Facts, indeed! What facts other than those I know? As if they were not sufficient!" "They are sufficient in themselves; but there are other things. I will tell you what they are, if-" " If what?"-because he hesitated. If you will destroy those-those forged drafts first. Miss Nethersole, I implore you to pause side before you proceed in a case which on your is and can be nothing else than pure revenge. Believe me, it is a revenge which will recoil on your own head-your own, mind-in a way of which you know and suspect nothing. Destroy those forgeries, and I will tell you all.” She stared at him, taken altogether aback by an appeal which contained a threat. Was there anything she had overlooked? No, there could be nothing. It was a miserable subterfuge to deceive her and stay further proceedings. She set her lips firm, and answered nothing. ་ 'It is for others' sake, Miss Nethersole, that Do not conI plead. Destroy those papers. found human revenge with divine justice." "I am the Instrument," she repeated, hard and stern. "I will pursue this matter to your I am appointed to this ruin or your death. work." "Will nothing move you?" he asked. "Will no assurances be believed? Miss Nethersole, I swear to you, by all that I hold most sacred, that you if you take this case before a court of law will repent, and go in mourning all the days of your life." "I have no choice," she said coldly. "As the Instrument, I do not move-I am moved." "I give you till to-morrow morning to think 'If I do not hear toabout it," said the man. have abandoned your morrow morning that purpose, I, too, must take my steps; and I ven you 455 64 'I have." "In that case, Miss Nethersole, our interview may be concluded." "When next I see you, Anthony Hamblin," she said, drawing on her glove, and shutting up her black bag with a snap, "you will be in the dock as a prisoner. I shall be in the witness-box giving evidence." He shook his head, and laughed. Yes; the man actually laughed, to her unbounded indignation and astonishment. "Your revengeful spirit," he said, "will not have that satisfaction. Allow me to wish you good night." He opened the door. As she stood for a moment in the hall, adjusting her shawl, the voices of the young singers in the drawing-room broke out fresh and clear Ring out the false, ring in the true!" "Some of those are your children, perhaps," she said, with a malignant smile. "The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children to the of third and fourth generation. My sister's wrong shall be upon you and yours like a scourge scorpions." She stepped out, and left him standing at the open doorway. The cold wind beat furiously upon his bare head, driving the frozen snow upon his face and great brown beard. He took no heed for a while. When he shut the door his eyes were swollen with an unwonted tear. "Poor Alison!" he sighed. "Poor child! Must she, then, learn all ?" (To be continued.) APPLES: A COMEDY. It is spring-time in Rome, and one of the first hot days. In the veiled light of his studio CLAUD HUNTLEY is painting LADY ROEDALE's picture. He likes to talk as he works. Claud. Then why did you offer to sit to me? Lady Roedale. Why? Why? It's too hot to give reasons. Perhaps because your studio is the coolest place in Rome. Or shall I merely say that I sit to you because I choose? C. That's better. You always did what you wished. And now you are free. You delight in your liberty. Lady R. "Delight" is a strong word. It is suggestive of violent emotion. I detest violence. C. You say with Hamlet, "Man delights me not." Lady R. I say nothing with Hamlet. Heaven defend me from such presumption! and, besides, Hamlet was a bore, and thought too much of himself. C. Heaven defend you from presumption! But any way you agree. You don't like man, and you do like liberty? Lady R. I prefer liberty of the two. A widow can do what she pleases, and—and this is far better-she need not do anything which bores her. C. Ah, there you are wrong! Your liberty is a sham. You are bound by a thousand silk threads of society. Your conduct is modified by the criticism of a dozen tea-tables. Trippet takes your cup, and sees that your eyes are red. By the way, they are red C. I shall be dead. He is to replace me, you know. Lady R. No; I shouldn't like that. I like you best, after all. C. That is very kind of you. I believe you do like me, when you remember my existence. Lady R. You wouldn't have me think of you all day. A man always about is insufferable. C. Everything is insufferable or odious to day. Lady R. Do you think so? Lady R. How can you know what I think? I am sure I don't know what I think. It is so hot. I ought not to have sat to-day, but after all, as I said, your studio is the coolest place in Rome. C. My room is better than my company. Lady R. I hate jokes in hot weather. They remind me of "Laughter holding both his sides," and “tables in a roar," and all sorts of violent things. C. It's no good. I can't get on. You look so lazy and indifferent. I hate that expression. Lady R. I am sorry that my appearance is repulsive. C. I wish it were. But no matter. We were saying—what were we saying? Oh, I remember. You were saying that you could not bear to have Lady R. Thank you. If I am looking fright- a man always about the house. ful, I had better finish this sitting. C. Your eyes are red; off runs Trippet with the news. Lady Roedale has been crying. Why? Why, of course, because the Marchese has left Rome-says Trippet. Lady R. Does he? Trippet is odious, and so is the Marchese, a Narcissus stuffed and dyed, who has been in love with himself for seventy years. You are all insufferable, all you men. C. I beg your pardon. Lady R. Oh, don't! If you were not so delightfully rude, I should go to sleep. I used to have a snappish little dog, such a dear, that barked when I dozed. He was very good for me, but he died. C. And when I die, I should recommend a parrot. Lady R. A parrot! A very good idea. A parrot to say, "Wake up, my lady." Will you get him for me? Lady R. I have been married. C. How can you bear to talk of that? Lady R. I don't know. (She yawns and stretches out her arms lazily.) I am free now. C. Are you so in love with freedom? Lady R. In love! I don't like the expression. "In love" is a vile phrase. C. And you think yourself free. Did not I tell you that you can't move hand or foot without being talked about; that you can't buy a bonnet without being married to some fool; that you can't pass a club window without setting flippant tongues wagging, nor stay at home without teadrinking dowagers finding the reason? Didn't I tell you Lady R. Yes, you did. C. I wish I had the right to stop their tongues. Lady R. You are a very old friend. Lady R. How hot it is! C. A nice occupation-smudging on color. Lady R. One can't select one's words in hot weather. I wish I could smudge. C. You can sit for pictures. Lady R. A fine occupation-to be perched on a platform, with a stiff neck and a cross painter, a Heine without poetry. I believe that you are only painting my gown. I shall stay at home to-morrow, and send my gown. C. Your gown will be less cruel. (He puts down his painting tools.) Why do you play with me like this? C. Was I rude again? I beg your pardon. Lady R. Only fashionably uncivil. It's quite the thing. The best men talk of women as if they were horses. C. And women treat men as if they were donkeys. Lady R. Oh dear me, how quick you are! I wish I was a jolly good fellow, with the last clown - gag, "You'll get yourself disliked, my boy," or "Sportsman." How popular I should be! But I can't do it naturally. I am not to the manner born. I am bourgeoise. Good heavens! Perhaps I am genteel. C. I thought I was to do your talking for you. As if any woman could be silent for ten minutes! Lady R. Do you think I wish to talk? I am not equal to the exertion. Time me, then. I Lady R. Play? I was not aware I was doing won't speak a word for ten-no, for five minanything so amusing. utes. C. Keep your head up, please. Thank you. Lady R. "How are you to-morrow?" I never could see the humor of that. C. Just half a minute. Lady R. Don't be ridiculous. Ah me! I shall never be a success. C. A success! What do you want to be stared at by every booby at the opera, to have a dozen fools smiling and looking conscious when your name is mentioned, to hear your sayings repeated, and lies told about you, and your gowns described, and your movements chronicled? Lady R. It is my dream. C. All women are alike-all women, except Lady R. I am sorry that I am so disagree- one, perhaps. able. Lady R. "Except one?" Who? who? O C. Oh, I shall spoil this picture. Perhaps it Claud, do tell me! will be more like the original. Lady R. Spoiled! O Claud! I do wish you wouldn't be funny till the weather is cooler. It's almost vulgar. Besides, I am not spoiled, not in the least. I am generally slighted. No woman was ever so neglected. I am not fast enough to be a success. But to be fast in this heat! Oh, dear me! it's tiresome enough to be slow. C. I am glad that you are no faster-not that it is any business of mine, as you were about to say. The chin a little more up. Thank you. Lady R. How kind of you to talk for me! It saves me so much trouble. Go on: say what else I am about to say. You amuse me. C. I am glad to do what I can for you. I will talk for you, walk for you, fetch and carry for you, live for you, die for you, and so Lady R. Mocker! Heine! C. That's better. Now you look awake. Keep that expression. Ah! now you've lost it again. Lady R. You horrid man, tell me at once. Who is it? O Claud, do tell me, please! C. It's nothing. I spoke without thinking. Lady R. Then you meant what you said. I don't care for things which men say after thinking. Then they deceive us, poor simple women that we are! C. Simple! There was never a simple woman since Eve. The best women manage us for our good-the worst for our ill. The ends are different, but the means the same. Lady R. Was the one woman-the exceptional woman-the paragon-was she not simple? C. On my soul I think so. C. "Without the poetry"! As you please. simple. Take it as mockery. Lady R. All romance is mockery. Romance is as much out of date as good manners. She was not bent Lady R. So is bread and butter. C. And she was clever too. The innocence of a child and the wit of a woman, with a sweet, wholesome humor-not a compound of sham epigram and rude repartee. Lady R. I know, I know. A man's woman! a man's woman! With a pet lamb frisking before her, and an adoring mastiff at her heels; childlike gayety in her step and frolic fun; a gown of crisp white muslin; an innocent sash; the hair plain, quite plain; and the nose a little reddened by cold water. Oh, how I should like to see her! a thousand pretty pictures of cows and pigs and dandelions, and, above all, of the old orchard, full of apple-trees. He developed a passion for painting apple-trees in every stage, from blossom to fruit. And the country seemed very countrified, and the green refreshingly green, and the cows nice and milky, and the pigs unconventional, and the dandelions a great deal finer than camellias, and everything lazy and industrious and delightful. And so the jaded man was very much C. You are not likely to be gratified. She is pleased by the novelty. buried, as you would say, in the country. Lady R. Do the Tyrrels never leave shire? C. The Tyrrels! How do you know? should you think I was talking of them? they a daughter? Lime Why Have Lady R. Have they a daughter! When men try diplomacy, how they overdo it! Have they a daughter! Claud, Claud, how strange that you should not know that the Tyrrels have a daughter, when you spent a whole summer at the Tyrrels' place, from the very beginning of May to the very end of September, and the girl was at home during the whole of your visit! C. How do you know that? Lady R. Do you think that there is one of your numerous lady friends who does not know the history of all your love affairs? C. Perhaps you will favor me with this history. It will probably be entirely new to me. Lady R. I will try. But it is hard to remember in this hot weather. Now attend. The scene is laid at Lindenhurst, an ancient house in Limeshire. There dwell the living representatives of the family of Tyrrel, older than the house; and thither came in early spring a painter bent on sketching a sort of Lord of Burleigh, a Heinrich Heine, a man not too young, a-who was the man who had seen many cities and things? C. Odysseus. Ulysses. C. A very pretty story. Pray go on. Your expression is almost animated, and this picture is coming a little better. Lady R. Then came the reaction. C. That's not so lively. Don't change if you can help it. Lady R. The novelty ceased to be a novelty. Old Tyrrel grew grumpy. Mamma had always thought the child might do better if she had a season in London. And then my Lord Ulysses got disgusted, and the curtain fell, and so the idyl ended. There, I have told you how the country miss set her rustic cap at the man of the world, and set it in vain. C. She was utterly incapable of setting her cap at anybody. Lady R. Who? Miss Lottie-Tottie-Nelly -Milly-What's-her-name? C. Betty-Miss Tyrrel. Lady R. Then I have succeeded in recalling her to your mind? The Tyrrels have a daughter. C. Go on, if it amuses you. Lady R. It does amuse me a little. Now it is for you to take up the story. Why did you go away and leave this Arcadia and Miss Nausicaa? C. Because I was afraid of loving her. That is the truth, since you will know it. And now let us drop it. It is as much a thing of the past Lady R. And who was the girl who played as the Pyramids. I want to talk of the present ball-the ingénue? C. That Nausicaa should be called an ingénue! Lady R. Ulysses, who had been in many societies and seen all sorts of people, was rather tired of it all, and growing a little snappish and cross. So he sketched because he had nothing better to do, and he looked at Nausicaa for the same reason; and so by degrees he found himself soothed and refreshed by the girl's artlessness, or apparent artlessness. C. Apparent! Lady R. She was such a contrast to the weary women of the world. She was so ingenuous, oh, so ingenuous! When he went to sketch, she went with him as a matter of course; and she showed him her favorite bits; and he made -of you, Clara, if I may. Lady R. Things of the past are so seldom past. The Pyramids are about still. I must know why you were afraid of loving this girl. C. What is the use of talking about that? Lady R. It's as bad as suppressing the third volume of one's novel. If you don't tell me I shall go away. C. Why should I mind telling you? It's a tale of the dark ages long ago. Keep your head a little more to the left. Lady R. But I want to look at you. C. Deny yourself that pleasure if you can. Thanks. Lady R. Well? Go on, do. C. A nice fellow I was to win the love of a young girl. Lady R. Why? You are not worse than most men. C. Will you kindly keep your head turned to the left? Thanks. There was a girl with all the world about her sweet and bright and young, and a woman's life before her with promise of all good. There was I, a man who had outlived my illusions-who had found the world dusty, chokingly dusty. The apples were dust in my mouth. I had tried most things, and failed in most things. My art was of less importance than my dinner. I could still dine, though I didn't eat fruit in the evening. Bah! The apples turned to dust between my teeth. Why should I link a young creature, fresh as a June rose, to a dry stick? Lady R. They train roses so sometimes. C. Misleading metaphor! I came away. It's all over, all well over, long ago. Why you insist on raking up this foolish matter, I can't imagine. Yes, I can. It is to turn the conversation. You know quite well what I wish to say to you, what I have made up my mind to say to you. We have known each other for a long time, Clara: we have always been friends; we have both outlived some illusions: I think we should get on well together. Clara, consult your own happiness and mine. What do you think? Lady R. May I look round now? C. Do be serious. Don't be provoking. Lady R. And you think that two dry sticks supporting each other is a more engaging spectacle than a rose trained on a prop? C. Enough of tropes. I deserve a plain answer. Lady R. Don't people strike sparks by rubbing two sticks together? C. What are you talking about? Lady R. And you are sure that you have quite got over your admiration for Miss Tyrrel? C. Don't talk of that. I tell you it is as much over as youth. I shall never see her again. Lady R. You think not? C. I am sure. The Tyrrels never leave Lindenhurst. Lady R. What should you say if I told you that they were in Rome, let us say at the hotel opposite? C. I should say that you were romancing. If C. I am afraid that my man is out. Lady R. You said that you would fetch and carry for me. C. Oh, you want to be rid of me! Very well, Lady R. Why should you? Don't be long. (Hereupon CLAUD goes out and leaves LADY ROEDALE alone.) Lady R. She is in Rome, nevertheless, Mr. Claud, this Miss Betty of the apple-orchard. Shall I tell him, or shall I not? I am so sleepy that I can't decide on anything. Do I want to take Mr. Huntley? Ugh! I don't know. I am too sleepy to think. How tiresome men are! Why won't they stay good friends instead of turning into bad lovers? The age of lovers is past. Love is impossible in so enlightened a generation. I am bored and he is bored. We shall be twice as bored together. That's mathematics, or logic, or something. Now I dare say that Claud thinks I have sent him away that I may consider his proposal. As if it wasn't much too hot to consider anything. It would be easier to take him than to think about it. Dear old Claud! I am sure he pictures me at this moment striding up and down, twisting my handkerchief like the woman in the play, and muttering: "O Claud, Claud, why distract me thus? O cruel man, will you not leave me at peace?" Shall I say Yes or No? What would he say if he met Miss C. I wonder you don't find the weather too Betty? What would she say? I am very sleepy hot for comedy. Lady R. How the sparks would fly! I suppose that I ought to be very grateful, Claud. I am not quite sure. It's not a magnificent offer. A banquet of lost illusions and Dead Sea fruit. What a pleasant household! "This is my husband, a gentleman who has outlived his illusions." "Permit me to present you to my wife, a lady who has everything but a heart." Will you have an apple? We import them ourselves fresh from the Dead Sea. Fresh! -very, very sleepy. He pictures me in an awful Lady R. Do you call that comedy? It seems state of excitement and agitation. What must to me dreary enough. C. The thought of joining your lot to mine? Lady R. My lot! I never was dignified by such a possession. I go on by chance, and so do you. We have run along very pleasantly side by side. Hadn't we better leave it like that? If we were linked together, which of us would go in front? be, must. Apples turn to dust-cottage and crust. I'll let things drift. It doesn't matter much, not much. O Claud! O cruel man! O sleep! I'll take a nap just to spite him. (So she falls asleep, screened from the eyes of MISS BETTY TYRREL, who presently comes in, stepping lightly and quickly.) Betty. I saw him go out. He's sure not to C. You've the most provoking passion for come back yet. I am so frightened, and it is such metaphor. fun. What's the good of being in Rome if you |