TSE LADIES' EL ORAL CABINET. 
175 
could not understand was why she should have been so 
uro’ent in desiring it. But he almost stammered as he 
rephed vaguely: „ , • , , t 
‘‘ It would have been as well, perhaps—mdeed I can¬ 
not see why you shoiUd be troubled with my presence at 
all.” 
There was another pause, her eyes fixed upon him all 
the time; he remaining quite still, glancing vacantly at 
a window. Then she advanced slowly to him, holding 
out her hand. 
“ Mr. Calthoiiie,” she said in a clear, earnest voice, 
It was necessaiy to see you; I wish to ask you to for¬ 
give me.” . 
He took the hand mechanically ; lus brain was un¬ 
dergoing a series of electric shocks wliich dazed his in¬ 
tellect and blinded his eyes. That passed, and he looked 
straight into her face, analyzing it, searching eagerly in 
every shade of expression for the answer to tlie question 
—“Is she in earnest now?” The veiy intensity of his 
passion made him cahn. At that moment he realized 
what she had already grasped before his arrival, that 
the situation was too grave to allow of any awkward¬ 
ness between them. They were standing face to face 
with then- whole future, and them hands now clasped in 
them the possibilities of them lives. 
“I do not know how to answer you. Miss Cuthbert,” 
he said at length ; “unless it can be an answer to tell you 
that life will be easier to me than I had expected it to be 
imtil now that I have seen you again, and heard you 
speak these words. They udll enable me to remember 
you only as Lucy.” 
“That will suffice, and I thank you. I wish you to 
remember me as Lucy, and that is why I am going to ask 
you now to permit me to show you how I came to make 
the . . . the mistake.” 
She gently withdrew her hand; there had been no 
IDi'essure. on liis part or hers. On ringing the bell, Mrs. 
O’Biyan appeared. 
“ You may tell him to come now, mother.” 
Mrs. O’Bryan disappeared ; and presently the handle of 
the door was turned hesitatingly, and Teddy, the patriot 
entered. He looked crestfallen; his red ham, whimr used 
to be like a tangled moij, lay close and lank on his head 
as if he had just come out of a water-butt; liis complex¬ 
ion was sallow, and he had the manner of one who is 
penitent against his will. 
“Come, Teddy,” said his foster-sister, kindly takmg 
him by the arm ; “ you are to remember your promise to 
me, and you are to tell Mr. Calthoi'pe how it all happened. 
He will not ask you to say much.” 
With that she bowed to Maurice and rettmned to the 
inner room. As the brown curtains closed behind her, 
Maurice felt as if the place had become dark. 
“ Come, Teddy, what is it you have to tell me?” ho m- 
quired presently. . , . , . , 
Teddy moved his shoulders as if giving physical ex¬ 
pression to an “ Ugh” of disgust with liimself. 
“ That letter,” he muttered betiveen his clenched teeth, 
and in a tone that was half sulky, half savage, yet indi¬ 
cative of pain of some sort, 
Teddy groaned and swayed his body like one in a night¬ 
mare struggling to get free. 
“ Tire one you wrote to— her. The one you sent after 
leaving us—the one she ought to have got.” 
“ wYiat do you mean ? Did she not receive the lettei -1 
“No.” 
“ Tlien how do you know about it ? 
“I got it—but she didn’t, and that’s the whole of the 
matter.” 
Teddy stopped and, sulkily clenching liis hands, sank 
his chin upon his chest. 
“Do you mean to say that you kept the letter from 
her ?” Maurice pronounced each word deliberately and 
as if he could scarcely believe his ears. ,.™ t 
Teddy spoke rapidly and gutturally, as if with difficul¬ 
ty keeping his passion and pain tmder hand. 
“ I cud. I b^eved you were deceiving her—^maybe x 
wanted to believe it. I made her believe it. And you 
did deceive us all with your name—and all about ^u. 
How was I to know that you weren’t the common mfor- 
mer that 1 took you for? How was I to know that you 
weren’t making a fool of her when I found out your real 
name by accident. . . . I didn’t read the letteMt 
didn’t matter to me what was in it; you sent it, and that 
was enough; I didn’t want her to toow any more about 
_ JJ 
“ What devil tempted you to do that?” cried Mauiice, 
aU Mabel’s strange conduct and cruel treatment bemg ex¬ 
plained to him by this ungracious confession, 
“ I have told you. Devil it was since I knew mat siie 
has been troubled about it—ever since the mother told 
me that she was in trouble about you I have never known 
a minute’s peace. I wish the hoys had shot me instead 
of the policeman.” . _ a 
“I wish they had,” retorted Maurice bitterly, and 
scarcely knowing what he said, while he paced the noor 
{i2rit3.t6dly» _ 
‘ ‘ It’s the best wish you can give mo, though you don i 
know it.” said Teddy bitterly, too, for he was m his way 
conscious of the meanness of Ms action, although he teit 
justified in having done it. ‘ ‘ I couldn’t understand that 
she was taken up with you entirely, and if I had gu^^d 
it at the time—well. I’m glad I didn't, for toe Lord hiim 
self knows what might have happened. The ould dad 
used to be always telling me that I was raving, and ray¬ 
ing I was about her, and it’s been the sore trial for me to 
learn that I was the cause of making her son-y in toe 
midst of her splendor.” _ , 
Maurice could not speak. Something m the man s voice 
and manner touched him, and much as he had former^ 
laughed at his patriotic rhodomontade, Maurice saw noth¬ 
ing ludicrous m him just now. 
“And, master,” Teddy went on, gruffly, they tell 
me you took up the case for me and tliat it was you toat 
got me off, and that I ought to be gratefid to you. But 
I can’t—it only makes me hate you the more.^ That s au 
now, and I want to get you out of my sight. 
Rude as Ms words were, and gruff as Ms voice soimded, 
Teddy was choking wit!, shame and regret. Maurice 
grasped Ms hand and gave it a vigorous shake. 
“ I understand, Teddy, you had reason to hate me, aim 
and I have still better reason to hate you. But I m^ 
see you when we are both cooler; at present I want to 
see Miss Cuthbert.” 
“ I am not sorry to leave you, sir, said Teddy, unawe 
to make any more generous response, as he qmtted toe 
Mamice requested the servant to ask Miss Cutl^it if 
he might see her for a few moments. She came at once. 
There was no light of triumph in her eyes; they were 
sadder than before. 
Mam’ice spoke rapidly and excitedly. , j j 
“Teddy has told me what should make me glad, ana 
I am glad; but there is so much misery mixed up m it 
that only one tMng is deal’ to me, and that is toe bitter 
knowledge that his petty act of jealous treacheiy has 
done us both irreparable harm. How you must have 
suffered! And I was the cause—I, who would have done 
anything rather than have given you the smallest pang 
and I can do notliing to make amends. I am powerless 
even to let you see how I, too, suffered.” 
His words came like a torrent; his cheeks were nusned, 
and his eyes bright. _ , , „ 
“ Do not blame yourself, or Teddy too much, she ans¬ 
wered quietly: “ other circumstances combined to bring 
about om' misfortune.” 
“Will you ever forgive me?” t 
“ I have too much to regret to have thought about- 
forgiving. Mr. Arkwood has told me how you tried to 
find me.” ,., ... 
“I thought you must be dead. Why did you mystify 
me so when we first met at Hollyford?” 
“I cannot tell,” she answered frankly, and again 
that ripple of agitation passed over her face. “ I cannot 
tell, except that the pain of tMnking you had deceiv^ 
nie made me foolish—mad, I think. Your failiu’e to 
identify me seemed to confirm all that I had been led to 
believe. ... But why do we talk about this now? We 
have both blundered—1 most—and we have to bear the 
sorrow we have made for ourselves,” . , xv ^ 
“ No, no, no; it was I who blundered, and I wish that 
I might be toe only one to suffer for it.” , . . x 
You know that cannot be,” she answered withamnt, 
sad smile, “ and I do not wish it to be. Whoever is tp 
blame, there is no help for it now.” 
