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"Given up his whist, you know," cried one. "And his billiards," cried another. "And his rackets," "And his hunting," "And his champagne," " And sleeps in his clothes," all in an ascending scale of astonishment. "And yet how he grumbled about Bertrand's boring him with his love-affairs!" "Said he must exchange to get away from it." Awfully queer fellow, Pigott." "Selfish beast, though, all the same; positively refused to take my duty on Saturday, to let me go out hunting!-pretended he couldn't leave Bertrand!" "Rubbish!" "Selfish to the backbone." One or two voices, indeed, would be raised against the theory of Pigott's selfishness, but the general sentiment favoured it. And yet probably there were not many in that self-abnegating circle of young men who would have done what Pigott was doing for his friend. There is nothing so selfish as your society of "awfully good fellows," who are for ever exclaiming against the selfishness of their neighbours; and nowhere are there more real Levites, than where every one is, ex officio, as it were, an honorary good Samaritan.

At last the crisis of the fever came the grand final struggle between the antagonists. It came; it was intense and protracted, and it seemed doubtful if Bertrand could come out of it alive; or, if alive, with his reason unimpaired. But it passed, and the patient fell into a long and gentle sleep-the signal and the assurance of his victory. It was a moment of sincere happiness for Pigott when at last he heard his name uttered, in a scarcely audible voice, from the bed, and, drawing aside the curtain, found that his friend was awake and conscious.

"Where am I, Pigott?"

"At home, in your own barrackroom, old fellow."

"Oh, yes, I see;" but his eyes wandered about in a questioning way; the world of reality seemed dim and strange to him after the vivid phantasmagoria of his long delirium.

"Is there no parade to-day? I feel as if I had been asleep for an age."

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"You've been very ill, but you're all right now, Bertrand; only you must be very quiet. Don't speak, but try to sleep."

"Very ill! yes, yes-why, I can't even lift my hand! I declare I can't move! How odd it is! Turn me away from the light, please; I'll go to sleep again, if you're quite cer tain there's no parade."

"Not an atom of a parade."

And Pigott turned him, and he slept long and deep, and woke the next time stronger, and quite comprehending that he had been dangerously ill, though he said nothing, as yet, of the cause. And so he passed through the first stages of his recovery, sleeping much, and lying silent when awake-scarcely speaking, indeed, except to express a want

querulously enough, as the wont of convalescents is. And Pigott still stuck to his post, and nursed him zealously through this most trying period to nurses, displaying a gentleness and consideration truly wonderful, but which would have been still more astonishing in a professed philanthropist, perhaps.

And so the weeks rolled on, and Bertrand still continued silent on the subject of his love-catastrophe, which to his friend appeared a satisfactory symptom. "It shows, at any rate, that the thing's at an end," he would say to himself; "if it hadn't been, he would never have kept off the subject so long. It's a great comfort-it was a horrid bad business. The girl is as hollow as a drum, and her governor a snob compared with

our big-drummer. It's a blessing it's at an end; but I wish I saw the old boy a little cheerier. That will come in time, though. He must have change of air and scene, and all that sort of thing, as soon as he can be moved." The doctor quite fell in with this latter view, and by-and-by Bertrand got a

couple of months' sick-leave, and went down to Bournemouth accompanied by his faithful friend.

"It is my own case, you see," Pigott explained, as if apologising for his devotion; " and I'm not going to let him out of my hands till he'll do me credit."

CHAPTER XXXII.

The spring was well advanced, the season was an early one, and the weather was glorious as summer; and in such circumstances, Bournemouth is a charming place to those who come, as Bertrand did, to drink in health and vigour from its pure but genial air. The woods, where, among the much-prevailing pines, their monotony was relieved by less sombre trees, were beginning to wrap themselves in that wonderful soft green mist-if one may so express it when the foliage has just been wooed from the bud by spring's caresses; and everywhere the primrose ran riot, and, mingling with early wildflowers of other hues, lettered spring's advent gloriously in grove and lane, on slope and meadow; and the sun shone constantly, and the sky was clear and blue, and the sea, reflecting all, lay sleeping underneath the sunny cliffs peaceful and motionless for days. It was a delicious time for all men, but for an invalid the days came "with healing on their wings," and Bertrand regained his strength rapidly. He and Pigott were established in quarters on the eastern cliff; and they could not have been better placed, for the aspect was southern, and the sea lay at their feet. On one hand they looked upon the Isle of Wight, with its constant strange transformations of light and shade wrought by the sea-mists and the sun; and

on the other to the graceful outlines of the Dorsetshire coast, sweeping round to form the western enclosure of the bay. But it was to the sea Bertrand constantly looked; the contemplation of its vastness and calm soothed his lacerated spirit, and, gazing at the far away seahorizon, he drank in unconsciously that indefinable sense of promise and hope which it always suggests. It was very good for him to be there; the companionship of the sea was very good for him. Pigott was indeed a little disappointed to find that his abstraction did not abate very much, and that his efforts to divert his mind to what was going on about him, or to amuse him with everyday subjects, continued to be but very partially successful; yet the return of health and strength, the pure air, and "the lessons of the sea," were surely, if slowly, doing their work. Never, indeed, might the elastic joyousness of youth before its first check return to him-never again the same simplicity of faith-never again those early dreams of the heart that make a fairy-land of life. But all these things go necessarily in the tear and wear of the world; it is only a matter of time-simply a question between a sudden lopping off and a gradual process of grinding away with a file. The end of our third decade sees the last of

them, one way or other. And as for the permanent effects of lovedisappointments beyond this limit, does any one now believe in them? Does any one believe that any nature not afflicted with some grave moral or intellectual flaw, will have its capacity for work, usefulness, sympathy, and even enjoyment, paralysed for ever by any such agency? Not very long ago it would have been held a kind of blasphemy against "the higher sensibilities" to hold such language. A few generations back, it was quite a venial offence to be useless, worthless, or at least disagreeable, for the remainder of your days, if you had only been disappointed in love: it was expected of you, indeed, by the romantic. But from that affectation, at least, let us be thankful that our age is free, and that the disappointed lover is no longer under any sort of necessity either to become a respectable cynic, the pest and scourge of his associates, or to go drunk to destruction at a handgallop via the dirty sloughs of the vulgarest Bohemianism.

We give the hapless lover our sympathy, and a reasonable time to "wax well of his deep hurt;" but we know perfectly well that a time arrives when the reality of his suffering comes to an end, and when any farther demonstration thereof becomes fictitious and dramatic. For his own and Pigott's sake, may this time soon come to Bertrand, and we should be disappointed in him if we found him wearing the willow thereafter.

Time passed on; the two months' leave drew towards a close; Bertrand's health was almost quite restored, and he was on the fair way to be very soon fit to return to his old duties and pursuits: but never, all this time, had he spoken to his friend of Eila, or his recent engage

ment, or the catastrophe which had terminated it. Pigott was not only very inquisitive about it (although this he would have scorned to admit), but he had formed an idea-to which the wish, perhaps, was father

that Bertrand's health and spirits would both be materially benefited by an unbosoming of himself; and so he now never lost an opportunity of giving him " a lead over" when any event or turn of the conversation suggested an opening. It was in vain, however, that Pigott skirmished or "showed the way ;' Bertrand was evidently not going to be manoeuvred into a confidence, and he still refrained from volunteering one. There is not a great Ideal to be done at Bournemouth. Fine air, sunshine, blue skies, the beautiful sea, the bursting foliage, the glories of the spring-these are all very well for a dreamer or an invalid; they were all very well for Bertrand as yet, and he was contented with sitting in the open air, strolling along the cliffs and among the pine-woods, or now and then undergoing an hour or so of modified dislocation on a hired "animal." But for Pigott, who was a man of action, and in his normal state went in for everything, his friend began to feel that Bournemouth must be very slow indeed; and at last he begged him not to sacrifice any more of his leave to him. He was all right now, he said, and would get on famously by himself, and probably rejoin the regiment in a fortnight. But Pigott refused to desert his friend. "No, no," he said; "I'll stick to you till I land you on the duty-rolster again. I take a pride in my case, you see. If I went away you would be hipped and moped, and ten to one you would have a relapse, and I might have all this business over again. We're doing very well; we'll take

some more camel exercise to-morrow; and, by the by, I was forgetting-I've found a friend-a lady friend, here. I met her this morning when I was struggling with that thief of a butcher-romantic spot for a meeting! I went to point out to him that, though ignorant of anatomy generally, I was aware that sweetbreads and liver are not identical not even in value-which he seemed to fancy. She, it appeared, had come to annihilate him with some similar sarcasm; but we met, and our wrath vanished. The butcher still survives."

"Who is your friend?"

"A very jolly sort of woman; I knew her in India. She is the wife or the widow of one Curtis, who commanded a native infantry regiment at Benares when we were there, years ago. I wonder whether she is wife or widow now-no interested motives, she's fifty if she's a day, and could no more get into your chair than the hippopotamus ;-but it's awkward not knowing. Curtis's habits were certainly not calculated to lengthen life, still I think he must be alive."

"Well, what about the lady?" "Oh! only that I met her, and we were very glad to see each other; and I was refreshed by hearing the old Hindoo jargon again-the lingua Franca which native infantry used to talk, you know; and she wanted me to go to 'tiffin,' and I told her I had to go back to you; and she asked about you, and your illness, and your name; and when I mentioned the musical word 'Cameron,' she snuffed the heather, and asked if you were from Scotland; and when I said I feared you were, she sprang upon me-morally, that is-and said that she too hailed from that fortunate country-infor mation which her application of the term 'imparrtinent' to me, rendered

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"Well, you must go yourself, and make my apologies. It will be a change for you, after moping with a sick man for weeks;" and Pigott finally agreed to go, and went.

The evening might have passed rather heavily for Bertrand, thus left to himself, but when the post came in, it brought him something which effectually rescued him from ennui, at all events-a letter addressed in a handwriting well known, and once inexpressibly dear to him. At sight of it his heart beat so violently that he gasped for breath; and his hand so shook that he was unable to tear open the envelope. He was still, we must remember, but a convalescent. "What a fool I am!" he muttered to himself, at last. "As if anything could alter the past! Nothing short of a revelation from heaven could make me believe in truth from that hand again! So, what does it matter to me what the contents of the letter are?" He then opened, and read as follows:

"PAU, May 186—.

"MY OWN DEArest Bertrand,— Man proposes, but God disposes.

When I wrote my last sad letter to you, in which I seemed to sign away my very life, I was proposing to secure your ultimate happiness -your prosperity, at all events. In doing so I was prepared to sacrifice myself in every way, and this I did. I do not boast of it. I would do it again for your dear sake. I even deceived you a little for your own good. I even sacrificed what was dearer to me than life-the truth. Ah, Bertrand! I fear I am sadly wicked. I fear you are dearer to me than the truth. I sacrificed it for you, and I belied my own love that you might rather even think me unworthy than that I should be the destroyer of your fortunes. I wrote that letter with my heart's blood, and I have never smiled since-never, at least, till yesterday. But a merciful Providence has seen fit to remove the burden from me which was heavier than I could bear. I send you news-joyful news-glorious news. It has pleased Providence so to dispose the heart of that dear, excellent man, your uncle, that he no longer objects to our union. Everything else seems to go from me as I write these words, and I can only see my beloved Bertrand standing before me, claiming me as his bride! and he shall not claim in vain. Come to me, my own-come quickly; every moment without you is an agony. Yes, Bertrand, papa had a long, delightful interview with Sir Roland yesterday; and he has agreed to everything. We are to have enough in the mean time; and he says he has no intention of marrying, and that we are to be his heirs! Is it not too much happiness? I said to you in jest once that if he only saw me, all his objections would fade away! A conceited speech, was it not? But, dearest, I do really flatter myself

that I have had something to do with this blessed turn of affairs; and it is my pride and joy that I have been able to serve my beloved Bertrand's interests. His Excellency was immensely taken with me. (Don't be jealous.) I could see that at once; and, under Providence, I believe I have been the instrument of softening his heart.

"But I will not talk of that now. We shall laugh over all our troubles and adventures soon- shall we not?

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"And now, dearest, come, come, come! Papa says Come;' Sir Roland says 'Come;' and I say 'COME!' in the largest capitals. If you can get leave, we might be married here, and then have a ramble in the Pyrenees. What a heavenly programme! In that case I would get my trousseau in Paris. Might we not meet there, and then come back to this place, which, from yesterday, will always be dear to me? His Excellency, who is far from strong, I grieve to say, cannot venture on England till the summer is well advanced; and as he must be at the wedding, this place would suit all parties best. Write-telegraph -let me hear from you on the instant-best of all, telegraph to say, 'I am starting,' and then start at once. And now a short farewell, my beloved Bertrand.-Your own fond, hoping, loving, adoring

"EILA.

"P.S.-If you decide on coming straight on here, would you mind bringing for me, from Paris, one dozen pair of gloves-three buttons -61? You can choose the colours you like best. The gloves here are execrable. E. M."

There was much to surprise Bertrand in this letter- his uncle's reconciliation most of all. "The other," he said, bitterly, "follows as a matter of course." He paced the

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