the newdisaster. "All I can say is you're at liberty to look for it," hereplied. "I must have dropped it somewhere." He turned impatiently tothe foreman, "Now then! What is the next check wanted? I shall go mad ifI wait in this damned place much longer!"

  Moody left him, and found his way to the servants' offices. "Mr.Hardyman has lost his pocketbook," he said. "Look for it, indoors andout--on the lawn, and in the tent. Ten pounds reward for the man whofinds it!"

  Servants and waiters instantly dispersed, eager for the promised reward.The men who pursued the search outside the cottage divided their forces.Some of them examined the lawn and the flower-beds. Others went straightto the empty tent. These last were too completely absorbed in pursuingthe object in view to notice that they disturbed a dog, eating a stolenlunch of his own from the morsels left on the plates. The dog slunk awayunder the canvas when the men came in, waited in hiding until they hadgone, then returned to the tent, and went on with his luncheon.

  Moody hastened back to the part of the grounds (close to the shrubbery)in which Isabel was waiting his return.

  She looked at him, while he was telling her of his interview withHardyman, with an expression in her eyes which he had never seen in thembefore--an expression which set his heart beating wildly, and made himbreak off in his narrative before he had reached the end.

  "I understand," she said quietly, as he stopped in confusion. "You havemade one more sacrifice to my welfare. Robert! I believe you are thenoblest man that ever breathed the breath of life!"

  His eyes sank before hers; he blushed like a boy. "I have done nothingfor you yet," he said. "Don't despair of the future, if the pocketbookshould not be found. I know who the man is who received the bank note;and I have only to find him to decide the question whether it _is_ thestolen note or not."

  She smiled sadly as his enthusiasm. "Are you going back to Mr. Sharon tohelp you?" she asked. "That trick he played me has destroyed _my_ beliefin him. He no more knows than I do who the thief really is."

  "You are mistaken, Isabel. He knows--and I know." He stopped there, andmade a sign to her to be silent. One of the servants was approachingthem.

  "Is the pocketbook found?" Moody asked.

  "No, sir."

  "Has Mr. Hardyman left the cottage?"

  "He has just gone, sir. Have you any further instructions to give us?"

  "No. There is my address in London, if the pocketbook should be found."

  The man took the card that was handed to him and retired. Moody offeredhis arm to Isabel. "I am at your service," he said, "when you wish toreturn to your aunt."

  They had advanced nearly as far as the tent, on their way out of thegrounds, when they were met by a gentleman walking towards them from thecottage. He was a stranger to Isabel. Moody immediately recognized himas Mr. Felix Sweetsir.

  "Ha! our good Moody!" cried Felix. "Enviable man! you look younger thanever." He took off his hat to Isabel; his bright restless eyes suddenlybecame quiet as they rested on her. "Have I the honor of addressingthe future Mrs. Hardyman? May I offer my best congratulations? What hasbecome of our friend Alfred?"

  Moody answered for Isabel. "If you will make inquiries at the cottage,sir," he said, "you will find that you are mistaken, to say the least ofit, in addressing your questions to this young lady."

  Felix took off his hat again--with the most becoming appearance ofsurprise and distress.

  "Something wrong, I fear?" he said, addressing Isabel. "I am, indeed,ashamed if I have ignorantly given you a moment's pain. Pray acceptmy most sincere apologies. I have only this instant arrived; my healthwould not allow me to be present at the luncheon. Permit me to expressthe earnest hope that matters may be set right to the satisfaction ofall parties. Good-afternoon!"

  He bowed with elaborate courtesy, and turned back to the cottage.

  "Who is that?" Isabel asked.

  "Lady Lydiard's nephew, Mr. Felix Sweetsir," Moody answered, witha sudden sternness of tone, and a sudden coldness of manner, whichsurprised Isabel.

  "You don't like him?" she said.

  As she spoke, Felix stopped to give audience to one of the grooms, whohad apparently been sent with a message to him. He turned so thathis face was once more visible to Isabel. Moody pressed her handsignificantly as it rested on his arm.

  "Look well at that man," he whispered. "It's time to warn you. Mr. FelixSweetsir is the worst enemy you have!"

  Isabel heard him in speechless astonishment. He went on in tones thattrembled with suppressed emotion.

  "You doubt if Sharon knows the thief. You doubt if I know the thief.Isabel! as certainly as the heaven is above us, there stands the wretchwho stole the bank-note!"

  She drew her hand out of his arm with a cry of terror. She looked at himas if she doubted whether he was in his right mind.

  He took her hand, and waited a moment trying to compose himself.

  "Listen to me," he said. "At the first consultation I had with Sharon hegave this advice to Mr. Troy and to me. He said, 'Suspect the very lastperson on whom suspicion could possibly fall.' Those words, taken withthe questions he had asked before he pronounced his opinion, struckthrough me as if he had struck me with a knife. I instantly suspectedLady Lydiard's nephew. Wait! From that time to this I have said nothingof my suspicion to any living soul. I knew in my own heart that ittook its rise in the inveterate dislike that I have always felt for Mr.Sweetsir, and I distrusted it accordingly. But I went back to Sharon,for all that, and put the case into his hands. His investigationsinformed me that Mr. Sweetsir owed 'debts of honor' (as gentlemen callthem), incurred through lost bets, to a large number of persons, andamong them a bet of five hundred pounds lost to Mr. Hardyman. Furtherinquiries showed that Mr. Hardyman had taken the lead in declaring thathe would post Mr. Sweetsir as a defaulter, and have him turned out ofhis clubs, and turned out of the betting-ring. Ruin stared him in theface if he failed to pay his debt to Mr. Hardyman on the last day leftto him--the day after the note was lost. On that very morning, LadyLydiard, speaking to me of her nephew's visit to her, said, 'If I hadgiven him an opportunity of speaking, Felix would have borrowed moneyof me; I saw it in his face.' One moment more, Isabel. I am not onlycertain that Mr. Sweetsir took the five-hundred pound note out of theopen letter, I am firmly persuaded that he is the man who told LordRotherfield of the circumstances under which you left Lady Lydiard'shouse. Your marriage to Mr. Hardyman might have put you in a position todetect the theft. You, not I, might, in that case, have discovered fromyour husband that the stolen note was the note with which Mr. Sweetsirpaid his debt. He came here, you may depend on it, to make sure that hehad succeeded in destroying your prospects. A more depraved villain atheart than that man never swung from a gallows!"

  He checked himself at those words. The shock of the disclosure, thepassion and vehemence with which he spoke, overwhelmed Isabel. Shetrembled like a frightened child.

  While he was still trying to soothe and reassure her, a low whiningmade itself heard at her feet. They looked down, and saw Tommie. Findinghimself noticed at last, he expressed his sense of relief by a bark.Som
ething dropped out of his mouth. As Moody stooped to pick it up, thedog ran to Isabel and pushed his head against her feet, as his way waswhen he expected to have the handkerchief thrown over him, preparatoryto one of those games at hide-and-seek which have been alreadymentioned. Isabel put out her hand to caress him, when she was stoppedby a cry from Moody. It was _his_ turn to tremble now. His voicefaltered as he said the words, "The dog has found the pocketbook!"

  He opened the book with shaking hands. A betting-book was bound up init, with the customary calendar. He turned to the date of the day afterthe robbery.

  There was the entry: "Felix Sweetsir. Paid 500 pounds. Note numbered, N8, 70564; dated 15th May, 1875."

  Moody took from his waistcoat pocket his own memorandum of the numberof the lost bank-note. "Read it Isabel," he said. "I won't trust mymemory."

  She read it. The number and date of the note entered in the pocketbookexactly corresponded with the number and date of the note that LadyLydiard had placed in her letter.

  Moody handed the pocketbook to Isabel. "There is the proof of yourinnocence," he said, "thanks to the dog! Will you write and tell Mr.Hardyman what has happened?" he asked, with his head down and his eyeson the ground.

  She answered him, with the bright color suddenly flowing over her face.

  "_You_ shall write to him," she said, "when the time comes."

  "What time?" he asked.

  She threw her arms round his neck, and hid her face on his bosom.

  "The time," she whispered, "when I am your wife."

  A low growl from Tommie reminded them that he too had some claim to benoticed.

  Isabel dropped on her knees, and saluted her old playfellow withthe heartiest kisses she had ever given him since the day when theiracquaintance began. "You darling!" she said, as she put him down again,"what can I do to reward you?"

  Tommie rolled over on his back--more slowly than usual, in consequenceof his luncheon in the tent. He elevated his four paws in the air andlooked lazily at Isabel out of his bright brown eyes. If ever a dog'slook spoke yet, Tommie's look said, "I have eaten too much; rub mystomach."

  POSTSCRIPT.

  Persons of a speculative turn of mind are informed that the followingdocument is for sale, and are requested to mention what sum they willgive for it.

  "IOU, Lady Lydiard, five hundred pounds (L500), Felix Sweetsir."

  Her Ladyship became possessed of this pecuniary remittance undercircumstances which surround it with a halo of romantic interest. It wasthe last communication she was destined to receive from her accomplishednephew. There was a Note attached to it, which cannot fail to enhanceits value in the estimation of all right-minded persons who assist thecirculation of paper money.

  The lines that follow are strictly confidential:

  "Note.--Our excellent Moody informs me, my dear aunt, that you havedecided (against his advice) on 'refusing to prosecute.' I have notthe slightest idea of what he means; but I am very much obliged tohim, nevertheless, for reminding me of a circumstance which is of someinterest to yourself personally.

  "I am on the point of retiring to the Continent in search of health.One generally forgets something important when one starts on a journey.Before Moody called, I had entirely forgotten to mention that I had thepleasure of borrowing five hundred pounds of you some little time since.

  "On the occasion to which I refer, your language and manner suggestedthat you would not lend me the money if I asked for it. Obviously, theonly course left was to take it without asking. I took it while Moodywas gone to get some curacoa; and I returned to the picture-gallery intime to receive that delicious liqueur from the footman's hands.

  "You will naturally ask why I found it necessary to supply myself (if Imay borrow an expression from the language of State finance) with this'forced loan.' I was actuated by motives which I think do me honor. Myposition at the time was critical in the extreme. My credit with themoney-lenders was at an end; my friends had all turned their backs onme. I must either take the money or disgrace my family. If there is aman living who is sincerely attached to his family, I am that man. Itook the money.

  "Conceive your position as my aunt (I say nothing of myself), if I hadadopted the other alternative. Turned out of the Jockey Club, turnedout of Tattersalls', turned out of the betting-ring; in short, postedpublicly as a defaulter before the noblest institution in England, theTurf--and all for want of five hundred pounds to stop the mouth ofthe greatest brute I know of, Alfred Hardyman! Let me not harrow yourfeelings (and mine) by dwelling on it. Dear and admirable woman! Toyou belongs the honor of saving the credit of the family; I can claimnothing but the inferior merit of having offered you the opportunity.

  "My IOU, it is needless to say, accompanies these lines. Can I doanything for you abroad?--F. S."

  To this it is only necessary to add (first) that Moody was perfectlyright in believing F. S. to be the person who informed Hardyman's fatherof Isabel's position when she left Lady Lydiard's house; and (secondly)that Felix did really forward Mr. Troy's narrative of the theft tothe French police, altering nothing in it but the number of the lostbank-note.

  What is there left to write about? Nothing is left--but to say good-by(very sorrowfully on the writer's part) to the Persons of the Story.

  Good-by to Miss Pink--who will regret to her dying day that Isabel'sanswer to Hardyman was No.

  Good-by to Lady Lydiard--who differs with Miss Pink, and would haveregretted it, to _her_ dying day, if the answer had been Yes.

  Good-by to Moody and Isabel--whose history has closed with the closingof the clergyman's book on their wedding-day.

  Good-by to Hardyman--who has sold his farm and his horses, and has beguna new life among the famous fast trotters of America.

  Good-by to Old Sharon--who, a martyr to his promise, brushed his hairand washed his face in honor of Moody's marriage; and catching asevere cold as the necessary consequence, declared, in the intervals ofsneezing, that he would "never do it again."

  And last, not least, good-by to Tommie? No. The writer gave Tommie hisdinner not half an hour since, and is too fond of him to say good-by.