HARDYMAN went on to the cottage. He found Isabel in someagitation. And there, by her side, with his tail wagging slowly,and his eye on Hardyman in expectation of a possible kick--therewas the lost Tommie!

"Has Lady Lydiard gone?" Isabel asked eagerly.

"Yes," said Hardyman. "Where did you find the dog?"

As events had ordered it, the dog had found Isabel, under thesecircumstances.

The appearance of Lady Lydiard's card in the smoking-room hadbeen an alarming event for Lady Lydiard's adopted daughter. Shewas guiltily conscious of not having answered her Ladyship'snote, inclosed in Miss Pink's letter, and of not having taken herLadyship's advice in regulating her conduct towards Hardyman. Ashe rose to leave the room and receive his visitor in the grounds,Isabel begged him to say nothing of her presence at the farm,unless Lady Lydiard exhibited a forgiving turn of mind by askingto see her. Left by herself in the smoking-room, she suddenlyheard a bark in the passage which had a familiar sound in herears. She opened the door--and in rushed Tommie, with one of hisshrieks of delight! Curiosity had taken him into the house. Hehad heard the voices in the smoking-room; had recognized Isabel'svoice; and had waited, with his customary cunning and hiscustomary distrust of strangers, until Hardyman was out of theway. Isabel kissed and caressed him, and then drove him out againto the lawn, fearing that Lady Lydiard might return to look forhim. Going back to the smoking-room, she stood at the windowwatching for Hardyman's return. When the servants came to lookfor the dog, she could only tell them that she had last seen himin the grounds, not far from the cottage. The useless searchbeing abandoned, and the carriage having left the gate, whoshould crawl out from the back of a cupboard in which some emptyhampers were placed but Tommie himself! How he had contrived toget back to the smoking-room (unless she had omitted tocompletely close the door on her return) it was impossible tosay. But there he was, determined this time to stay with Isabel,and keeping in his hiding place until he heard the movement ofthe carriage-wheels, which informed him that his lawful mistresshad left the cottage! Isabel had at once called Hardyman, on thechance that the carriage might yet be stopped. It was already outof sight, and nobody knew which of two roads it had taken, bothleading to London. In this emergency, Isabel could only look atHardyman and ask what was to be done.

"I can't spare a servant till after the party," he answered. "Thedog must be tied up in the stables."

Isabel shook her head. Tommie was not accustomed to be tied up.He would make a disturbance, and he would be beaten by thegrooms. "I will take care of him," she said. "He won't leave me."

"There's something else to think of besides the dog," Hardymanrejoined irritably. "Look at these letters!" He pulled them outof his pocket as he spoke. "Here are no less than seven men, allcalling themselves my friends, who accepted my invitation, andwho write to excuse themselves on the very day of the party. Doyou know why? They're all afraid of my father--I forgot to tellyou he's a Cabinet Minister as well as a Lord. Cowards and cads.They have heard he isn't coming and they think to curry favorwith the great man by stopping away. Come along, Isabel! Let'stake their names off the luncheon table. Not a man of them shallever darken my doors again!"

"I am to blame for what has happened," Isabel answered sadly. "Iam estranging you from your friends. There is still time, Alfred,to alter your mind and let me go."

He put his arm round her with rough fondness. "I would sacrificeevery friend I have in the world rather than lose you. Comealong!"

They left the cottage. At the entrance to the tent, Hardymannoticed the dog at Isabel's heels, and vented his ill-temper, asusual with male humanity, on the nearest unoffending creaturethat he could find. "Be off, you mongrel brute!" he shouted. Thetail of Tommie relaxed from its customary tight curve over thesmall of his back; and the legs of Tommie (with his tail betweenthem) took him at full gallop to the friendly shelter of thecupboard in the smoking-room. It was one of those triflingcircumstances which women notice seriously. Isabel said nothing;she only thought to herself, "I wish he had shown his temper whenI first knew him!"

They entered the tent.

"I'll read the names," said Hardyman, "and you find the cards andtear them up. Stop! I'll keep the cards. You're just the sort ofwoman my father likes. He'll be reconciled to me when he seesyou, after we are married. If one of those men ever asks him fora place, I'll take care, if it's years hence, to put an obstaclein his way! Here; take my pencil, and make a mark on the cards toremind me; the same mark I set against a horse in my book when Idon't like him--a cross, inclosed in a circle." He produced hispocketbook. His hands trembled with anger as he gave the pencilto Isabel and laid the book on the table. He had just read thename of the first false friend, and Isabel had just found thecard, when a servant appeared with a message. "Mrs. Drumblade hasarrived, sir, and wishes to see you on a matter of the greatestimportance."

Hardyman left the tent, not very willingly. "Wait here," he saidto Isabel; "I'll be back directly."

She was standing near her own place at the table. Moody had leftone end of the jeweler's case visible above the napkin, toattract her attention. In a minute more the bracelet and notewere in her hands. She dropped on her chair, overwhelmed by theconflicting emotions that rose in her atthe sight of the bracelet, at the reading of the note. Her headdrooped, and the tears filled her eyes. "Are all women as blindas I have been to what is good and noble in the men who lovethem?" she wondered, sadly. "Better as it is," she thought, witha bitter sigh; "I am not worthy of him."

As she took up the pencil to write her answer to Moody on theback of her dinner-card, the servant appeared again at the doorof the tent.

"My master wants you at the cottage, miss, immediately."

Isabel rose, putting the bracelet and the note in thesilver-mounted leather pocket (a present from Hardyman) whichhung at her belt. In the hurry of passing round the table to getout, she never noticed that her dress touched Hardyman'spocketbook, placed close to the edge, and threw it down on thegrass below. The book fell into one of the heat cracks which LadyLydiard had noticed as evidence of the neglected condition of thecottage lawn.

"You ought to hear the pleasant news my sister has just broughtme," said Hardyman, when Isabel joined him in the parlor. "Mrs.Drumblade has been told, on the best authority, that my mother isnot coming to the party."

"There must be some reason, of course, dear Isabel," added Mrs.Drumblade. "Have you any idea of what it can be? I haven't seenmy mother myself; and all my inquiries have failed to find itout."

She looked searchingly at Isabel as she spoke. The mask ofsympathy on her face was admirably worn. Nobody who possessedonly a superficial acquaintance with Mrs. Drumblade's characterwould have suspected how thoroughly she was enjoying in secretthe position of embarrassment in which her news had placed herbrother. Instinctively doubting whether Mrs. Drumblade's friendlybehavior was quite as sincere as it appeared to be, Isabelanswered that she was a stranger to Lady Rotherfield, and wastherefore quite at a loss to explain the cause of her ladyship'sabsence. As she spoke, the guests began to arrive in quicksuccession, and the subject was dropped as a matter of course.

It was not a merry party. Hardyman's approaching marriage hadbeen made the topic of much malicious gossip, and Isabel'scharacter had, as usual in such cases, become the object of allthe false reports that scandal could invent. Lady Rotherfield'sabsence confirmed the general conviction that Hardyman wasdisgracing himself. The men were all more or less uneasy. Thewomen resented the discovery that Isabel was--personallyspeaking, at least--beyond the reach of hostile criticism. Herbeauty was viewed as a downright offense; her refined and modestmanners were set down as perfect acting; "really disgusting, mydear, in so young a girl." General Drumblade, a large and mouldyveteran, in a state of chronic astonishment (after his ownmatrimonial experience) at Hardyman's folly in marrying at all,diffused a wide circle of gloom, wherever he went and whatever hedid. His accomplished wife, forcing her high spirits oneverybody's attention with a sort of kittenish playfulness,intensified the depressing effect of the general dullness by allthe force of the strongest contrast. After waiting half an hourfor his mother, and waiting in vain, Hardyman led the way to thetent in despair. "The sooner I fill their stomachs and get rid ofthem," he thought savagely, "the better I shall be pleased!"

The luncheon was attacked by the company with a certain silentferocity, which the waiters noticed as remarkable, even in theirlarge experience. The men drank deeply, but with wonderfullylittle effect in raising their spirits; the women, with theexception of amiable Mrs. Drumblade, kept Isabel deliberately outof the conversation that went on among them. General Drumblade,sitting next to her in one of the places of honor, discoursed toIsabel privately on "my brother-in-law Hardyman's infernaltemper." A young marquis, on her other side--a mere lad, chosento make the necessary speech in acknowledgment of his superiorrank--rose, in a state of nervous trepidation, to proposeIsabel's health as the chosen bride of their host. Pale andtrembling, conscious of having forgotten the words which he hadlearnt beforehand, this unhappy young nobleman began: "Ladies andgentlemen, I haven't an idea--" He stopped, put his hand to hishead, stared wildly, and sat down again; having contrived tostate his own case with masterly brevity and perfect truth, in aspeech of seven words.

While the dismay, in some cases, and the amusement in others, wasstill at its height, Hardyman's valet made his appearance, and,approaching his master, said in a whisper, "Could I speak to you,sit, for a moment outside?"

"What the devil do you want?" Hardyman asked irritably. "Is thata letter in your hand? Give it to me."

The valet was a Frenchman. In other words, he had a sense of whatwas due to himself. His master had forgotten this. He gave up theletter with a certain dignity of manner, and left the tent.Hardyman opened the letter. He turned pale as he read it;crumpled it in his hand, and threw it down on the table. "ByG--d! it's a lie!" he exclaimed furiously.

The guests rose in confusion. Mrs. Drumblade, finding the letterwithin her reach, coolly possessed herself of it; recognized hermother's handwriting; and read these lines:

"I have only now succeeded in persuading your father to let mewrite to you. For God's sake, break off your marriage at anysacrifice. Your father has heard, on unanswerable authority, thatMiss Isabel Miller left her situation in Lady Lydiard's house onsuspicion of theft."

While his sister was reading this letter, Hardyman had made hisway to Isabel's chair. "I must speak to you, directly," hewhispered. "Come away with me!" He turned, as he took her arm,and looked at the table. "Where is my letter?" he asked. Mrs.Drumblade handed it to him, dexterously crumpled up again as shehad found it. "No bad news, dear Alfred, I hope?" she said, inher most affectionate manner. Hardyman snatched the letter fromher, without answering, and led Isabel out of the tent.

"Read that!" he said, when they were alone. "And tell me at oncewhether it's true or false."

Isabel read the letter. For a moment the shock of the discoveryheld her speechless. She recovered herself, and returned theletter.

"It is true," she answered.

Hardyman staggered back as if she had shot him.

"True that you are guilty?" he asked.

"No; I am innocent. Everybody who knows me believes in myinnocence. It is true the appearances were against me. They areagainst me still." Having said this, she waited, quietly andfirmly, for his next words.

He passed his hand over his forehead with a sigh of relief. "It'sbad enough as it is," he said, speaking quietly on his side. "Butthe remedy for it is plain enough. Come back to the tent."

She never moved. "Why?" she asked.

"Do you suppose I don't believe in your innocence too?" heanswered. "The one way of setting you right with the world now isfor me to make you my wife, in spite of the appearances thatpoint to you. I'm too fond of you, Isabel, to give you up. Comeback with me, and I will announce our marriage to my friends."

She took his hand, and kissed it. "It is generous and good ofyou," she said; "but it must not be."

He took a step nearer to her. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"It was against my will," she pursued, "that my aunt concealedthe truth from you. I did wrong to consent to it, I will do wrongno more. Your mother is right, Alfred. After what has happened, Iam not fit to be your wife until my innocence is proved. It isnot proved yet."

The angry color began to rise in his face once more. "Take care,"he said; "I am not in a humor to be trifled with."

"I am not trifling with you," she answered, in low, sad tones.

"You really mean what you say?"

"I mean it."

"Don't be obstinate, Isabel. Take time to consider."

"You are very kind, Alfred. My duty is plain to me. I will marryyou--if you still wish it--when my good name is restored to me.Not before."

He laid one hand on her arm, and pointed with the other to theguests in the distance, all leaving the tent on the way to theircarriages.

"You r good name will be restored to you," he said, "on the daywhen I make you my wife. The worst enemy you have cannotassociate _my_ name with a suspicion of theft. Remember that andthink a little before you decide. You see those people there. Ifyou don't change your mind by the time they have got to thecottage, it's good-by between us, and good-by forever. I refuseto wait for you; I refuse to accept a conditional engagement.Wait, and think. They're walking slowly; you have got someminutes more."

He still held her arm, watching the guests as they graduallyreceded from view. It was not until they had all collected in agroup outside the cottage door that he spoke himself, or that hepermitted Isabel to speak again.

"Now," he said, "you have had your time to get cool. Will youtake my arm, and join those people with me? or will you saygood-by forever?"

"Forgive me, Alfred!" she began, gently. "I cannot consent, injustice to you, to shelter myself behind your name. It is thename of your family; and they have a right to expect that youwill not degrade it--"

"I want a plain answer," he interposed sternly. "Which is it?Yes, or No?"

She looked at him with sad compassionate eyes. Her voice was firmas she answered him in one word as he had desired. The word was--"No."

Without speaking to her, without even looking at her, he turnedand walked back to the cottage.

Making his way silently through the group of visitors--every oneof whom had been informed of what had happened by hissister--with his head down and his lips fast closed, he enteredthe parlor and rang the bell which communicated with hisforeman's rooms at the stables.

"You know that I am going abroad on business?" he said, when theman appeared.

"Yes, sir."

"I am going to-day--going by the night train to Dover. Order thehorse to be put to instantly in the dogcart. Is there anythingwanted before I am off?"

The inexorable necessities of business asserted their claimsthrough the obedient medium of the foreman. Chafing at the delay,Hardyman was obliged to sit at his desk, signing checks andpassing accounts, with the dogcart waiting in the stable yard.

A knock at the door startled him in the middle of his work. "Comein," he called out sharply.

He looked up, expecting to see one of the guests or one of theservants. It was Moody who entered the room. Hardyman laid downhis pen, and fixed his eyes sternly on the man who had dared tointerrupt him.

"What the devil do _you_ want?" he asked.

"I have seen Miss Isabel, and spoken with her," Moody replied."Mr. Hardyman, I believe it is in your power to set this matterright. For the young lady's sake, sir, you must not leave Englandwithout doing it."

Hardyman turned to his foreman. "Is this fellow mad or drunk?" heasked.

Moody proceeded as calmly and as resolutely as if those words hadnot been spoken. "I apologize for my intrusion, sir. I willtrouble you with no explanations. I will only ask one question.Have you a memorandum of the number of that five-hundred poundnote you paid away in France?"

Hardyman lost all control over himself.

"You scoundrel!" he cried, "have you been prying into my privateaffairs? Is it _your_ business to know what I did in France?"

"Is it _your_ vengeance on a woman to refuse to tell her thenumber of a bank-note?" Moody rejoined, firmly.

That answer forced its way, through Hardyman's anger, toHardyman's sense of honor. He rose and advanced to Moody. For amoment the two men faced each other in silence. "You're a boldfellow," said Hardyman, with a sudden change from anger to irony."I'll do the lady justice. I'll look at my pocketbook."

He put his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat; he searchedhis other pockets; he turned over the objects on hiswriting-table. The book was gone.

Moody watched him with a feeling of despair. "Oh! Mr. Hardyman,don't say you have lost your pocketbook!"

He sat down again at his desk, with sullen submission to the newdisaster. "All I can say is you're at liberty to look for it," hereplied. "I must have dropped it somewhere." He turnedimpatiently to the foreman, "Now then! What is the next checkwanted? I shall go mad if I wait in this damned place muchlonger!"

Moody left him, and found his way to the servants' offices. "Mr.Hardyman has lost his pocketbook," he said. "Look for it, indoorsand out--on the lawn, and in the tent. Ten pounds reward for theman who finds it!"

Servants and waiters instantly dispersed, eager for the promisedreward. The men who pursued the search outside the cottagedivided their forces. Some of them examined the lawn and theflower-beds. Others went straight to the empty tent. These lastwere too completely absorbed in pursuing the object in view tonotice that they disturbed a dog, eating a stolen lunch of hisown from the morsels left on the plates. The dog slunk away underthe canvas when the men came in, waited in hiding until they hadgone, then returned to the tent, and went on with his luncheon.

Moody hastened back to the part of the grounds (close to theshrubbery) in which Isabel was waiting his return.

She looked at him, while he was telling her of his interview withHardyman, with an expression in her eyes which he had never seenin them before--an expression which set his heart beating wildly,and made him break off in his narrative before he had reached theend.

"I understand," she said quietly, as he stopped in confusion."You have made one more sacrifice to my welfare. Robert! Ibelieve you are the noblest man that ever breathed the breath oflife!"

His eyes sank before hers; he blushed like a boy. "I have donenothing for you yet," he said. "Don't despair of the future, ifthe pocketbook should not be found. I know who the man is whoreceived the bank note; and I have only to find him to decide thequestion whether it _is_ the stolen note or not."

She smiled sadly as his enthusiasm. "Are you going back to Mr.Sharon to help you?" she asked. "That trick he played me hasdestroyed _my_ belief in him. He no more knows than I do who thethief really is."

"You are mistaken, Isabel. He knows--and I know." He stoppedthere, and made a sign to her to be silent. One of the servantswas approaching them.

"Is the pocketbook found?" Moody asked.

"No, sir."

"Has Mr. Hardyman left the cottage?"

"He has just gone, sir. Have you any further instructions to giveus?"

"No. There is my address in London, if the pocketbook should befound."

The man took the card that was handed to him and retired. Moodyoffered his arm to Isabel. "I am at your service," he said, "whenyou wish to return to your aunt."

They had advanced nearly as far as the tent, on their way out ofthe grounds, when they were met by a gentleman walking towardsthem from the cottage. He was a stranger to Isabel. Moodyimmediately recognized him as Mr. Felix Sweetsir.

"Ha! our good Moody!" cried Felix. "Enviable man! you lookyounger than ever." He took off his hat to Isabel; his brightrestless eyes suddenly became quiet as they rested on her. "HaveI the honor of addressing the future Mrs. Hardyman? May I offermy best congratulations? What has become of our friend Alfred?"

Moody answered for Isabel. "If you will make inquiries at thecottage, sir," he said, "you will find that you are mistaken, tosay the least of it, in addressing your questions to this younglady."

Felix took off his hat again--with the most becoming appearanceof surprise and distress.

"Something wrong, I fear?" he said, addressing Isabel. "I am,indeed, ashamed if I have ignorantly given you a moment's pain.Pray accept my most sincere apologies. I have only this instantarrived; my health would not allow me to be present at theluncheon. Permit me to express the earnest hope that matters maybe set right to the satisfaction of all parties. Good-afternoon!"

He bowed with elaborate courtesy, and turned back to the cottage.

"Who is that?" Isabel asked.

"Lady Lydiard's nephew, Mr. Felix Sweetsir," Moody answered, witha sudden sternness of tone, and a sudden coldness of manner,which surprised Isabel.

"You don't like him?" she said.

As she spoke, Fe lix stopped to give audience to one of thegrooms, who had apparently been sent with a message to him. Heturned so that his face was once more visible to Isabel. Moodypressed her hand significantly as it rested on his arm.

"Look well at that man," he whispered. "It's time to warn you.Mr. Felix Sweetsir is the worst enemy you have!"

Isabel heard him in speechless astonishment. He went on in tonesthat trembled with suppressed emotion.

"You doubt if Sharon knows the thief. You doubt if I know thethief. Isabel! as certainly as the heaven is above us, therestands the wretch who stole the bank-note!"

She drew her hand out of his arm with a cry of terror. She lookedat him as if she doubted whether he was in his right mind.

He took her hand, and waited a moment trying to compose himself.

"Listen to me," he said. "At the first consultation I had withSharon he gave this advice to Mr. Troy and to me. He said,'Suspect the very last person on whom suspicion could possiblyfall.' Those words, taken with the questions he had asked beforehe pronounced his opinion, struck through me as if he had struckme with a knife. I instantly suspected Lady Lydiard's nephew.Wait! From that time to this I have said nothing of my suspicionto any living soul. I knew in my own heart that it took its risein the inveterate dislike that I have always felt for Mr.Sweetsir, and I distrusted it accordingly. But I went back toSharon, for all that, and put the case into his hands. Hisinvestigations informed me that Mr. Sweetsir owed 'debts ofhonor' (as gentlemen call them), incurred through lost bets, to alarge number of persons, and among them a bet of five hundredpounds lost to Mr. Hardyman. Further inquiries showed that Mr.Hardyman had taken the lead in declaring that he would post Mr.Sweetsir as a defaulter, and have him turned out of his clubs,and turned out of the betting-ring. Ruin stared him in the faceif he failed to pay his debt to Mr. Hardyman on the last day leftto him--the day after the note was lost. On that very morning,Lady Lydiard, speaking to me of her nephew's visit to her, said,'If I had given him an opportunity of speaking, Felix would haveborrowed money of me; I saw it in his face.' One moment more,Isabel. I am not only certain that Mr. Sweetsir took thefive-hundred pound note out of the open letter, I am firmlypersuaded that he is the man who told Lord Rotherfield of thecircumstances under which you left Lady Lydiard's house. Yourmarriage to Mr. Hardyman might have put you in a position todetect the theft. You, not I, might, in that case, havediscovered from your husband that the stolen note was the notewith which Mr. Sweetsir paid his debt. He came here, you maydepend on it, to make sure that he had succeeded in destroyingyour prospects. A more depraved villain at heart than that mannever swung from a gallows!"

He checked himself at those words. The shock of the disclosure,the passion and vehemence with which he spoke, overwhelmedIsabel. She trembled like a frightened child.

While he was still trying to soothe and reassure her, a lowwhining made itself heard at her feet. They looked down, and sawTommie. Finding himself noticed at last, he expressed his senseof relief by a bark. Something dropped out of his mouth. As Moodystooped to pick it up, the dog ran to Isabel and pushed his headagainst her feet, as his way was when he expected to have thehandkerchief thrown over him, preparatory to one of those gamesat hide-and-seek which have been already mentioned. Isabel putout her hand to caress him, when she was stopped by a cry fromMoody. It was _his_ turn to tremble now. His voice faltered as hesaid the words, "The dog has found the pocketbook!"

He opened the book with shaking hands. A betting-book was boundup in it, with the customary calendar. He turned to the date ofthe day after the robbery.

There was the entry: "Felix Sweetsir. Paid 500 pounds. Notenumbered, N 8, 70564; dated 15th May, 1875."

Moody took from his waistcoat pocket his own memorandum of thenumber of the lost bank-note. "Read it Isabel," he said. "I won'ttrust my memory."

She read it. The number and date of the note entered in thepocketbook exactly corresponded with the number and date of thenote that Lady Lydiard had placed in her letter.

Moody handed the pocketbook to Isabel. "There is the proof ofyour innocence," he said, "thanks to the dog! Will you write andtell Mr. Hardyman what has happened?" he asked, with his headdown and his eyes on the ground.

She answered him, with the bright color suddenly flowing over herface.

"_You_ shall write to him," she said, "when the time comes."

"What time?" he asked.

She threw her arms round his neck, and hid her face on his bosom.

"The time," she whispered, "when I am your wife."

A low growl from Tommie reminded them that he too had some claimto be noticed.

Isabel dropped on her knees, and saluted her old playfellow withthe heartiest kisses she had ever given him since the day whentheir acquaintance began. "You darling!" she said, as she put himdown again, "what can I do to reward you?"

Tommie rolled over on his back--more slowly than usual, inconsequence of his luncheon in the tent. He elevated his fourpaws in the air and looked lazily at Isabel out of his brightbrown eyes. If ever a dog's look spoke yet, Tommie's look said,"I have eaten too much; rub my stomach."

POSTSCRIPT.

Persons of a speculative turn of mind are informed that thefollowing document is for sale, and are requested to mention whatsum they will give for it.

"IOU, Lady Lydiard, five hundred pounds (L500), Felix Sweetsir."

Her Ladyship became possessed of this pecuniary remittance undercircumstances which surround it with a halo of romantic interest.It was the last communication she was destined to receive fromher accomplished nephew. There was a Note attached to it, whichcannot fail to enhance its value in the estimation of allright-minded persons who assist the circulation of paper money.

The lines that follow are strictly confidential:

"Note.--Our excellent Moody informs me, my dear aunt, that youhave decided (against his advice) on 'refusing to prosecute.' Ihave not the slightest idea of what he means; but I am very muchobliged to him, nevertheless, for reminding me of a circumstancewhich is of some interest to yourself personally.

"I am on the point of retiring to the Continent in search ofhealth. One generally forgets something important when one startson a journey. Before Moody called, I had entirely forgotten tomention that I had the pleasure of borrowing five hundred poundsof you some little time since.

"On the occasion to which I refer, your language and mannersuggested that you would not lend me the money if I asked for it.Obviously, the only course left was to take it without asking. Itook it while Moody was gone to get some curacoa; and I returnedto the picture-gallery in time to receive that delicious liqueurfrom the footman's hands.

"You will naturally ask why I found it necessary to supply myself(if I may borrow an expression from the language of Statefinance) with this 'forced loan.' I was actuated by motives whichI think do me honor. My position at the time was critical in theextreme. My credit with the money-lenders was at an end; myfriends had all turned their backs on me. I must either take themoney or disgrace my family. If there is a man living who issincerely attached to his family, I am that man. I took themoney.

"Conceive your position as my aunt (I say nothing of myself), ifI had adopted the other alternative. Turned out of the JockeyClub, turned out of Tattersalls', turned out of the betting-ring;in short, posted publicly as a defaulter before the noblestinstitution in England, the Turf--and all for want of fivehundred pounds to stop the mouth of the greatest brute I know of,Alfred Hardyman! Let me not harrow your feelings (and mine) bydwelling on it. Dear and admirable woman! To you belongs thehonor of saving the credit of the family; I can claim nothing butthe inferior merit of having offered you the opportunity.

"My IOU, it is needless to say, accompanies these lines. Can I doanything for you abroad?-- F. S."

To this it is only necessary to add (first) that Moody wasperfectly right in believing F. S. to be the person who informedHardyman's father of Isabel's position when she left LadyLydiard's house; and (secondly) that Felix did really forward Mr.Troy's narrative of the theft to the French police, alteringnothing in it but the number of the lost bank-note.

What is there left to write about? Nothing is left--but to saygood-by (very sorrowfully on the writer's part) to the Persons ofthe Story.

Good-by to Miss Pink--who will regret to her dying day thatIsabel's answer to Hardyman was No.

Good-by to Lady Lydiard--who differs with Miss Pink, and wouldhave regretted it, to _her_ dying day, if the answer had beenYes.

Good-by to Moody and Isabel--whose history has closed with theclosing of the clergyman's book on their wedding-day.

Good-by to Hardyman--who has sold his farm and his horses, andhas begun a new life among the famous fast trotters of America.

Good-by to Old Sharon--who, a martyr to his promise, brushed hishair and washed his face in honor of Moody's marriage; andcatching a severe cold as the necessary consequence, declared, inthe intervals of sneezing, that he would "never do it again."

And last, not least, good-by to Tommie? No. The writer gaveTommie his dinner not half an hour since, and is too fond of himto say good-by.

End of Project Gutenberg Etext of My Lady's Money, by Wilkie Collins