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"I understood so," Aunt Anne gasped, shaking with fright.

"I suppose he had some reason for it. If he has done it out of his own money, it is his own business. If he has done it out of mine, I shall have a reckoning up with him, and probably you will have one too."

"But William, have you been under the impression that I was left to starve?”

"I was under no impression at all concerning you. Once for all, Anne, you must understand that it is not my intention to give away the money for which I have worked to people who have been idle."

"I have not been idle," she said, "and you forget that I am your cousin, that our

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"I know all that," he said, interrupting her, "your people and you had your own way to make in life, and so had I and my people."

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But if you do not help me "-she burst out, for she could bear it no longer -"if you do not help me, I shall starve.' "I really don't see what claim you have upon me."

"I am your cousin and I am old, and I shall starve," she repeated. "I must have money to-day. If I don't take back money this afternoon my heart will break." Again his fingers went for a moment in the direction of the cheque book and tantalized her. She stood up and looked at him entreatingly. "I am not speaking only for myself," she pleaded, "but for another and she broke down.

"For whom else are you speaking then?" he asked, withdrawing his fingers. "For one who is very dear to me, and who will starve too unless you help us. William, I entreat you to remember

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"But who is this pauper you are helping, and why should I help her too?"

It is not a pauper," she said indignantly. "It is some one who is dearer than all the world to me, and once more I entreat you to help us."

"Well, but who is it? — is it a child?" "No," she answered in a low voice full of infinite tenderness, and she clasped her hands, and let her chin fall on her breast. "Who is it?"

"It is my husband," and almost a sob broke from her.

"Your husband? I thought he was dead."

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"Mr. Baines is dead, long ago; but I have married again."

"Married again!" he repeated, as if he could hardly believe his ears.

"Yes, married again, and that is why I implore you to help me, so that I may give the young, tender life that is joined to mine the comforts that are necessary to him," she said, with supplicating misery.

"Do you mean to say," and he looked at her as if he thought she was mad, "that some young man has married you?" "Yes," she answered in a low voice, we have been married nearly six months." "And has he got any money, or does he do anything for a living?"

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"He is a most brilliant writer, and has given the greatest satisfaction to Mr. Fisher; but he has been ill, and he requires country air, and nourishment, and luxuries, and I implore you to help me to preserve this young and beautiful life that has been confided to me."

"Is he a cripple or mad?"
She looked up in astonishment.

"He is a fine, tall young man," she said, with proud indignation; "I should not have married a cripple, William, and I have already told you that he is a writer on the Centre, though he is not able at present to do his own talents justice." "So you have to keep him?"

"He kept me when he had money; he gave me himself, and all he possessed in the world."

"What did he marry you for?" Sir William asked, gazing at her in wonder and almost clutching the arms of his chair.

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"He married me"- her voice trembled and she drooped her head again — "he married me because he loved me.” "Loved you! What should he love you for?"

"William, do you wish to insult me? I do not see why he should not love me, or why he should pretend to do so if he did not."

"And I suppose you love him?" he said, pulling the blanket farther up over his knees, and speaking in a scornful, incredulous voice.

"Yes, William, I do I love him more than all the world — and unless you will help me so that I may give him those things that he requires and make our little home worthy of his residence in it you will break my heart. You will kill him, and you will break my heart," she repeated passionately. "I will conceal nothing from you, we are starving, we have not got a pound in the world. We have not even food to eat. He is young and requires plenty of nourishment, he is not strong and wants luxuries."

"And you want me to pay for them."

But she did not seem to hear him and swept on:

"He must have them or he will die. We have spent every penny we had, I have even borrowed money on my possessions. I can conceal things from strangers, but you and I belong to the same family, and what I say to you I know is sacred we are starving, William, we are starving, and I implore you to help me. He says he cannot stay unless I take back money that he will go and leave me." Something seemed to gather in her throat, there was a ring of fright and despair in her voice as she said the last words. "He will leave me, and it will break my heart, for he is all the world to me. It will break my heart if he goes, and unless I take back money he will leave me."

"And let you starve by yourself nice man to marry!"

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"William," she said, "he must remem ber what is due to himself. He cannot stay if he has not even food to eat."

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"And pray who is this gentleman? "I have told you that he is a brilliant writer."

"What is his name?"

"I don't think I am justified in telling you he does not wish our marriage to be known."

"I can quite understand that," Sir William answered ironically. "Did he tell you to come to me for money? ?"

"Yes, he told me to do so," she said tragically, "he knew your good heart."

"Knew my good heart, did he?" There was a deadly pallor spreading over Sir William's face that frightened her. For a moment his lips moved without making a sound, then he recovered his voice "Tell me his name, what is it?"

"William," she began. "What is it?" he cried, and his breath came short and quick.

She was too scared to demur any longer. "It is Alfred Wimple," and her heart stood still.

He gazed at her for a moment in silence.

"Wimple," he said, "what, Boughton's nephew? That skunk he had to turn out of his office?"

"He is Mr. Boughton's nephew; and he left his uncle's office because the duties were too arduous for his health." "He left his uncle's office because he was kicked out of it. Do you mean to tell me that you have married him — a man who never did a day's work in his life or paid a bill that he owed; and as for writing, I don't believe one word of it. It's

not a month ago that his uncle told me of some old woman, his landlady, forsooth, who had been to him with a long bill

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"It was for his professional chambers. A man in his position requires them." "Yes, and he'd been sponging on the woman's mother, too, in the country. Were you with him?"

"No, William, I was not," and suddenly a load was lifted from Aunt Anne's heart. The mystery of Liphook appeared to be solved, and Alfred Wimple's account of his debts to be verified. A world of tenderness rushed back into her heart and gave her strength and courage to fight her battle to the end. "No, I was not with him," she repeated, and as she looked up a smile, a look of almost happiness was on her face, that made her cousin more wonderstruck than ever. "He required country air to invigorate him, and our means would not admit of

"Boughton has been allowing you a hundred a year," said Sir William, "and this Wimple has married you," he went on, a light seeming to break upon him. I am beginning to understand it. I presume he knows that you are my cousin."

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"Yes, I told him that you were he spoke of you with admiration," Aunt Anne added, always more anxious to say something gratifying to her listener than to be strictly veracious.

"I have no doubt he did. Pray when did this fine love-making begin?" Sir William asked scornfully.

"Nearly a year ago," Aunt Anne answered in a faltering voice for she was almost beaten in spite of the relief that had been given her a minute or two ago.

"And when did Boughton begin to allow you this hundred a year?

"About the time of my marriage."

"I perfectly understand. I'll tell you the reason of your marriage and of his love for you in a moment." With an effort he stretched out his hand and touched the bell. "Charles," he said, when the servant entered, "unlock my safe."

The man pulled back a curtain that had been drawn over a recess and disclosed an iron door. "On the top of the shelf to the left you will see a blue envelope labelled 'last will and testament.' Give it to me," Sir William said.

A scared look broke over Aunt Anne's

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table between the windows. The old man's hand shook while he took it. Aunt Anne, looking at him like a culprit waiting for punishment, noticed a black ness round his mouth and that the lines on his face were rigid.

"Shall I bring you some chicken-broth, Sir William?" the servant asked.

"When I ring. Go." Then he turned to Aunt Anne. "Now I will tell you why this young man loved you." He said the last words with an almost fiendish chuckle. "He loved you because, being a clerk in his uncle's office, the office from which he had to be kicked, he probably knew-in fact, I am certain that he knew, for he came to ask me your Christian name when the instructions were being given that I had provided for you in my will. I do not choose to pauperize people while I live, but I considered it my duty to leave some portion of my wealth to my relations, no matter how small a claim they had upon me. He knew that you would get a fourth share of my money-probably he reckoned it up and calculated that it would amount to a good many thousand pounds, so he and Boughton concocted a scheme to get hold of it together."

"Mr. Boughton knew nothing of our marriage."

"I tell you it was all a scheme. What should Boughton allow you a hundred a year for?" He was grasping the will while he spoke.

"He knew nothing about it, William, neither did Alfred."

"Well, we'll put his disinterestedness to the test," and he tried to tear the will in half, but his fingers were too weak. Oh, no," she cried, "no, no."

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"Do you suppose a young man would marry an old woman like you for any reason but gain? That you should have been such a fool-and for that unwholesome-looking cur, with his long, rickety legs and red hair, why he looks like a stale prawn," the old man said derisively, and made another effort to tear the will.

"I cannot bear it - William, I implore you," and she clasped her hands with

terror.

He leant forward with an effort and put the will on the fire.

"Oh no, no," she cried again, and kneeling down almost snatched it from the flames.

He took up the poker between his two white hands and held the paper down with it.

"It is cruel- cruel "she began, as she watched it disappear from her sight.

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"I think I have made the case clear," he said, “and that you will see there is nothing to be gained by staying. My money was not made to benefit Mr. Alfred Wimple. I shall make another will, and it will not contain your name." He rang the bell again.

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"You have treated me cruelly — cruelly but heaven will frustrate you yet." Anguish and dignity were strangely blended in her voice, but she hesitated a moment, and it seemed as if the latter had gained the victory, when she went on:

You and I will probably never meet again, William; you have insulted me shamefully, and you will remember it when it is too late to ask my forgiveness. You have insulted me, and treated me heartlessly, yet it was beside us when we were children that our mothers The servant entered with a cup of chicken-broth.

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Good-bye, Mrs. Alfred Wimple,” Sir William said politely. "Charles, show Mrs. Wimple down-stairs."

The man was bewildered at the strange name, and looked at Aunt Anne doubtfully. Sir William clutched at the arms of his chair again and his head sank back upon the pillow.

"William

"she began.

"Go," he said hoarsely. For a moment she hesitated, a red spot had burnt itself on her cheek, and slowly she followed the servant down the stairs.

From The New Review. STUDY IN CHARACTER.

LORD SALISBURY.

THE absolute unimportance of every individual to the world is a common belief amongst thoughtful persons in it. Exception may be made in the case of a few poets and one or two philosophers of a practical turn, but as to our rulers and governors, the doctrine so dear to Manchester in its braver days is still believed in. This doctrine is that individual gifts, personal will, count for little in times when intelligence and power are widely diffused. Nations are now governed (so the argument runs) by the common stock of will and wisdom; making use of this or that representative of itself, but neither used by nor dependent upon any individual, no matter what his apparent place in the world or his seeming authority.

It is a great mistake, and one that ought

not to have survived observation of the | themselves; the Third Napoleon, for excareer of two or three men of our own ample. Of others, like Mr. Disraeli, distime: Cavour, Bismarck, and Mr. Glad- tinct but contrary conceptions have been stone, for example. The truth is that with formed. Lord Salisbury is not a "mystery all her apparatus of Parliament, public man." Nobody would think of applying meeting, caucuses, newspapers, and re- to him that romantic but yet derogatory views, even free and democratic England designation; nevertheless, after years and is almost as much in the hands of one or years of public life (or rather of public two men as with-liberty-half-endowed Ger- business), there are few minds in which many is. Whether the empire is uplifted his image takes a firm outline. Yet more or cast down may be decided by the bee remarkable, perhaps, is the fact that, notin one man's bonnet, or the fluctuations of withstanding the high place he fills, there wisdom in the head and courage in the is little curiosity about him personallyheart of another. So it has been hitherto, little public curiosity. Of course, those so it is now, and so, no doubt, it will ever whose business is politics, or who take a be. Wherefore it is always interesting to sustained interest in public affairs, must look about us and see what sort of states- needs speculate from time to time upon manship we happen to be provided with. the character of so great a personage. But while they do so to small advantage, the rest of the world seems to trouble itself with the subject not at all. It is a remarkable but not an inexplicable fact that with all his high qualities, with all his commanding abilities including a large share of the winning gift of eloquence — Lord Salisbury has little interest for the people at large; which is explained by a lack of sympathy in his own character. That amiable quality, so useful to statesmanship, governed as England is, has been denied to him altogether. But sympathy lives by sympathy; and it must be a matter of common remark that wherever a distinct want of it becomes manifest it is not only met with coldness, but is in danger of setting up an antipathetic sentiment. Would it be too much to say that this untoward consequence is sometimes observed in the "feeling" for Lord Salisbury? Perhaps so. But at least it cannot be doubted that a general indifference to the prime minister as a personality exists in the public mind. The mass of Englishmen under Lord Salisbury's gov ernment are content to remain in ignorance of him. Himself destitute of sympathetic charm, he draws from them no part of the personal interest that was bestowed on Lord Palmerston, for example, not to speak of other men Lord Salisbury's intellectual inferiors.

At this moment the fortunes of the empire are pretty much in the hands of two men, Mr. Gladstone and Lord Salisbury; and it is the last-named statesman who sits in the seat of actual power, where he has exercised an authority far in excess of what is generally supposed. Prime ministers endowed with a masterful spirit have much more command in affairs than the popular imagination attributes to them; and in Lord Salisbury's case this power has been greatly enhanced by the fact that he chose to become, or had to become for there is no Conservative half so well qualified for the post-foreign secretary as well as prime minister. No doubt it is true that as his present term of power ran on (his first term, soon to be renewed or terminated) he took an ever-diminishing interest in the domestic affairs of the country, leaving them more and more to the handling of men who are not in the Cabinet and giving an all-but exclusive attention to the conduct of foreign affairs. The fact remains, however, that he holds a position of extraordinary personal authority; and that the combination of the two offices in his own hands leaves him quite unchecked in matters of the highest and most enduring importance. And since he is about to ask for a renewal of that authority, it should be all the more interesting to inquire what manner of man is he?

Put this question in any society, and it will be strange if you receive a confident reply. There are doubtless some who can speak from observation that should be sufficient, but they are comparatively few, and even of these it may be said that they do not venture on forming definite conclusions. There have been "mystery men" who yet impressed the world with a tolerably distinct and fairly accurate idea of

This is a grave privation, though it is probably one that he is little inclined by nature to repine at. Useful as it would be to him, it is more than likely that Hatfield's lord and Burleigh's descendant would take small pride in the strength derived from uninformed popular sympathy. Not that we are entitled to say that because he has never tried to gain it he would rather do without it. Temperament is temperament; we all have some

knowledge of ourselves; and it may be supposed that unless Lord Salisbury has been conscious of a certain inability to win the sentimental sorts of popular favor (which, however, are as well to be won by worthy as unworthy means), he would not have neglected a source of power which modern statesmanship can hardly do without. Yet it may be true at the same time that it is not a source of power that Lord Salisbury would take pleasure in. But then he is not exactly a modern statesman; which some may take for a reproach, though the wiser sort will be in no hurry to blame him on that account. They will reflect that it is possible to work the business of statesmanship without resorting to Dark Age methods, and yet to be absolutely indifferent to popular praise or blame. Anxiety or indifference in that matter may simply depend upon whether the statesman was originally gifted with the literary or the scientific mind. Now, because Lord Salisbury wrote for a time in the periodical press, and because his speeches and despatches are cast into what may be described as professional literary form, the bent of his genius has been commonly misapprehended. Literature he has in no small measure; and there are few men in England who look the scholar-the grave, full, laborious student, dignified by study. more than he. He is a master of style, proud of his mastery, and so adept at certain forms of expression that he is seduced at the most untimely seasons into showing how elegantly murderous a use the pen can be put to. This sometimes happens even when his lordship is inditing a despatch which is ultimately destined for publication, and therefore composed under special restraint. But official writings do not all come into blue-books; and since Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Bryce were absolutely shocked at the sarcasms that gleamed out in published despatches addressed to the Portuguese government, it is difficult to imagine what they would think of similar | exercises penned for private exhortation, correction, or rebuke. Some magnificent compositions of that kind exist. But, as we know by many examples, a punishing, controversial style is one of the most prized gifts of modern science; and Lord Salisbury's bent is less literary than scientific. Now, indifference to popular approval or disapproval is natural to the scientific mind; and by this alone Lord Salisbury's "attitude" towards the public would be sufficiently explained. Unless it be discoverable in Mr. Balfour, no such

attitude of light, sarcastic indifference, of amused and humorous scorn, is exhibited anywhere else in modern statesmanship.

More might be said, however, to the same effect. If we had to describe Lord Salisbury's statesmanship at a stroke, to differentiate the style of it in a single word, “Italian "would probably yield the most accurate idea; Italian not of modern Italy. But, it may be asked, is not that pretty much what we have often heard before? What is "Italian" but Elizabethan Cecilian with a slight difference? Well, it is Cecilian Elizabethan with a slight difference; only, whenever we are making generic distinctions it is as well to go from the branch to the root. But the compound word will do; and though it has been taken up many times as a random missile and thrown at the Cecil of our day with a mere desire to hurt, it is the word that would be chosen first by impartial discrimination. Besides, the reproach of "Elizabethan," when hurled at Lord Salisbury, has usually been intended to carry with it the meaning of imitation, affectation -something of the second-hand. That is all wrong together. There is nothing imitative or second-hand about the prime minister; and supposing Lord Salisbury born with the Italian cast of mind-which is what we should say of him- he is pretty much explained as a public man by an excessive growth in that same mind of two kinds of pride: the pride of birth and the pride of intellect. Ambition answers for the rest.

He must be a very poor member of a great family who does not search within himself at one time or another for some transmitted portion of the identical qualities that distinguished his more noble ancestors. No others will satisfy him half as well; and should he find a sufficient trace of those he seeks, he will naturally do his best to nourish them, and add to the glory of his house by making known their persistence and continuity. A famous phi losopher of this century persuaded himself that he was the latest incarnation of Buddha. How far he was justified by contemplation of his own interior (which was the greater part of his business) in making so prodigious an assumption can never be known; but if Lord Salisbury arrived early at the belief that the precise faculties of the historic Cecils had reappeared in himself, nobody who knows him will wonder. And if he began life with that idea, of course he would be all the more in love with his endowments. At the same time the pride of birth — which

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