"Don't dare to address me, but get out of my house immediately; there, follow your bonnet, Sarah Kane," she said, furiously, pitching her bonnet and satchel into the hall, on which some change rolling therefrom, she was the richer by a half a sovereign, which, stealthily picking up, with an inward chuckle, she slipped into her boot.

"What's all the racket about upstairs? Wait a few moments, Lang," said Stone, who, on returning, ascertained he had been waiting for him in the kitchen for a full hour, they having missed each other in the morning.

Sarah Jones, in nervous haste to be gone, picked up her bonnet and satchel, taking the hand of Mr. Cole in good night.

"Remember! and here is my address," he whispered nervously.

But the woman he has married is too sharp for them; for, on Sarah turning from the bedside, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper, tearing it into fragments.

"Good night, Mr. Cole. I am truly sorry for you; you are too good for the inmates of this house."

"Again you dare to trespa.s.s," said Stone, meeting them on the stairs, turning and following them down.

"I warned you before that I should make you pay for this. I am master here, and I tell you I shall kick you out if you ever show your ugly faces here again," he said, choking with pa.s.sion.

"Good evening, Mistress Kane," winked Lang, as they pa.s.sed him. "It was not square of you to skip off from me without paying your board. I'm dead broke, so you or your follower better pay up now; it's only five sovereigns, and save law expenses."

"You are unwise, Mr. Lang, to add insult to injury," she said, quietly, as she went out into a serener night.

"Provide yourselves with plasters, and we shall provide ourselves with copper toes, the next time you trespa.s.s," shouted Mrs. Cole, over the banisters.

"We shall only trouble you once more," said Silas Jones, curbing himself, "when Mrs. Jones will give you her signature in exchange for five hundred pounds, with interest on same, left her by the will of the late Mrs. Villiers."

CHAPTER XX.

"YOUR EEN WERE LIKE A SPELL."

The silver chimes of the mantel clock rang four p.m., as Mrs. Gower descended from her sewing-room on the last day of the old year. She looked well in a gown of soft, grey silk, hanging in full, straight folds, unrelieved by ornament, save a few sprays of sweet heliotrope at her collar-fastening.

She stood at the library door, unseen by Miss Crew the only occupant, who made a pretty picture, the last beams of the setting sun coming in through a west window, lighting up her fair hair and pretty brown gown, the firelight lending color to her pale cheeks; a cabinet photo is in her hand, at which she is gazing so earnestly, and with such a troubled expression, that she has not heard Mrs. Gower, though singing softly, as she descended the stairs,

"Your een were like a spell, Jeanie; Mair sweet than I can tell, la.s.sie, That ilka day bewitched me sae I couldna help mysel', la.s.sie."

"Who are you trying to read, Miss Crew?"

"Your friend, Mr. Babbington-Cole, Mrs. Gower," she said, with a start, placing the photo back in its frame.

"And has it told you its name was Babbington-Cole, _ma chere_; we only give the latter?"

"Yes; but you know his name is Babbington-Cole, Mrs. Gower," she answered, evading the question.

"We do. Do you like his face?"

"Yes, very much; he looks so kind and sweet-tempered."

"Poor Charlie Cole, he is all of that; excessively amiable people so often wed the reverse. I do hope it is not so in his case." "It is a dreadful fate," said the girl, absently. "But we must hope for the best, Miss Crew; but his long silence makes me fanciful; however, if we don't receive news direct very soon--as I have had some queer dreams of him lately--I shall write the clergyman at Bayswater."

"The reverend--I mean, how will you address it; just to the clergyman, or how?" she said, intent upon her work.

"Yes, that's very true, I don't know his name. Oh, I have it; Mr. Smyth left the paper with the marriage insertion; I do hope it has not been destroyed;" and going to the rack, to look over its contents, Miss Crew, excusing herself, left the room to get into her wraps, as she was due to tea at the Tremaine's. Mrs. Gower, looking in vain for the English newspaper, seated herself comfortably to read the report of the Board of Trade dinner to the Honorable Joseph Chamberlain.

Miss Crew entered, robed for the winter streets. "Good-bye, Mrs. Gower; I shall not be late."

"_Au revoir_; give Mrs. Tremaine my love; and say, as the Dales may return from New York this evening, I found it impossible to leave; and be sure and wear your over-shoes: our streets are in their usual winter break-neck condition. I do hope the new Council will enforce the by-law."

"I hope so, too; I had an awful fall the other day; the city treasury would be overflowing did they collect the fines," she said, going out; when, at the hall door, she returned, saying hurriedly, "Oh, here is the English newspaper you were looking for, Mrs. Gower; it was upstairs."

"Thank you, good-bye."

Having made a note of the clergyman's name at Bayswater, and become conversant with the news in the city papers, she gave herself up, in the gloaming, to quiet thought.

"Yes, I like him very much, there is a manly, straightforwardness in his words; a steadfastness of purpose in his honest blue eyes; a firmness in the lines of the mouth, with a kindliness of manner; all stamping him as a man whose friendship would be true, whose love faithful; how strange, that at last I should meet him at the house of a mutual friend. Mr. St.

Clair tells me he has known him for years, and the Tremaines since summer; had any one told me two weeks ago, that I should sing 'Hunting Tower' with him in ten days, at the St. Clairs', I should have thought them romancing. He has a sweet tenor voice, he asked me if he might call; how pleasant it would be if he were here now. I used to wonder and wonder, in meeting him so frequently at lectures, concerts, or in the cars, and walking about, what his name was. Now, Alexander Blair has come to me; and his tenderness to the little veiled lady, who was, I suppose, consumptive, by the slow way they walked. I wonder where she is, I never see her now: his care for her touched my heart.

"I am so glad he has come into my life: I feel lonely at times; and he is so companionable, I know. What dependent creatures we are, after all--houses and lands, robes _a la mode_, even, don't suffice.

Intercourse we must have.

"But," and a shudder ran through her, "what a desolate fate mine will be if Philip Cobbe will persist in keeping me to my oath. We have not much in common: he is kind, but neither firm nor steadfast, and now this woman comes between us; and what would she not do were I his wife? As it is, I live in daily dread of her doing something desperate. It was enough to terrify any woman similarly situated, the way in which she acted that Sunday evening, coming from church; and again, that night at the Rogers' meeting in the Pavilion. A ring! Can it be the Dales? No, it is Philip; I wonder what mood he is in."

"Alone! for a wonder," he said, warmly. "Leave the gas alone, Thomas, the firelight is sufficient." "And thinking of me, and wishing for me,"

he said, as the servant left the room. "Yes, I can tell by your eyes."

"There Philip, that will do, I am actually afraid to have you in my house. Remember that woman last night! if looks could kill, then would I have been slain," she said, tremblingly.

"She can't harm you, and I'll put a stop to her tricks. You see, Elaine, she is so infatuated with me, she can't keep away," he said, personal vanity uppermost.

"But, that's just what I want you to see, Philip; it would be running too great a risk to marry you."

"'Pon honor, love, I don't know how to shake her off."

"You did not seem to exert yourself last night. When I looked over my shoulder to speak to you in the crowd, coming out, she had her hand on your arm; and you were bending down listening to her."

"I know; and when you looked, she clutched her hold of my arm all the tighter," he said, with the eagerness of a child.

"What did she say?"

"She said, you _shan't_ go home with her to-night."

"Exactly the same words she used that Sunday evening. Words and an act that will ever be stamped on my memory. That act came between my heart and yours, Philip, for all time," she said, sadly thinking of his foolish flightiness in allowing anything of the kind to break up their friendship, if no more. "You must see, Philip, that you should set me free."

"No, no; don't talk like that; you should want me all the more when you witness her infatuation," he said, with his juvenile air, attempting to kiss her.

"No, Philip; I cannot let you come near me with the occurrence of last evening so fresh in my memory."