well have stopped in China, since she has found both father and mother in England.'

'We have only done our best as such,' said Mrs. Wardlaw, by proxy.'

Besides these two new inmates of the Lodge there would, but for the look of the thing,' as its mistress said, have been a third in the person of Raymond; and, indeed, he was so frequent a guest, that he might almost as well have taken up his quarters there.

All the kindness of this excellent couple could not, however, save Arthur Conway's life; he had no particular ailment, but his whole constitution was broken beyond doctors' mending. He suffered no pain, and was perfectly placid and happy, except that he evinced great anxiety to have the young people married. Nelly combated this notion (though we may be sure it was not otherwise distasteful to her) from the sense that it was becoming to think of marriage while the shadow of death, as it were, was hovering over her father: but he gained Mrs. Wardlaw's ear, and through her influence obtained his wish.

un

'My dear Nelly,' said she, 'you are positively weakening what little hope remains to us of your father's restoration to health, by your foolish scruples.'

To this Nelly could answer nothing, save that she was in her friend's hands.

The marriage was therefore at once arranged for: even the lawyers did not delay it, since their instructions were simplicity itself. The twenty-one thousand pounds that were, by rights, Conway's own, were taken as his daughter's and settled absolutely upon her, at Raymond's wish, for her sole use and benefit.' He was not going to lie under Mrs. Wardlaw's suspicions, he said, the second time. She had thought he had neglected Nelly when she was poor, and might possibly imagine he only married her because she was an heiress. On her resenting this with becoming indignation, he whispered something in her ear, which he flattered himself would cover her with confusion; but it had not that effect at all.

I know I did,' said she (he had alluded to her advocacy of Mr. Herbert Milburn); I thought very well of the young man, and you seemed to have withdrawn from the field. It was my duty to do the best I could do-though it was only the second best of what I wished-for Nelly. I liked you very much, Raymond Pennicuick, but I liked my darling more.'

6

And quite right too, dear Mrs. Wardlaw,' cried the young fellow, and I love you (if your husband, and Nelly, will permit me to say so) all the better for so doing.'

But Mr. Herbert Milburn was always a subject of pleasant

-though quite private-raillery between Mrs. Wardlaw and Raymond.

The marriage was of course a very quiet one: indeed, no guests were bidden to it; but that did not prevent the arrival of many marriage presents. As the rain falls most plentifully upon moist ground, so, when folks are rich and do not want them, these gifts are always in the greatest profusion. It was astonishing how many acquaintances of Nelly Conway's-about whom she knew almost as little as we ourselves-became her friends when she married Mr. Ralph Pennicuick's son and heir. One present, but not sent from the same motives, arrived several months after Raymond and Nelly were man and wife. It was a magnificent China shawl from Mr. Milburn, forwarded through his sister's hands, with dear Herbert's kind regards and best wishes,' to Nelly. The splendour of this gift-only second to one she had received from Mrs. Wardlaw herself-excited that lady's highest commendation.

6

6

'I always thought, you know, my dear Raymond,' said she mischievously, that our dear Nelly might have done better with herself.'

But that is not our opinion, as indeed it is needless to say it was not seriously hers. There was never a happier married pair than Raymond and Nelly Pennicuick.

At the very first, however, there was a sad trouble, though an expected one. Hardly had Arthur Conway obtained his wish of seeing his daughter wedded than Death claimed him. Indeed, the young couple were summoned from their wedding tour to his death-bed. He was alive when they arrived, and that was all. His mind was wandering chiefly on matters that had taken place at Dhulang; and I think that from his wild talk-joined with certain suspicions of her own-Nelly learnt more of the true state of the case than when in his right mind he had told her. If so, she only loved him more, not her husband less; and indeed, in what had he offended? A bad son may indeed sometimes lay his sins at his father's door; but for a father's sins what son can be answerable?

Just at the last, as often happens, Conway's wandering wits returned to him. He recognised his daughter and bade her a loving farewell.

I shall see her, and we shall be made one again through you, my darling,' were his last words. 'Let me be buried in the same grave with her.'

It was an inexpressible comfort to poor Nelly that her father's last thoughts had reverted-and in such tender fashion-to her mother.

(The End.)

BELGRAVIA.

JUNE 1878,

The Haunted Hotel:

A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE.

BY WILKIE COLLINS.

(The right of translation is reserved.)

THE FIRST PART.

CHAPTER I.

N the year 1860, the reputation of Doctor Wybrow as a London

authority that he was in receipt of one of the largest incomes derived from the practice of medicine in modern times.

One afternoon, towards the close of the London season, the Doctor had just taken his luncheon after a specially hard morning's work in his consulting-room, and with a formidable list of visits to patients at their own houses to fill up the rest of his day-when the servant announced that a lady wished to speak to him.

'Who is she?' the Doctor asked. 'A stranger?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I see no strangers out of consulting-hours. Tell her what the hours are, and send her away.'

'I have told her, sir.'

'Well?'

And she won't go.'

'Won't go?' The Doctor smiled as he repeated the words. He was a humourist in his way; and there was an absurd side to the situation which rather amused him. "Has this obstinate lady given you her name?' he inquired.

6 No, sir. She refused to give any name-she said she wouldn't keep you five minutes, and the matter was too important to wait

VOL. XXXV. NO. CX

CC

till to-morrow. There she is in the consulting-room; and how to get her out again is more than I know.'

Doctor Wybrow considered for a moment. His knowledge of women (professionally speaking) rested on the ripe experience of more than thirty years: he had met with them in all their varieties-especially the variety which knows nothing of the value of time, and never hesitates at sheltering itself behind the privileges of its sex. A glance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his rounds among the patients who were waiting for him at their own houses. He decided forthwith on taking the only wise course that was open under the circumstances. In other words, he decided on taking to flight.

'Is the carriage at the door?' he asked.

'Yes, sir.'

6

Very well. Open the house-door for me without making any noise, and leave the lady in undisturbed possession of the consulting-room. When she gets tired of waiting, you know what to tell her. If she asks when I am expected to return, say that I dine at my club, and spend the evening at the theatre. Now then, softly, Thomas! If your shoes creak, I am a lost man.'

He noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant on tip-toe.

Did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him? or did Thomas's shoes creak, and was her sense of hearing unusually keen? Whatever the explanation may be, the event that actually happened was beyond all doubt. Exactly as Doctor Wybrow passed his consulting-room, the door opened-the lady appeared on the threshold-and laid her hand on his arm.

I entreat you, sir, not to go away without letting me speak to you first.'

The accent was foreign; the tone was low and firm. Her fingers closed gently, and yet resolutely, on the Doctor's arm.

Neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect in inclining him to grant her request. The influence that instantly stopped him, on the way to his carriage, was the silent influence of her face. The startling contrast between the corpse-like pallor of her complexion and the overpowering life and light, the glittering metallic brightness in her large black eyes, held him literally spell-bound. She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste; she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age-say a year or two over thirty. Her lower features-the nose, mouth, and chin-possessed the fineness and delicacy of form which is oftener seen among women of foreign races than among women of English birth. She was unquestionably a handsome person-with

the one serious drawback of her ghastly complexion, and with the less noticeable defect of a total want of tenderness in the expression of her eyes. Apart from his first emotion of surprise, the feeling she produced in the Doctor may be described as an overpowering feeling of professional curiosity. The case might prove to be something entirely new in his professional experience. It looks like it,' he thought; and it's worth waiting for.'

She perceived that she had produced a strong impression of some kind upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm.

'You have comforted many miserable women in your time,' she said. 'Comfort one more, to-day.'

Without waiting to be answered, she led the way back into the

room.

The Doctor followed her, and closed the door. He placed her in the patients' chair, opposite the windows. Even in London the sun, on that summer afternoon, was dazzlingly bright. The radiant light flowed in on her. Her eyes met it unflinchingly, with the steely steadiness of the eyes of an eagle. The smooth pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever. For the first time, for many a long year past, the Doctor felt his pulse quicken its beat in the presence of a patient.

Having possessed herself of his attention, she appeared, strangely enough, to have nothing to say to him. A curious apathy seemed to have taken possession of this resolute woman. Forced to speak first, the Doctor merely inquired, in the conventional phrase, what he could do for her.

The sound of his voice seemed to rouse her. Still looking straight at the light, she said abruptly: "I have a painful question to ask.'

'What is it?'

Her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the Doctor's face. Without the slightest outward appearance of agitation, she put the 'painful question' in these extraordinary words:

"I want to know, if you please, whether I am in danger of going mad?'

Some men might have been amused, and some might have been alarmed. Doctor Wybrow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment. Was this the rare case that he had anticipated, judging rashly by appearances? Was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman whose malady was a disordered stomach, and whose misfortune was a weak brain? Why do you come to me?' he asked sharply. Why don't you consult a doctor whose special employment is the treatment of the insane?'

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She had her answer ready on the instant.