CHAPTER XV.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 426, 7 December 1889, Page 5

CHAPTER XV.

'DEAD OK ALIVE.' The funeral was over, and a very grand and stately ceremonial ib had been. There had been a profusion of mutes, of black velvet, and of ostrich feathers, a long procession of mourning coaches, a larger procession of the carriages of the county families— a whole army, ib seemed, of bho Dangerfield tenantry and the trades-people of Castleford. For the lato Sir John, during his brief reis"n, had made many friends, and over his death a delicious romance hung. Miss Dangerfield was ' not Miss Dangerfielri — his daughter wasi not his daughter, md over in that littlo cottage on the outskirts of the town, a young man lay — dying, it might be— slain by the hand of the outraged baronet whom they were burying to-day. It was a very solemn pageant. The bells of the town and of the hamlets about tolled all the day long. Scarswood Park had been alive from morning until night with people in carriages coming to leave cards. The principal shops of Castleford were shut, the principal church hung in black. And 'ashes to ashes— dust to dust,' had been spoken, and they laid Sir John, with the dozens of other dead Dangerfields, under the chancel, where sturdy Sir Roland Dangerfield, knight, had knelt (in stone) for a hundred years, opposite his wife Elizabeth, with a stone cushion between them. The funeral was over, and in the pale yellow glimmer of the January sunset the mourning coaches and the family carriages went their way, and the dead man's adopted daughter was driven back home. Home ! what an utter mockery that word must have sounded in her ears as she lay back among the sable cushions in her trailing crapes and bombazine, and knowing that of all the homeless, houseless wretches adrift on the world, there was not one more homeless than she. The palo yellow glow of the sunset was merging into the gloomy gray of evening as they reached Scarswood. Her faithful Mend, Edith Talbot, who had been with her from the first, was with her still. The blinds were drawn up, shutters unbarred, Scarswood looked much the same as ever, only there was a hatchment overthegreat diningroom window, and in the house the servants, clad in deepest mourning, moved about like ghosts, with bated breath and hushed voices, as though the lord of the manor still lay in state in these silent upper rooms. It all struck with a dreary chill on the heart of Miss Talbot : the gloom, the silence, the mourning robes, the desolation. She shuddered a little, and clung closer to Katherine'a arm as they went up the wide, black slippery oaken staircase, down which Gaston Dan tree had been hurled. But there was that in her friend'B face that made her heart stand still with awe and expectation. She was white as death. At all times she had been pale, but not like this — never before like thi3 ! As she had been from the first hour the blow fell, so she was still, silent, tearless, rigid. All those days and nights when Sir John Dangerfield had lain stark and dead before her, she had sat immovable in the big carved oak chair at his head, her clasped hands lying still, her face whiter than snow, white almost as the dead, her eyes fixed straight before her in a fixed, unseeing stare. Of what wa3 she thinking a.3 she sab there — of all that was past, of all that \va3 to come ? No one knew. People who had thought they knew her best looked at her in wonder and distrust, and began to realise they had never known her at all. Friends came, and friends went — she never heeded ; they spoke to her soothingly, compassionately, and she answered in briefest monosyllables, and closed her lips more resolutely than before. The only one of them all she ever addressed directly was Mr Otis, and then only in one short phras*, • How is lit ?' The answer as invariably was • Much the same — no worse, no bettor.' Mr Obis, with his keen thin face and steelblue eyes, watched this singular sorb of girl with even more interest than the rest of the curious. He was a young man who thought more than he spoke, and who studied human nature. Women at best are incomprehensible creatures, scarcely to be treated as rational beings in the trying hour? of life, but bsyond all of her sex this eirl was a sphinx. She had lost lover, father, fortune, home, and name all in one hour, and she had never shed one tear, never uttered one complaint. Other women's hearts would have broken for half, and she, a child of serenteen, bore all like a Spartan. Was ib that she did nob feel at all or — bhab she felb so much ? Would this fro/.en calm outlast her life, or would the ice break all at once, snddenly and terribly and let the black and bitter waters below rush forth ? ' If it ever does, then woe to tho^e who have ruined he,' Mr Otis thought. • This girl is no common girl, and not to bo judged by common rulec I thought so from the first time I saw her — happy and hopeful, I think so more than ever now — in her desolation and despair. She loved the man she lias lost with a passion and abandon which (thank Heaven 1) few girls of seventeen ever feel. She loved the father who is dead, the name and rank she bore, the noble inhetitance that was to be hers. And all is gone from her, and she sits here like this ! Let Mrs Vavasor take care, let Peter Dangerfield be warned, and most of all, let Uaston Dantree die, for on my life I believe a day of terrible reckoning will come.' Bub Gaston Dantree was nob going to die ; that matter was settled beyond possibility of doubt before the day of the funeral. He would live. Ho told her so now, as she asked the question ; and as Henry Otis spoke the words, his eyes were fixed upon her with a keen, powerful look. She did not even seem to see him — her eyes looked out of the window at the gray shadows veiling the wintry landscape, a slight, indescribable smile dawned for a eecond over her white face. •He will live,' she repealed softly; 'I am glad of that.' She looked up and met the young surgeon's level, searching gaze. ; I am glad of that,' she said again, slowly, 1 if such a lost wretch as I has a right to be glad at all. You have been very kind, Mr Otis.' She gave him her hand with some of her old frank grace. • Thank you very much. I will repay you some day if I can.' He took the slim fingers in his, morn moved than she knew. How could those wan little fingers work ? how deathly white the young face ! An infinite compassion moved him, and in that instant there dawned within him a love and pity that never left him. He longed with manhood's strong compassion to bake this poor little womanly martyr in his sheltering arms, and hold her bhere safo from sorrow, and suffering, and sin, it might be, in the dark days to come,

The only hour in which life and their old fire had come to the large, weary eyes of the girl, had been the hours when Peter Dangerfield had come into the deathchamber. Then a curious expression would set her lips hard, and kindle a furtive, ceaseless gleam in her eyes. Sir Peter ! He was that now beyond the shadow of a doubt — the legal forms which would prove his right presently wore only forms. Sir Peter wore the weeds of woe well. Ho wag pale and restless, his deep black mad© him look quite ghastly ; his small, pale, near sighted eyes blinked away uneasily from that statuesque figure sitting in the great arm-chair. Mr Otis noticed this, too — what did not those sharp eyes of his see ? •I'm a poor man,' ho said one evening, under his breath, at ho watchsd the dark glance \\ ith which Katherine followed the new baronet out of tho room — ' I'm a poor man, and 1 would like to be a. rich one, but for all your prospective baronetcy, all your eight thousand a year, Sir Peter Dangerfield, I wouldn't stand in your ahoe3 tonighb.' / And now it was all over, and Katherine, trailing her black robes bohind her, was back at Scarswood. Tor the last time, Edith,' she said softly to her companion, 'for the last time.' 1 Katherine,' her friend faltered, c what do you mean ? Oh, Kathie, don't look so — don't smile like that, for pity's sake. You make me afraid of you.' Fora smile, siiantre and ominous, had dawned over Katherino's face, as she met her friend's piteous eye • Afraid of me,' she repeated. ' Well- 1 am a hideous object, I dare say, by this time, and I don't dare to look in the glass for fear I should giow afraid of myself. Afraid of myself! That is just it lam afraid of myself — horribly afraid— afraid — afraid. Edith,' she caught her friend's arm with sudden strength, ' you like me a little now — yes, .yes. I know you do; and in the years that are to come I know you will hate me— hate and abhor me ! Edith, I loved my father — dearly, dearly — but I tell you lam glad he is dead and buried tonight' I Oh, Katherine ! Katherine !' I 1 am only soventeen,' Katherine Dangerfield went steadily on, ' and I am strong, and healthy, and likely to live for fifty years to come. What sort of a woman do you think I will be half or a quarter of a century from now ? Think of me as lam to-night, Edith Talbot, when the tiire comes for you to sin ink at the sound of my name — an orphan, who had no father to lose, a widow in her wedding hour, a houseless, friendless wretch, trained to think herself a baionet's daughter and heiress.' The passion within her was rising now, strong, but surely rising. Her hands were clenched, her eye 3 bright in the creeping dusk, her voice deep, suppressed, and intense. Edith Talbot clasped her two hands caressingly round her arm, and looked beseechingly up in her face. 'Xot houseless — not friendloss, Katherine, darling — never that while my brother and 1 live. Oh, come with us — let Morecambe be your horne — let me be your sister. I love you, dear — indeed I do, and never half so fondly as now. Come with us, and give up those dark and dreadful thoughts that 1 know are in your mind. Come, Kathie — darling — come !' She drew her friend's face down and kissed it again and again. And Katherine held her tight for one moment, and then left her go. • It is like you, Edith,' she only said, 'like you and your brother. But then it w.is always a weakness of your house to take the losing side. 1 do not say much, but believe me I'm very grateful. And now, my little pale pet, I will send you horne — you are worn out in your loyal fidelity to your fallen fiiend. 1 will send you homo, and to morrow, or next day, you will come back to Scarswood.' She kissed her, and put her from her. Edith Talbot looked at her distrustfully in the fading light. 'To-morrow or next day! Bub when I come back to Scarswood shall I find Katherine here ?' Katherine was standing where the light fell strongest. She turned abruptly at these words. ' Where else should you find me ? You don't think Peter Dan— nay I beg his pardon — Sir Peter will turn moon the street for a day or two at least. Hero is your brother, Edith -I don't want to meet him, and I would rather be alone. You must go.' The words sounded ungracious, but Edith understood her — understood the swift impetuous kiss, and the flight from the room. She wanted to be alone — always the impulse of all wild animals in the first throbs of pain And though Katherine showed it in no way, nor even much looked it, Edith knew how the wound was bleeding inwardly, and that it was just such strong natures as this that suffer most, and suffer mutely. 'Going to stay all night at Scarswood alone — deuced strange girl that,' the squire grumbled. ' Never shed a tear since it all happened, they say— a woman that doesn't cry is a woman of the wrong sort. She's gob Otis to fetch round that coxcomb Danbree, but now that she's gob him fetched round, what is &he going to do with him V She's got to walk out in a day or two and leave that little cad of an attorney lotd of the manor. She never says a word or lifts a finger to help herself. And I used to think that girl had pluck.' 1 What would you have her do? What can she do ?" his sister demanded, impatiently. ' What can any woman do when she's wronged, but break her heart and bear it ?' 1 Some women are devils—just that,' the young squire responded, gravely; 'and I believe in my soul Katherine Dangerfield has more of the devil in her than even the generality of women. If Messieurs Dantree and Dangerfield have heard the last of their handiwork, then I'm a Dutchman. If Katherine Dangerfield can't have justice, take my word for it, Miss Talbot, she'll have revenge.' His sister said nothing— she shivered beneath her sables and looked back wistfully towards Scarswood. She loved her friend truly and greatly as girls rarely love ; and, as Katherine had said, it was ever the way of her chivalrous race to take the losing side — a way that in troubled times gone by had cost more than one Talbot his head. A vision rose before her of Katherine alone in those empty, dark rooms, were death had been so lately, brooding with that pale, sombre face, over l»er wrongs. • With h«r nature, it is enough to drive her to madness or suicide,' Miss Talbot thought. • I will go back to-morrow and fetch her with me, say what she will. To i be left to herself is the very worst thing that can possibly happon to her now.' Katharine was not alone, however. There had followed their carriage to Scarswood another, and that other contained the heir and the late baranet's lawyer. Mr Mansfield, the Castlefard solicitor, was talking very earnestly concerning that unsigned and invalid will. ' You tvill pardon the liberty I take, Sir Peter, in urging you to do this poor young lady justice. I'robably you need no urging — you have been her friend — who so,recently thought yourself her cousin. Your lato excellent) uncle was rpy friend since my

earliest youth— l know and yon know how hb loved his daughter— Katherine, I mean. I trust and believe, Sir Peter, you will do her justice.' The smile on the face of the new baronet might have damped the old solicitor's hope could he have seen it, but the fast closinc night hid it as he Inv back in the cushions. 4 How, pray, Mr Alauaflold ?' The sneer was juet perceptible. It was there, however, and the lawyer remarked it. ' By {jiving her at once the three thousand pounds which he wi-hed to leave her in that unsigned will, if will it can really bo called, drawn up informally by himsslf, and speaking of her only. I suppose the knowledge of this woman Vavasor's power, and his diend of her prevented him from making his will properly months ago. But to those three thousand pounds, the remains of his late wife'a portion; you, at lea&t, (Sir Peter, have no shadow of moral light. Legally, of course, everything ia yours, but law, as you know, is uot always justice.' 'I beg your pardon, Mr Mansfield,' the other interrupted coolly ; ' law and justice in this case go hand-in-hand. My late lamented undo tried his best todofraud me of my rights — you can't deny that.' ' He is dead, Sir Peter, and you know the old Latin pro\erb : " Speak no ill of the dead. 1 " 'If truth be ill, it must be spoken, though the dead had been a king instead of a bironet ; and I claim that I have a legal and moral right to ovory thing — everything — you understand, Mr Manstield — this threo thousand pounds and all. I think, on the whole, Miss Katherine Dan^erlield has every reason to bo thanklul for the life of ease and luxury she has led — she, who, for aught wo know, might lm\e been a beggar born. There is no need to get angry, Mr .Mansfield — 1 am speaking truth.' ' Then I am to understand, Sir Peter,' the lawyer said, raising hits voice, ' that you refuse to do her even this scant justice — that you mean to send her forth penniless into the world to make her own way as she best can ? I am to understand this ?' 'My good fellow — no,' the young baronet said, in the slowest, laziest, and most insolent of tones ; ' nothing of the sort— I shan't turn my late fair lelative into tho world. She shall live and enliven Scirswood and me by her charming presence as long as she pleasos. But you will kindly allow mo to make my own terms with her, and be generous after my own fashion. May I ask if it is to visit and condole with Mi=«s Dangerh'cld that you are on your way to Scars wood now ? I suppose we must call her Mi&s Dangerfield for convenience sake— her own name, if she ever had a legal right to a namo, being enveloped in a delightful cloud of mystery and romance. I wonder how she will find ifc to be a heroine ?' 'Sir Peter Dangerrield,' tho old lawjer began hotly, but the baronet waved his hand, authoritative 1 }'. ♦That will do, Mr Mansfield. I have been in your office, I admit, and I have been an impoverished uttorney while jou were a well-to-do solicitor : perhaps you had a right to dictate to mo then. Our relations have changed— l deny your right now. Be kind enough to keep your temper, and for tha future, jour advice.' And then Sir Peter folded his small arms acrops his small chest, and looked with the malicious delight of a small naturo through his eye-glass at the discomfited solicitor. * I owe him a good many home-thrusts,' the baronet thought, with a chuckle. 'I think I have paid oft one instalment at laast ; I shall pay oft' all I one before long.' They reached Scarswood — dark and gloomy the old house loomed up in tho chill, gray, wintry twilight. A crescent moon swung over the trees, and the stars, bright and frosty, were out. Ko lights gleatnod anywhere along the front of the building ; e\cept the soughing of tho nif»htvvind, no sound reached their ears. 'If one believed in ghosts, Scarswood looks a fit place for a ghostly carnival tonight,' Mr Mansfield thought ; ' it is li^e a haunted house. J wonder can poor old £ir John's shade rest easy in tho tomb, with his one ewe lamb at the mercy of this contemptiblo little wolf.' ♦lam going to the library, Mansfield,' the new baronet said, with cool familiarity. ' If you or — Miss Dangerfield want me, you can send for me thcie. Only this premise : I will come to no teims with her in your presence. What I ha\c to say to her, I shall say to her alone.' He opened tho library door, entered, and closed it with an emphatic bang. Tho elder man looked anxiously after him on the landing. ' What does the little reptile mean ? I don't half like the tone in which he speaks of Katherine. He doesn't mean to— no, he daren't— no man dare insult her in tl.ohour of her downfall.' He sent a servant to announce his presence, the French girl Ninon ; she came to him in a moment, and ushered him into the room where Katherino s-at alone. It was her old familiar sitting-room or boudoir, fitted up with crimson and gilding, for she had ever loved bright colour. The firelight leaping in the grate alone lit it now, and befoio tho fiie, lying back in a great carved and gilded chair, Katherine sat. The blight cushions against which her head lay threw out with startling relief the ghastly pallor of her face, the dead black of her dress. How changed she was, how changed — how changed out of all knowledge. And there were people who had called her cold, and heartless, and unfeeling because sho had eat with dry eyes and still face beside her dead. ' Unfeeling !' and worn and altered litce this. She looked round and held out her hand, with the faint shadow of her former bright smile, to her friend. 'Ajy dear, 1 ho said, very gently, 'I do not intrude upon you too soon, do 1 ? But I could not wait ; I came with Sir Fetor straight from tho funeral here. As things stand now, tho sooner your alTairs are settled the better.' She lifted her head a little and looked at him. ' Peter Dangerfield here — so soon ! He is in haste to take possession. Does he intend to remain all night ?— and am I to leave at once V ' You aie not to leave until you see fit, for a thousand Peter Dangerfields. I don't know whether lie intends remaining over night or not ; certainly not, though, I should say, if you object.' •I ! What right have Ito object ? The house is his, and everything in it. He is perfectly justified in taking possession at once, and in turning me out if he sees fit.' ' He will never do that, my child ; and I think — I hope — I am sure ho will act as common justice requires, and give you at once the three thousand pounds your father bequeathed you in that unsigned will. 1 She half rose from her chair ; a light flashed into her face ; a rush of passionate words leaped to her lips. Mr Mansfield drew baok. It was the old fiery temper breaking through the frozen calm of those latter days' despair. But all at onoesho cheoked herself — she who never before had checked a single emotion. She sank slowly back into her seat, and a strange set expression hardened her mouth.

1 You think so, Mr Mansfield— you think he will be generous enough for that ? And ib is in his power not to give it to me if lie likes - thoso three thousand pounds ?' 4 Certainly, ib is in hia power ; but no one save the veriest monster would think of acting a part so thoroughly mean and base. He has com© into a great fottune suddenly and unexpectedly, and sou have lost one. Surely no wretch lives on earth so utterly despicable as to wish to retain also the portion of the late Lady Dangerfield. Sir John's last effort was to sign that will ; it ought to be the moat sacred thing on earth to Sir John's successor.' She listened very quietly, the shadow of a scornful smile on her face. ' Mr Mansfield, I am afraid there is something wanting in your knowledge of human nature, in your opinion of Sir rotor DangerHeld. You forget how long this, new-made baronet has been defrauded of his rights ad heir presumptive You forget that some months ago I refused to marry him — that I even insulted him — my abominable temper, Mr Mansfield. You forget ho o\ve3 mo a long debt, and that it is in his power to repay me now. And I think Sir Peter is a gentleman who will conscientiously pay every debt of that sorb to the uttermost farthing.' • My dear Miss Dangerfield— ' ' And that is still another injury,' the girl said. • I have presumed to wear an honourablo and ancient name — I, a nameless waif and stray, born in an almshouse or a hovel, very likely. And you think ho will really givo me this three thousand pounds? Did he tell you so, Mr Mansfield ?' 'No, he told me nothing.' The old lawyer shifted away uneasily as he spoke from the strange expression in the large, steadfast eyes. '• Ho said he would see you alone, and make his own terms with you. I infer from that he intends to do somethin?. He is in the library — shall Igo and send him here, or would you rather it vtere to-morrow V She was eilont for a moment — looking into the fire — her mouth set in that hard, straight line. Ho watched her uneasily — he could not understand her any mure than the others. Was she going to take it quiotly and humbly like this ? — she, who two weeks ago had been the proudest girl in Sussex. Was she going to' accept Peter Dangerfield's dole of charity and thank him for his generosity? or did those compressed lips, the dry, bright. glitter of those eyes, speak of coming tempes-t and revolt ? J He was out of his depth altogether. • Well, my dear,' he said, fidgetting, ' shall I eend him, or — ' She looked up, aroused from her trance. 'Send him in, by all means,' she said, ' Let us see how generous Peter Dangerfield can be.' He got up, walked irresolutely to the door, hesitated a moment— then came suddenly back. 4 And, Kathie,' ho said, impetuously, c if you should fling his miserable dole back in his face, don't fear that you shall ever want a home. I have no daughters of my own ; come with me to Castleford, and brighten the life of two old humdrum people. Come and be my daughter for the rest of your day p.* He gave her no time to answer —he hui ried away and rapptd smartly at the library door. Peter Dangerfield's small, colourless face looked out, 1 What i 3 it V' he asked. 'Am I to go I upstair* ?' 'You ate," responded Mr Mansfield, curtly, j 'and as you deal with that poor clvld in her trouble, may the good, just(!od deal by you. I shall remain here and take her home with me to-night if she will come.' Peter Dangerfield smiled — an evil and most sinister smile. i 'J think it extremely likely she will go,' he said. ' The two-storey biick dwelling of Mr Mansfield, the solicitor, will be rather an awkward change after the gaiety and grandeur of Scarswood, but then — beggars mustn't be choosers.' He walked straight upstairs, still with a smile on his face still with that exulting glow at his heart. 4 You have had your clay, my lady,' he said, 'and you walked over our heads with a ring and a clatter. You queened it right royally over us, and now the wheel has turned, and my turn has come. There is not a slight, nob a sneer, nob 'in insulb of yours, my haughty, uplifted Mis 3 Dangerfield, that I do not remember — that I will not repay to night.' He opened the door without ceremony and walked in. The room was brightly lighted now ; she had lit the clusters of ! wax tapers in the chandeliers, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze. With its ciimson and gold hangings and upholstery, its rich velvety carpets, its little gems of painting?, its carved and inlaid piano, it& mirrors, its light, its warmth and perfume, ib looked, as he opened the door, a rich and glowing picture of colour and beauty. ; And in the trailing black dross, and with her white, cold face, Katheiine, the fallen queen of all this grandeur, stood and looked at him as he came in. She had left her &eat, and was leaning lightly against the mantel, her hands, hanging loo&ely, clasped before her. On those wasted hands rich rings Hashed in the firelight, and on the loft still gleamed Gaston Dan tree's betrothal circlet, a heavy band of plain gold. It was the first bhing Peter Dangerfield paw. Ho laughed slightly, and pointed to it, ' You wear ib still, then, my fair Cousin Katheiino. And he will recover, Otis says. Well — who knows — you were madly in love with him when you were a baronet's : daughter. Ho may prove faithful, and think better of jilting you when he reco\ ers, and wo may have a wedding after all. Lot us hope so. He has used you badly— infernally, I may say, but then your angelic sex is ready to forgive the man they lovo seventy times seven.' lie took his place opposite her, and they looked each other straight in the eyes. It was the grave defiance of two duelists to the death. 8 Was that what you carao hero to saj , Sir Peter Dangerfield ?' ' No, Katheiine — I wonder if your name really is Katheiino, by the way; I must ask Mrs Vavasor. I came here at old , Mansfield s requost to talk business and money matters. How nice it is for you, my dear, to have so many friends in the" hour of your downfall — the Talbots, the Mansfields and that heavy dragoon, De Vere, who will do anything under Heaven for you— well, except marry you. And you look like a " queen uncrowned" to-night, my tall, stately Miss Dangerfield— not good-looking, you know, my dear — you never were that — but ma jesticand dignified, and uplifted and all that sort of thing. Ah ! how are the mighty fallen, indeed ! Only a fortnight ago you stood here ruling it like a very princess, on my soul monarch of all you surveyed ; and now—there isn't a beggar in tho streets of Castleford poorer than you.' She stood dead silent looking at him. How his eye 3 gleamed— how glibly his venomous tongue ran. His little form actually seemed to dilate aud grow tall in this hour of his triumph. ' And that other night,' he went on ; 'do you remember ib, Kathie ? Oh, let me call you by the old familiar name to the last ! That other night when I — a poor, pettifogging attorney, as I |think I have heard Mr Dantree call me— l had tho prosumption in the conservatory to ask you to

bo my wife. It was presumptuous, and I richly deserved the rebuff I got for my pains ; I deserved even to be called a " rickety dwarf !" No one knows it better than I. You the heiress of Scarswood, and I not worth a rap. If I had been goodlooking, even like that angelic Dantree, with a face and voice of a seraph ; but ugly and a dwarf, and only an attorney withal, you served me precisely righo, Katherine. You adored beauty, and Dantree was at your feet ; you worshipped him, and he worshipped your — fortune ; a very common story. Whab a pity the Fates did not make us both handsome instead of clever. What chance has brains against beauty — particularly in a woman ? You served me light, Katherino, and-iiow, in return, I am come before you to-night, and offer you throe thousaud pounds—mine to give or keep as 1 please.' He paused, his wholo face glowing with sardonic light. Hers never changed. *Go on,' sho said, in a perfectly steady voice. lie camo a step nearer. What did that strange demoniacal light in his eyes mean now ? She saw it but she never flinched. ' Katherine,' he said, ' I can do better for you than that. Whab is a pitiful three thousand pounds to the lite heiress of eight thousand per annum ? I can do better for you, and I will. Why should you leave Scarswood at all- why not remain here as mistress still ! with mcV 'Go on,' she eaid again in the same steady tone. 1 Noed I speak more plainly ?' He drew still another step nearer, and all the devil of hatred and malignicy within him shone forth in the gleam of his eyes 'Then I will— it would be a pity for us to misunderstand one another in the least. Last September 1 a^ked you, the heiress of Scarswood, to bo my wife. You refused — more, you grossly insulted mo. To-night I return pood for cvil — let us forgive and forget. As lord and master oi Scarswood, I offer you again a home hero— this time nob as my wife, but aa my wjiVress !' The atrocious word was spoken. His hate and revenge had given him a diabolical courage to say what he nover would have dared to say in cold blood. But at the last word he drew back. He was a coward to the core, and she had shown herself before now to have the fury of a very panther. And they were alone — she might murder him before he could reach the door. His first impulse was flight; and sho Faw it. 1 Stop !' she cried, and he stood as still as though he had been shot. ' You coward ! You cur !' No words can tell theconcentrated scorn of her low, level voice. 1 You have said it, and now hear vie. This is your hour — mine will come. And here, before Heaven, by my dead father's memory, I swear to ba revenged. Living, I shall pursue you to tho very ends of the carth — dead, I will come back from the grave, if the dead can ! For evciyword you have spoken to-night, you shall pay dearly— dearly ! I have only one thing left to live for now, and that is my vengeance on you. The fortune you have taken I will wrest from you yet — the shame, the misery, the disgrace that is mine, you shall feel in your turn. 1 swear it ! Look to yourself, Peter Dangerfield ! Living, I will hunt) you down—dead, I will return and torment you ! Now go.' She pointed to the door. It was the most theatrical thing imaginable. His courage rose again. She did not mean to spring upon him and strangle him then, after all. He laughed, a low, jeering laugh, with his hand on the door. 1 Katherine,' ho said, ' do go on the stage. You'll be an ornament bo tho profession, and will turn an honest penny. That speech, that attitude, that gesture, that tone were worthy the immortal Rachel herself. With the stage lamp?, and an appropriate costume, a speech half go melodramatic would bringdown the house. And if you die, you'll haunt me ! Don'b die, Kathie— you're too clever a woman to bo lost to the world. And ghosts, my dear, went out of fashion with the Castle of O tran to and the Mysteries of Udolpho. Think over my proposal, my dear, and good-night. 1 He looked back at her once as ho stood there, tho leaping firelight full on her white face and black robe, and as he saw her then, he saw her sleeping or walking all the rest of his life. Then the door closed, and Katherine was once more alone. ( To be continued. )