"Take me to him," said Perdita; and when they were at the door of the room she added: "I will see him alone." So Philip went away thoughtfully.

Perdita closed the door and moved up to the bedside.

Tom's face was turned towards her: it had the pallor of coming death upon it, but her propinquity seemed to check the ebbing current of vitality, and to restore the poor youth in some measure to himself.

"Good morning, Perdita," he said, with a feeble echo of cheerfulness in his tone. "I told you yesterday I'd like to die for you,

and here I am at it, you see!"

"Do anything but that, Tom. I want you to live."

"It can't be done now. I don't believe even your marrying me would keep me alive now!" said Tom, though with an intonation as if the matter were open to question. "And it's just as well, you know. I had no notion till now how easy dying is. It doesn't hurt half so much as a licking at school. I rather like it."

"I wish I knew who struck you," said Perdita, with a frown in her eyes.

Nobody shall ever know that: I've made up my mind!" said Tom gravely.

"Do you know, Tom?"

"Yes, I do know. I wanted to tell you that much, though I'll tell nothing more. And it's just as well I'm going, for I couldn't stand keeping such a secret long. Don't try to guess it, Perdita, please. Whoever he is, he's got worse than hanging already. Let's talk about other things. I found him-your father-and gave him the letter. He never read it; the night was like pitch. But we spoke about you. We've all of us made a mistake about him; he was true grit, I can tell you. Oh, here's a letter for you, that came out of his pocket! I'm glad of it, for it was an excuse for sending for you."

Perdita received the packet in her hand, but scarcely glanced at it. She leaned over the helpless figure of the last of the Bendibows, and stroked the hair on his forehead with a touch as light and soothing as the waft of a breeze. "My dear, dear Tom," she said, "I wish I could have made you happy. I am not happy myself." "You do make me happy and if . . . I say, Perdita " "What, dear?"

"Do you remember, when I left you yesterday, I couldn't kiss your hand, because I felt . . . I'd better not. But now, you know"

"You shall kiss my lips, dear, if you care to," said Perdita, bending her lovely face near him.

"Oh... But not yet, Perdita; not quite yet. Because I should like that to be the last thing . . . the very last of all, you know. You go on and read your letter, and let me hold your hand; and when I am ready I'll press it, so: and then . . . will you ?" "Yes, anything you like, dear," she answered.

She broke the seal of the packet. It contained a second enclosure, also sealed. But there was also a loose fold of paper, on which was written the following:

"MY DEAR DAUGHTER: This will come to you when I am no more. It contains the explanation of the Past: why I left you; what manner of man I, your father, was. This information is comprised in letters written by myself and others twenty years ago. I have kept them by me ever since as a measure of defence against possible injury. After I am dead they will no longer serve this use, and I do not require you to peruse them. You may, if you see fit, burn them unread; but if you feel a curiosity as to your father's real fate and character, I do not forbid you to read them. Act herein according to your own inclinations and judgment, and I shall be content. But I request you in no case to act against any other person on the authority of what is contained here. What is past in our lives may be used to increase wisdom and charity, but should never be made the instrument of revenge.

"My dear daughter, I have loved you heartily all my life. I pray that God may bless you and make you noble and pure. Your father, "CHARLES JOHN GRANTLEY."

After reading and re-reading this letter, Perdita sat for some time lost in thought. Should she open the other packet? Might it not be wiser to burn it?

Her hand had been lying in Tom's meanwhile, though she had almost forgotten it. On a sudden she felt a slight pressure; very slight, but it made her turn quickly and look at him. It was easy to read the tidings of that face; pinched, pallid, lacking in beauty and dignity; but the face of a man who loved her and who was at the point of death. She put her mouth to his and kissed him. His lips just responded and no more.

A carriage drove rapidly up to the gate and Sir Francis Bendibow's footman rapped loudly on the door.

CHAPTER XXII.

MRS. LOCKHART met Sir Francis at the door; he greeted her in a voice louder than ordinary; but harsh, as if the conventional instinct in him had overstrained itself in the effort to hold its own. An analogous conflict between the shuddering emotion within and the social artifices to disguise it, was manifest in his face, which rigidly and, as it were, violently performed the usual motions of smiling and elegantly composing itself when all the while these polite antics were betrayed and falsified by the grim reality of ghastly pallor and suspense. And there was no necessity for the baronet to maintain the customary elaboration of his fine manners. No one would have expected it of him under the present circumstances: on the contrary, it would have had a repugnant effect, even had he been actor enough to make the pretence seem genuine. But men like Sir Francis, who have trained their minor natural impulses to wear stays and turn out their toes (so to say), are liable to be thus embarrassed by the fearful summons of some real passion of the heart: they pitifully strive to clothe the giant in the pigmy's bag-wig and small-clothes, and are too much bewildered to perceive the measureless incongruity.

"Good morning, madam; charmed to see you looking so well," were the baronet's first words to poor Mrs. Lockhart, who immediately burst into tears, partly because she thought Sir Francis had gone mad, and partly because the contrast between her feelings and his observation was so grotesque. "Is-er-all are well, I hope?' he proceeded, while the questioning agony in his bloodless lips and staring eyes seemed to belong to another being than he who uttered the meaningless phrases.

"I only hope you may not have come too late, dear Sir Francis," she said, instinctively replying to his look instead of to his words. "Poor Mr. Grant-he was murdered outright, but your son ... she faltered, and resumed her tears . . .

The baronet stood at the foot of the stairs, with his hat under his arm and one knee bent—a most unexceptionable attitude. He was dressed at least as fastidiously as usual, only that, in shaving, he had accidentally cut his cheek, and the blood had trickled down and stained his else immaculate white stock. This little mishap might fancifully be regarded as symbolical of his moral state at the moment. He awaited something further from Mrs. Lockhart; but at length, as she did not speak, he said carefully, "Grant murdered! I cannot believe it! He parted from me not twelve hours ago, in such capital

health and spirits." Then, after another pause, he bent forward and added in a grating whisper, as if confidentially, "The message that summoned me here mentioned the name of my son-Thomas. Pardon a father's anxiety-alluding to him at such a moment. But... nothing wrong . . . eh?"

Oh, Sir Francis! the surgeon says he cannot live; but he was very brave it was while he was trying to protect Mr. Grant that he was struck. Oh, how can any one be so wicked!"

:

A peculiar sound escaped from the baronet's throat, and his upper lip drew slowly back so as to reveal the teeth. It seemed to Mrs. Lockhart as if he were laughing; but only a madman could laugh at such a juncture, and she trembled with horror. It was immediately evident, however, that Sir Francis was simply in the grip of a horror vastly greater than hers, and that it had momentarily mastered him. Presently his eyes rolled, his head swayed forward, and, had he not grasped the balusters, he would have fallen. But calling up all his energies, he commanded himself a little, and, without attempting to speak, began the ascent of the stairs. Just then a door opened above, and Perdita's voice said in a hushed tone:

"Sir Francis, are you there?"

He stopped, and looked upward; then, still in silence, he mounted the remaining stairs with a laboured movement, and arrived, tremulous and panting, on the landing. Perdita was standing at the door of Philip's room. Her brows were drawn down, and her eyes, quick, dark, and bright, scrutinized the baronet with a troubled expression. "Is he there?" the latter enquired.

"Who?" said Perdita reluctantly.

Sir Francis stared; then half lifted his hands and said: "I know about Grant: dead: can hardly believe it: left me last night in such health and spirits: but Tom . . . as Tom's my son . . is he . . . ?”

"You are too late," said Perdita, glancing away from him as he spoke. "Poor Tom! he deserved something better."

"Let me go to him," said Sir Francis, moving forward with a groping gesture, like one walking in the dark. He pushed past Perdita and entered the room. She remained for a moment on the threshold, following him with her eyes, and seeming inclined to retire and leave him; but she ended by stepping within and closing the door after her.

Sir Francis, however, was now unconscious of everything except that which lay on the bed before him. Tom's hands rested beside him on the coverlet; his father lifted one of them, and let it fall again. He then sat down on the side of the bed, raised the upper

part of the body and supported it on his arm, bending his face close to that of the dead boy, and giving vent at intervals, below his breath, to a kind of groaning sound, the most piteous that had ever fallen on Perdita's ears. She remained leaning against the door, with an

air of painful contemplation.

After what seemed a long time, and was undoubtedly long it measured by its spiritual effects, the baronet's moanings gradually subsided into silence; the veins in his forehead, which had become swollen and dark with the accumulation of blood to the brain, returned to their normal state, and the man sat erect, gazing into vacancy, with a demeanour of pallid and stony immobility. Thought seemed to be at a standstill within him, and even the susceptibility to suffering had become torpid. He sat thus so long that at length Perdita's restless temperament could endure the pause no more, and she spoke.

"Leave him now, Sir Francis. I wish to tell you something." He betrayed no sign of having heard her. By-and-by she advanced to the bed, and stood directly in front of him.

"What do you wish me to do with this?" she demanded, holding up the sealed enclosure which had accompanied Grant's letter.

"These are not business hours," said Sir Francis sluggishly. "Tom and I are taking a holiday. Our work is done."

"His work is done, but not yours: you cannot have the privileges of death until you die," Perdita answered.

"I know more about death than you imagine," responded the baronet, in the same halting tone. "You needn't grudge me the privileges I have the rest."

"I am sorry for you-sorrier than I should have thought I could be," said Perdita; "but there are some things which must be said between us: for my father is dead as well as your son; and since I can no longer learn from him, you must hear and answer me. Come, Sir Francis; I have always had my way with you in the end."

"No one has any weapons against me now; they're all here!" said the baronet, laying his finger on Tom's shoulder with the word.

"I mean to know the truth, however," returned Perdita, with a resolution that sat strangely on her subtle and changeful beauty. "It was Tom himself who told me the man who called himself Grant was my father: the rest is contained in this enclosure; shall I read it, or will you speak?"

"How came you by that?" inquired the baronet, for the first time fixing his eyes upon the packet in her hand.