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FOR CASH ONLY.
_depths of degradation. She had not shown it
to her husband—she showed him nothing now—
all confidence was at an end between them; but
if she had done so, it is probable he would have
manifested no annoyance, his views upon such
matters being philosophic:
‘DEAR Mrs. Fispert—I deeply regret to hear
the creditors of your father’s firm are likely to
gain possession of the property which, as you
say, he obviously intended to be your security
against any reverse of fortune such as has un-
happily taken place. In-case-your apprehen-
sions should be realized, ,I shall be very willing
to guarantee to you the modest sum per annum
you suggest. My own responsibilities are just
» now (as you may guess) considerable, and do
not admit of my assisting you more materially;
but ‘to'the allowance in question. you are very
welcome.
your taking up your quarters with the Burtons
or elsewhere, that isa matter upon which I
must be excused from offering an opinion.
“Yours truly 4
‘* PRANK FARRER.”
After her husband’s departure that morn-
ing Mildred sat, with this letter before her,
fora longer time than perhaps she had ever
before given to serious reflection. She was
not ignorant that the acceptance of her late
lover’s offer (which, however, as we have
seen, she had herself invited) would be equiv-
alent to separation from her husband. If she
became Frank Farrer’s pensioner it was clear
she would, so far as Percy was concerned, have
burnt her boats. But however suspicious mat-
ters might look—and the more suspicious they
looked the better, since the more they would
annoy her husband—Mildred had no design
against his honor.
She was a woman (of whom there are many)
-almost as free from vice as from virtue; not
only the victim but the slave of circumstances.
Under favorable conditions she might have been
(as Miss Darrell once suggested) a professional
‘beauty, and under unfavorable ones she might
have been much—much worse. But she had no
inherent vice. She had written to Frank. Far-
rer, first because he was the only person she
knew in a position to afford her assistance; and,
secondly, becanse her study of social butterflies
and the like had led her to believe that a man
in his position would be eager to give it. For-
tunately for her, the motive that influenced him
was a more generous one than would have
actuated most gentlemen of fashion.
He was very willing to shield from want the
woman on whon (under whatever misapprehen-
sions of her character) he had once bestowed his
love, but he meditated no revenge upon the
man who had robbed him of her. As for herself,
he now cared for her no more than for some
beautiful and historical persone, such as Mary
Queen of Scots, whom time and chance had re-
moved from hig own horizon altogether. And
of this Mildred was only too well aware. In
her letter to the young man she had adverted,
indirectly, indeed, but still too significantly to
have escaped his attention, to the relations that
had once existed between them; but his reply
struck no answering note. Its coldness, in-
deed, tilled her with bitterness. ‘‘ My own re-
Sponsibilities, as you may guess, are just now
considerable,” was an allusion to his marriage
with a young lady in the neighborhood, of the
Preparations for which she had heard from the
urtons, who kept up their connection with
Stokeville for business reasons. It was worm-
wood to her that this man, for whom she had
never cared, and whom she had so shamefully
jilted, should have dared to write of his engage-
ment as a matter of course, without a word of
apology or tender regret. But her indignation
by no means prompted her to cast his generous
offer in his teeth. On the contrary, she was all
the more resolved to hold him to it and spoil
the Egyptian. With the income she had asked
of him, and which, ghough he had called it
“modest,” was by no means contemptible, she
would be enabled to live at the Burtons, insome
degree of comfort, even if sho failed to receive
any allowance from her husband. Whatever
she might extract-from the bounty’ of Clare
Lyster would be so much over and above what
With respect to the advisability of ti
was absolutely necessary, but not less welcome
upon that account. And in this case, too, she
felt she would be spoiling an Egyptian. For,
however the manner of her old acquaintance
might have seemed to protest the contrary, Mil-
dred, on reflection, was convinced that she had
not’ been altogether displeased at the troubles
that had overtaken her successful rival.- It was
not in human nature (so she reasoned, because
it was not in der naturé) that a girlin Clare's
position could have forgiven ber trespass against
her at the mere spectacle of her misfortune. No
doubt it had been a secret satisfaction to Clare
to have been able to promise her assistance,
whether in the way of help to escape from. the
man she had schemed to win from her, or as a
mere act of charity, And in Clare's case, as in
Frank’s, she was resolved to secure it without
thankfulness, and free from all sense of obliga-
ion.
A little before.the hour agreed upon she
accordingly called in Bellingham Park. She
was shown up to the drawiag-room, whither
Clare at once came down to meet her, with
grave face. She was sorrowful as ever upon
Mildred’s account, and pained upon her own,
since the pleasure she had promised to herself
of assisting her might now lay out of her
power. The two women embraced affectionately,
the one because her feeling prompted her to do
so, the other because her interest suggested it,
and. simulation (when passion had not the
upper-hand) was easy to her.
“Dear Mildred, are things any better with
you?” asked Clare, gently.
“Better with me? How should they be bet-
ter with me?” was the reply, in a tone the bit-
terness of which hardly concealed its impa-
tience.
The mood of the previous night was over;
she resented the other’s compassion now, and
was in no humor for her sympathy. If it had
been possible, she would have taken Clare's
money in her hand and left her without a
word. a
Poor Clare, who was not:herself of a variable
mind, was unable to understand this change of
front. .
“T thought, that is, I hoped,” she faltered,
“that you and your husband might have come
to some sort of explanation. Oh, Mildred, I
have been thinking so much abdut you! I do
trust that you will do nothing hastily, and
without counting the cost.”
“The cost is just what I have to consider,
and nothing else,” returned Mildred, bitterly.
“My one desire isto get away from. this man,
who, on the other hand, has no wish to retain
me. You have heard of a marriage de ‘conre-
nance, Well, what I am about to effect isa
separation de convenance, The only difficulty
is the de quoi.”
The scoffing tone of this speech, the French
phrases with which it was interlarded, and the
manner of her companion, filled Clare with a
horror that seemed to freeze her powers of
speech. Unconscious of the impression she
was creating, and suspicious of the other's si-
lence, it was with some acidity that Mildred
continued: ‘You were good enough to say
you would do your best to help me in this mat-
ter, Clare. You have not altered your mind,
have you, since last night?” -
“T have not altered my mind, Mildred, and 1
will,do my best to help you,” returned Clare,
slowly, ‘‘but——”
She hesitated, not knowing how much it was
wise to tell concerning Gerald's letter, and Mil-
dred struck in, contemptuously,
“Bat you were going to say, I suppose, that
you have consulted your friend the school-mis-
tress in the meantime, and she has advised pru-
dence, or the young gentleman from the rail-
way works has given the signal for cafttion.”
“Oh, Mildred, Mildred, how can you be so
cruel, so unjust!” cried Clare. ‘It is quite
true I spoke about you both to. Herbert and
Miss Darrell, but neither of them are, as you
think, your enemies. I will help you all I
can. I will indeed. My desire to do so ia,
Heaven knows, as strong as ever. But since
last night a great misfortune has happened,
or rather, I should say, threatens to happen
me, If it passes away, I will help you to
the uttermost of my power; if it does not
pass- away, I shall be powerless to help ever
myself, for I shall lose every farthing I pos-
sess,” .
It was impossible to disbelieve Clare as she
spoke those words. Even the. habitual liar, to
whom the very aspect of truth from within has -
been forgotten, can recognize it—from without
—in another. . .
“Dear, dear, that is very unfortunate,” saict
Mildred. . ‘
Her tone was full of sincere regret, for she
was thinking of the matter as it affected her-
self and not her companion; indeed, so intense .
was her egotism, that, fortunately for Clare, she
had not the curiosity to inquire how the peril to
the other's fortunes had been brought aboui; in-
deed, being ‘Stokeville born,” the sudden
change from competence to poverty did not,
perhaps, strike her as being particularly strik-
ing or abnormal. - .
‘« Most unfortunate,” continued Mildred, won-
dering within herself whether Mr. Farrer’s al-
lowance could be made to ‘do,” unsupple-
mented from Clare’s purse, ‘‘and most inoppor-
tune. I can see you are really sorry you can’t
help me,” she added, graciously; ‘on the other:
hand, it is a great disappointment.”
‘It is to me, I assure you, dear Mildred. For
myself I may truly say I trust it is only a.
pleasure deferred. There is the luncheon bell
—bad as my news is, I hope it has not spoiled:
your appetite.”
“*T don’t think I'll lunch with you to-day, my
dear,” said Mildred, who had not relished the ©
idea of the society of ‘‘ the old school-mistress,”
as she called her, from the first, and had only
persuaded herself to submit to it on the ground,
no longer existing, that it was worth her while.
“Oh, Mildred, but I hope you will,” pleaded
Clare; ‘* for we quite expected you, you know,
and Miss Darrell has been at such pains to
provide what I told her you used to like. As.
it happens, too, there are some of your old
Stokeville friends here—Herbert and Mr, Old-
castle—and there’s poor Rachel, too——”
“What? You surely don’t’ mean Rachel
Warden?” exclaimed Mildred, contemptuously.
‘Yes; there is nothing against her, poor
thing, that Iam aware of.”
“‘ Nothing against her! Why, she was a mill--
hand, was she not?” :
‘* What if she was?” .
Clare’s gray eyes seemed to flash fire as she
asked that question. Had not her own father:
married a mill-hand, and did not- this woman
know it?) Nay, had not Sir Peter himself been
years ago a mill-hand, or something like it? -
Yet here was his daughter, a mere feather-head,
in whom, except for her misfortunes, it was dif-
ficult ft feel any human {nterest, speaking of°
mill-hands with the scorn of a stage duchess,
Mildred’s pride was of the most backboneless: .
description, a mere social conceit, born of the-
fashionable novels which form the literary pabu-
lum of such young ladies, but it was very easily
aroused, especially, as in this case, when she
wanted an excuse for a quarrel.
«Well, I don’t like mill-hands,” she answered,
insolently. ‘At all events 1am not going to-
sit down at the same table with Rachel War-
den.” :
**She is not Rachel Warden. She is my half-
brother's wife.” :
To be sure. I had forgotten she had made-
such afool of him as that. No, I don’t think I
care to enlarge my circle of acquaintance in
that direction, thank you.” .
Clare, being a true gentlewoman, did not
forget that Mildred was her guest, and only
answered, coldly enough, indeed, but without.
the least sign of temper, ‘‘ As you please, Mil-
.
a
=
Whereupon that young lady gathered up her
train, and, hitching it through her arm (exactly
as the devil carries his tail in the old pictures),
put up her painted cheek to Clare's pure lips,
and with an au reroir and a false smile, took”
her leave. , ; ‘4
CHAPTER XLIX.
FOREBODING.
Tue council of three,below-stairs had mean-
while met in dhigh debate.
Gerald's letter was.
Roo