had been ailing for some time, and on going to London for advice received the news that she was suffering from an incurable malady; the sentence, in fact, was Death, and though it was deferred for many years, she never tasted of the old life again. She still continued to write for her newspaper (the Daily News '), but for nothing else. It will interest you to know,' she writes. (Nov. 9, 1865), 'that my very last bit of authorship is the article on "Convict Life" in the "Edinburgh." The editor will not believe it is the last; but it is.'

Throughout the invalid existence which she was doomed henceforth to lead, she was resigned and cheerful; not a word of complaint, though she suffered much pain, fell from her lips or from her pen; but she never recovered her old spirits. Our simple junketings and merriment were over. Year after year I used to come to see her, and every time there was a distinct decay of strength. Her intelligence remained as keen as ever, and her interest in the affairs of the world from which she was cut off; but to me, with the remembrance of other days in my mind, those visits were very sad. At first I was admitted at the same familiar door, on the same terms as usual; then only an hour's interview was allowed by the doctor's orders; then only half an hour. She wrote to me, however, though even letterwriting had become toilsome to her, pretty frequently. Her own increasing ailments were dismissed with a word or two; but all that pertained to those she loved was interesting to her, even to quite trivial details.

'I was rejoiced to hear from Mr. W.,' she says in her last letter, ' of your dear wife looking so well. My love to her. So you are getting bald? Never mind so long as it is you, not she. If men will shave all their lives, instead of wearing their proper beards, they must not complain of growing bald. A mile and a half (isn't it?) of hair shaved off in a man's lifetime may well make him bald. . . . Oh, yes, I am worse-much. It has been a terrible summer for pain. Seven weeks without one minute's intermission! That is over now; a great increase of opiates, and now the cold (the letter is dated November), have caused a considerable rally for the present. . . . Love to Tiny [the worker of the bookmarker so many years ago], and all of you, from your affectionate old friend.'

Those were the last words I had from Harriet Martineau.

160

THE GIANT'S ROBE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF VICE VERSA.'

'Now does he feel his title

Hang loose upon him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.'-Macbeth.

CHAPTER XXIII.

PIANO PRACTICE.

AFFYN was conscious of a certain excitement that Sunday evening as he waited for Mark Ashburn's arrival. He felt that he might be standing on the threshold of a chamber containing the secret of the other's life-the key of which that very evening might deliver into his hands. He was too cautious to jump at hasty conclusions; he wished before deciding upon any plan of action to be practically certain of his facts; a little skilful manipulation, however, would most probably settle the question one way or the other, and if the result verified his suspicions he thought he would know how to make use of his advantage. There is a passage in the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table' where the author, in talking of the key to the side-door by which every person's feelings may be entered, goes on to say, 'If nature or accident has put one of these keys into the hands of a person who has the torturing instinct, I can only solemnly pronounce the words that justice utters over its doomed victims, "the Lord have mercy on your soul!" There, it is true, the key in question unlocks the delicate instrument of the nervous system, and not necessarily a Bluebeard's chamber of guilt; but where the latter is also the case to some extent the remark by no means loses in significance, and if any man had the torturing instinct to perfection, Caffyn

might be said to be that individual. There was nothing he would enjoy more than practising upon a human piano and putting it hopelessly out of tune; but pleasant as this was, he felt he might have to exercise some self-denial here, at all events for the present, lest his instrument should become restive and escape before he had quite made up his mind what air he could best play upon it.

In the meantime Mark was preparing to keep the appointment in the pleasantest and most unsuspecting frame of mind. After answering Caffyn's note he had met the Langtons as they came out of church and returned with them to lunch. Dolly was herself again now, her haunting fears forgotten with the happy ease of childhood, and Mabel had made Mark feel something of the gratitude she felt to him for his share in bringing this about. He had gone on to one or two other houses, and had been kindly received everywhere, and now he was looking forward to a quiet little dinner with the full expectation of a worthy finish to a pleasant day. Even when he mounted the stairs of the house which had been once familiar to him, and stood in Holroyd's old rooms, he was scarcely affected by any unpleasant associations. For one thing, he was beginning to have his conscience tolerably well in hand; for another, the interior of the rooms was completely transformed since he had seen them last.

Then they were simply the furnished apartments of a man who cared but little for his personal well-being; now, when he passed round the handsome Japanese screen by the door, he saw an interior marked by a studied elegance and luxury. The common lodging-house fireplace was concealed by an elaborate oak overmantel, with brass plaques and blue china; the walls were covered with a delicate blue-green paper and hung with expensive etchings and autotype drawings of an aesthetically erotic character; small tables and deep luxurious chairs were scattered about, and near the screen stood a piano and a low stand with peacock's feathers arranged in a pale blue crackle jar. In spite of the pipes and riding-whips on the racks, the place was more like a woman's boudoir than a man's room, and there were traces in its arrangements of an eye to effect which gave it the air of a well-staged scene in a modern comedy.

It looked very attractive, softly lit as it was by shaded candles in sconces and a porcelain lamp with a crimson shade, which was placed on the small oval table near the fern-filled fireplace; and as Mark placed himself in a low steamer-chair and waited for his 8

VOL. II.-NO. 8, N. S.

host to make his appearance, he felt as if he was going to enjoy himself.

'I shall have my rooms done up something in this way,' he thought, when my book comes out.' The blinds were half drawn and the windows opened wide to the sultry air, and while he waited he could hear the bells from neighbouring steeples calling in every tone, from harsh command to persuasive invitation, to the evening services.

6

Presently Caffyn lounged in through the hangings which protected his bedroom door. 6 Sorry you found me unready,' he said; I got in late from the club somehow, but they'll bring us up some dinner presently. Looking at that thing, eh?' he asked, as he saw Mark's eye rest on a small high-heeled satin slipper in a glass case which stood on a bracket near him. That was Kitty Bessborough's once-you remember Kitty Bessborough, of course? She gave it to me just before she went out on that American tour, and got killed in some big railway smash somewhere, poor little woman! I'll tell you some day how she came to make me a present of it. Here's Binney with the soup now.'

Mrs. Binney sent up a perfect dinner, at which her husband assisted in a swallow-tail coat and white tie, a concession he would not have made for every lodger, and Caffyn played the host to perfection, though with every course he asked himself inwardly, 'Shall I open fire on him yet?' and still he delayed.

At last he judged that his time had come; Binney had brought up coffee and left them alone. You sit down there and make yourself at home,' said Caffyn genially, thrusting Mark down into a big saddle-back arm-chair (where I can see your confounded face,' he added inwardly). Try one of these cigars-they're not bad; and now we can talk comfortably. I tell you what I want to talk about,' he said presently, and a queer smile flitted across his face; I want to talk about that book of yours. Oh, I know you want to fight shy of it, but I don't care. It isn't often I have a celebrated author to dine with me, and if you didn't wish to hear it talked about you shouldn't have written it, you know. I want you to tell me a few facts I can retail to people on the best authority, don't you know; so you must just make up your mind to conquer that modesty of yours for once, old fellow, and gratify my impertinent curiosity.'

Mark was feeling so much at ease with himself and Caffyn that

even this proposition was not very terrible to him just then. All right,' he said lazily; 'what do you want to know first?'

'That's right. Well, first, I must tell you I've read the book. I'd like to say how much I was struck by it if I might.'

'I'm very glad you liked it,' said Mark.

'Like it?' echoed Caffyn; 'my dear fellow, I haven't been so moved by anything for years. The thought you've crammed into that book, the learning, the passion and feeling of the thing! I envy you for being able to feel you have produced it all.' ('That ought to fetch him,' he thought.)

'Oh, as for that,' said Mark with a shrug, and left his remark unfinished, but without, as the other noticed, betraying any particular discomposure.

'Do you remember, now,' pursued Caffyn, how the central idea first occurred to you?'

But here again he drew a blank, for Mark had long ago found it expedient to concoct a circumstantial account of how and when the central idea had first occurred to him.

'Well, I'll tell you,' he said. 'It shows how oddly these things are brought about. I was walking down Palace Gardens one afternoon... and he told the history of the conception of 'Illusion' in his best manner, until Caffyn raged internally.

'You brazen humbug!' he thought; 'to sit there and tell that string of lies to me!' When it was finished he remarked, 'Well, that's very interesting; and I have your permission to tell that again, eh ?'

'Certainly, my dear fellow,' said Mark, with a wave of his hand. His cigar was a really excellent one, and he thought he would try another presently.

("We must try him again,' thought Caffyn: he's deeper than I gave him credit for being.')

'I'll tell you an odd criticism I heard the other day. I was talking to little Mrs. Bismuth-you know Mrs. Bismuth by name? Some fellow has just taken the "Charivari" for her. Well, she goes in for letters a little as well as the drama, reads no end of light literature since she gave up tights for drawing-room comedy, and she would have it that she seemed to recognise two distinct styles in the book, as if two pens had been at work on it.'

(Now I may find out if that really was the case after all,' he was thinking.) I thought you'd be amused with that,' he added, after a pause. Mark really did seem amused; he laughed a little.