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sovereign to enable me to return home.

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'No,' he said, buttoning up his sensitive breeches pockets. 'I make a rule never to lend anything to anybody.'

'As a minister of the Gospel, I must remind you that we are told that we ought at times to lend.'

'Mr. Vavasour, I am perfectly shocked to hear a clergyman of the Church of England talk in such a way. I knew too you had made a poor sort of marriage ; but I did not think that you had sunk so low as to be driven to borrow a sovereign.'

'I don't know what you mean by sinking so low. I only know that the Lord Chancellor, with whom I have just breakfasted, has given me the living of Cherrington, which is more than four hundred a year.'

'Whew!' said my second cousin, with a sort of gasp. 'That quite alters the case. Now I daresay, my dear Vavasour, that you will want some money to pay induction expenses, stamp duty, dues to Queen Anne's Bounty Office, and that sort of thing. I

can lend you a hundred pounds on the usual business terms.'

I did not express my opinion of the fellow, but borrowed a proffered sovereign to enable me to return to Mary and the little ones. I sent it back to him in the shape of a guinea next day, and have not seen from that day to this. It is astonishing how ready people are to oblige you when you are in reality independent of their help. Even

dear old Dawson left me, I believe, a much bigger slice of his property than he would have done if I had been a poor

man.

This was the way in which I planted my footsteps on the first rung of the ladder of clerical promotion, of that great success in life for which I cannot feel too humble and too grateful.

[This was substantially a story of early days which a very distinguished dignitary used to relate of himself. Its leading incident is strictly true, and seems worthy of a safer record than mere tradition.]

THE VIOLIN-PLAYER.

BY BERTHA THOMAS, AUTHOR OF 'PROUD MAISIE.'

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A CRISIS.

Ir was an article of faith with Val Romer that, of all human follies of a sentimental sort, the most inexcusably foolish is to fall in love with a married woman. He regarded it as an emotional aberration, deserving the ridicule only of men of sense.

Six weeks since his visit to Hawkwood. The Breretons were in town again for the season; himself also. Clever man, bold, original, independent agent that he seemed, never was the most waxhearted lover more banefully under the dominion of a wilful, selfcentred, beautiful woman. Doomed to be a brilliant proof of his own theory, driven to turn aside from his course, to pursue the will-ofthe-wisp of an impossible joy, over hill and dale, bog and brier, to end ingloriously in disenchantment, when too late, to find he had lost the road and the race.

The dragon-fly sends the chafers and midges she has bewitched to fetch her a spark from the candle. She will love them if they succeed. Eagerly they do her bidding, and, for their pains, find themselves wingless, lamed, doomed henceforth to crawl the damp earth like worms-they who once hovered in ether and sunlight.

He still had glimpses, now and then, of what was happening to him. How had he fallen from his old proud loyalty to an artistic ideal! Already the days seemed

distant when he worked for the

pleasure of the thing. He was rapidly coming to treat his imagination and skill as means to certain commercial ends. But these misgivings were getting rarer, and he daily more inclined to scout them as sentimental nonsense. Practically speaking, he was thoroughly prosperous. The demand for fresh Carmens and Vashtis was increasing on both sides of the Atlantic; it was thus easy for him to secure a good income for an indefinite time without fresh trouble, simply by turning out copies of old favourites to order. And, formerly, none more severe and contemptuous than he on artists in any department, who, finding they can make their fortune off a single happy effort, prefer multiplying repetitions of it ad infinitum to the stern work and the risk of fresh creations.

But if originality and industry were fast rusting out in him, on the other hand he might flatter himself he was the favourite of many and the chosen friend of one, the being who had so successfully usurped the helm of his life. Against her numberless feminine arts of enslavement Val was defenceless as a child. Often in society she would provoke him past endurance, by appearing to slight and half-ignore him; then, when she had worked him up into a fury of estrangement and hostility, confound him by some delighting proof of her regard stronger than any yet vouchsafed,

as if to imply that this expressed the earnest of her relation to him, and her coldness was mere play, to hoodwink the vulgar curiosity of outsiders.

Val, distracted, asked himself why she tormented him thus. What was the pleasure of experimenting on a thraldom of which she must be well assured? Ask why flies like crawling up and down the window-pane - why squirrels enjoy turning a wheel; but ask not why lovely woman stoops to mischief.

Val was crossing the Park one afternoon at the close of an idle day. Last night he had had a reception at his house, with the Breretons among his guests,-an honour, for they were as chary of accepting hospitality as they were liberal in extending it a huge inconsistency, he thought. The affair had gone off brilliantly, but to sit down to work this morning was, he found, impossible, and the only remedy he felt inclined to seek for the désœuvrement caused by the stir and distraction was a homœopathic one. It was Lady Brereton's at home' afternoon, and she would be ill pleased if he failed to put in an appearance.

He was not alone; he never was alone now. He knew all London, or all London knew him, which amounted to the same. Charley Sparkleton, the particular 'friend' who had picked him up and left the Hyde Park railings to walk a little way with him, was good company, at all events; a pleasant, unprincipled young rascal, whom Val-everybody, indeed-rather liked. He was not exactly of proud origin; but if he had made his way into society, in the first instance, by dint of unblushing assurance, he had established his permanent position there by genuine social talent. He had made himself useful, in

dispensable. For fifteen years he had led an amusing sort of life, mostly at other people's expense, and thriven upon it, never seeming to grow a day older, or to tire of his daily bread, gaiety and gossip. Of news, social, literary, and artistic, he was an impassioned collector, with a very genius for picking out the precious pebbles on the beach, sorting, grinding, polishing, setting, then exhibiting, and did in this way a good deal of amateur journalism. His correspondence was at a premium. It was always racy, rarely ill-natured, and never, or hardly ever, totally untrue. He was constantly at Val's studio, and acted as a kind of middle-man between Romer and the world, contributing not a little to the spread of the artist's celebrity. Val was now sufficiently the fashion for the shape of his door-knocker to be a matter of public interest.

Sparkleton had fastened on him to-day for a purpose. He wanted to get something out of him about Mdlle. Therval, who was expected in London almost immediately, whose appearance was to be the musical event of the season, and respecting whom any information, the earlier the better, had a distinct interest, to say nothing of a high market value.

He was disappointed at eliciting no piquant particulars, no anecdotes. Romer would only talk learnedly about her violin-playing. But where was the credit of knowing what everybody knew? If he could have said what her favourite colour was now, or if she kept a little dog, or what she had for lunch! Sparkleton thought it too bad that, out of two personal acquaintances of hers, he should be able to extract no more than that she was an excellent musician. There was his friend Lady Brereton, who admitted having

known her in Rome, but maintained a like rigid reserve. Their manner provoked his curiosity, and set his lively fancy playing in all directions. He maliciously hinted as much to Val to-day, hoping to draw him out. In vain. Satisfied that he should get nothing out of Romer-he was more obstinately impenetrable than ever -Sparkleton dropped the subject, and presently, his companion.

'How about yourself? he asked carelessly, as they parted. 'When do you desert us for Rome? Do you know, I've a mind to look you up at the old place this autumn.'

Val laughed.

'Do you know, I got an uncommonly good offer this morning from a fellow over there, who wants to take my villa off my hands.'

'Shall you accept, do you think?' asked the man of news eagerly.

Already the idea had crystallised into a pretty little paragraph for the art column of his favourite feuilleton the Firefly :

'Good news to all true lovers of art. It is with the greatest pleasure that we are able to announce that Mr. Valentine Romer will shortly part with his Roman villa, to reside permanently among his countrymen,' &c.

There was something else behind, though, with which Val did not acquaint Mr. Sparkleton, something which Mr. Sparkleton would have cared infinitely more to know, and which would have furnished him with a second pleasing announcement for his journal:

'Sir Adolphus and Lady Brereton start for Scotland early in July in their yacht Seadrake. Mr. Romer, the well-known sculptor, goes with them,' &c.

It was almost as if Diana were in league with the applicant for

the Villa Marta, whose offer had arrived by the same post as a flattering invitation to the above effect.

Sparkleton went off, and Val sat him down on a bench to ponder his decision. But his fate, though he knew it not, had passed out of his hands. He was now on his way to Lady Brereton's house at Connaught Gate. She would be sure to broach the subject of the yachting party. When had the stubborn firmness of his nature prevailed against her persuasion ? Besides, he wanted to accept. How many would give worlds for such an invitation ! On n'est jeune qu'une fois. He must let the Villa Marta go, and with it—

Just then a boy's hand slapped his shoulder unceremoniously. Val wheeled round angrily to send the urchin to the devil. The youngster had run off, and was capering down the path, shouting jubilantly,

There, mamma, I said so. Look for yourself.'

The voice was the voice of Master Domenico, and, in his two guardians approaching, Val recognised Madame Araciel and Cherubina.

He rose hastily and embarrassed; for, though well aware that the family had been two months in England, he had made no effort to seek them out. Madame, in the effusion of her own joy, scarcely noticed how stiff and formal his greeting was. She reminded him they had not met since Laurence's unexpected departure from Rome; reproached him amiably for never having come to see herself and family in villeggiatura at Frascati, and expatiated on the pleasure of this meeting. If Val's manner was deficient in cordiality, she had enough for both.

She pressed him to dine with

them that night. He regretted he was engaged. To-morrow, then? Alas, he had no evening free for weeks to come. Their lodgings

were hard by, in Park-street. Val consented to walk with them so far. He was guarded and monosyllabic; Madame all communicativeness; Cherubina silent, but observant.

'Papa has gone to Brighton for a concert,' Madame announced. 'He returns to-morrow, plays once or twice more in London, then starts for Scotland, so that the field here will be clear forWhy, Mr. Romer,' reproachfully, 'you have never asked after our child.'

Val, the hypocrite, looked up with an inquiring air.

'Laurence!' ejaculated Madame, puzzled by his stupidity.

'Malle. Therval is quite well, I hope he said frigidly.

'So I trust. But she has been away from us now a year. In a fortnight she comes to us in London. That will be a happiness for every one.'

They reached the door.

Mr. Romer, I have a little favour to beg. I want to write my husband a line to tell him his train. He always mistakes unless I do. It would be kind of you to post my letter.'

Val acquiesced, and went indoors with them. Madame ran up-stairs to write. Domenico was sent to borrow an envelope and a stamp from the landlady. Val found himself alone in the little ground-floor parlour with Cherubina.

A year had done wonders in transforming the child into a young lady. Her face was childlike still; but her undergrown figure had shot up suddenly, and recent promotion to long trailing skirts completed the metamorphosis, which impressed Val profoundly.

She, for her part, was dismayed by the change in his manner, the unfamiliar constraint and hardness. She dared not speak for fear of a rebuff, but fixed two large eyes on him, full of wonder, and implied reproach.

'Really, Miss Cherubina,' he began abruptly by and by, becoming impatient of this silent scrutiny, a year has made quite another person of you. I told you it would. I'll engage that no one now would know you for the original of that statue of mine.'

A year does change people sometimes,' remarked Cherubina curtly. If Renza were anybody else, I think I should be afraid to meet her again, after so long, lest she should not be the same

to us. But she has never altered,

and never will.'

Val had turned off to the window, humming an air.

'Do you not want to see her again? she asked curiously, halffrightened at her own boldness.

Val replied, with rather awkward irony,

'Indeed you must excuse me. I have not been thinking of it in particular. It is too much honour for me to suppose I can be specially concerned in Mdlle. Therval's movements.'

Cherubina was mute, but only for a moment, with mixed indignation and surprise. Vai was angry with Renza. O, Cherubina had known that a year ago, when he never kept his promise of coming to see them at Frascati, and the child had found her own way of accounting for it: Val loved Renza, and she had alienated him by running off so abruptly, without a word.

'You used to care,' she ventured timidly, if things went well or ill with her.'

'If I am not mistaken,' he said dryly, no one need have the

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