THE TRAGEDY OF A WOMAN'S VANITY.

Meantime Hilliston, unaware of that fatal meeting with Mona Bantry, which threatened to demoralize his plans, was devoting himself to his unfortunate wife. She was very ill, and not expected to recover, so feeling that he would soon lose her, the lawyer stayed constantly by her side, and strove, though unsuccessfully, to ameliorate her cruel sufferings. It was all the more credit to him that he did so, as he had married her mainly for her money, and was still in love with Mrs. Bezel. No doubt, remorse had something to do with his present attitude.

The landlord of the Connaught Hotel had insisted upon Mrs. Hilliston being removed when the first symptoms of disease showed themselves. He declared that were it known that he had a smallpox patient in his house, he would be ruined for the season, so Hilliston, recognizing the truth of this assertion, took steps to isolate his wife, as was necessary from the nature of her illness. Assisted by the doctor, who attended to all details relative to the municipal authorities, he hired a small house on the outskirts of Eastbourne, and thither the wreck of what had once been a beautiful woman was removed one evening. Nurses were hired from London, Hilliston sent word to his partner that he would not return to business for some weeks; and then began the slow martyrdom of the sickroom.

It was a fortnight since Mrs. Hilliston had been seized with the disease, and now it had taken so favorable a turn that the doctor held out great hopes that she would recover. But the beauty of which she had been so proud was gone, and with it went the hopes that she could still retain her husband by her side. Mrs. Hilliston knew well enough that it was only her persistence which had made Hilliston marry her, and now that she had lost her good looks—the one hold she had on his lukewarm affection—she foresaw only too clearly that he would neglect her in the future. Moreover, the woman's vanity was so powerful that she could not accept calmly the possibility of surviving, a scarred and maimed object, to face looks of pity and of horror. She felt that she would rather die, and in fact resolved to do so. Meanwhile she tossed and turned, and moaned and wept on her sick bed; crying out against the stern Fate which had dealt her such hard measure. Yet in her secret soul she admitted that the punishment was just.

Hilliston was scarcely less unhappy than his wife. While her illness was serious, he had thought of nothing but how to save her, but now that a chance of recovery offered a respite from his arduous attendance by the sick bed, he had time to turn his thoughts toward the Horriston tragedy. He wondered that he had not heard from Paynton relative to the interview with Claude, and, fearful lest some untoward event had occurred to upset his plans, he wrote to Rose Cottage asking for information. To-day he had received a reply, and on reading it saw his worst fears realized.

"I know you now [wrote Captain Larcher briefly]. I have seen Claude; I have seen Mona. Henceforth I look upon you as an enemy, and I intend to take immediate steps to clear my name at your expense."

There was no signature, but Hilliston was too well acquainted with his friend's writing to have any doubt as to the genuineness of the letter. The blow had fallen; Mona had betrayed him, and he sat there helpless, with the letter in his hand, a spectacle of baffled scheming, of unmasked villany.

"To clear his name at my expense," muttered Hilliston to himself. "What does he mean by that? He cannot have discovered—but no, that is impossible. When they find out who picked up that dagger at the ball, they may learn the truth, but not till then. I defy them all. Larcher will remain Paynton till the end of his life. Mona! Ah, I shall punish her when I return to town for her cruel treachery."

While he was thus thinking, a nurse entered the room to intimate that Mrs. Hilliston would like to see him. The lawyer obeyed the summons at once, placed Larcher's letter in his pocket, smoothed his brow, and entered the sickroom. Signing to the nurse to go away, Mrs. Hilliston waited till she was alone with her husband.

"Francis," she said in a low voice, stretching out her hand, "I wish to speak to you—on that subject."

"I think it would be wise if you refrained from doing so," replied Hilliston, knowing to what she alluded. "We understand one another on that point; you can do no good by bringing it up again. Why should you?"

"For Claude's sake," said Mrs. Hilliston feverishly. "You owe him some reparation."

"I owe him none, Louisa. I have acted like a father to him, and he has turned on me. I helped Larcher to hide himself when it was dangerous for him to become known, and he tells me that I am his enemy."

"Have you heard from him?"

"I received a curt note of three lines intimating that he was about to assert his innocence, and clear his name at my expense."

"Francis," cried Mrs. Hilliston, in a tone of terror, "you are lost! If all is known——"

"All will not be known," replied Hilliston, patting her hand; "only two people know the truth—you and I. We can keep our own counsel."

"But that little man, Tait, is at Horriston."

"What of that?"

"He will see Belinda Pike there. You know how she hated me because I loved you. She wanted to marry you herself. If he meets Miss Pike she will speak against me."

"What of that?" said Hilliston soothingly. "You forget, my dear, that your life is different now. No one can find Louisa Sinclair in Louisa Hilliston. When you went to America you vanished and returned as Mrs. Derrick, the rich widow. Belinda Pike can never learn that. My dear, you distress yourself suddenly. We are perfectly safe."

"But the garnet scarfpin," questioned Mrs. Hilliston feverishly.

"I am secure on that point. Larcher knew that I was in the garden on that night, and may have thought I dropped it. He will not dare to accuse me of the crime. If he did," continued Hilliston, his brow growing black, "I could turn the tables on him in a manner he little expects. There is more evidence against him than against me."

"But if they learn that I was with you on that night?"

"They will never learn. No one saw you there. If they did, what does it matter? Louisa Sinclair is dead. You need have no fear of being recognized. I'll answer for that."

"It does not matter to me if I am known or not," said Mrs. Hilliston gloomily; "I have done with life."

"My dear, the doctor says you will recover."

"I shall not recover," said the sick woman, with emphasis. "Oh, do not deceive yourself, Francis! I shall never rise from this sick bed to be an object of horror and pity to you."

"My dear——"

"You never loved me. You only married me out of pity. At Horriston you refused to make me your wife, and it was only when I returned from America a rich woman that you did so. Pity," she said, with a scornful laugh, "no, not pity, but necessity. You would have been ruined but for my money."

"I admit it, Louisa, and I am deeply grateful to you for the way in which you have helped me. I can never repay you for saving my name and credit."

"You can, Francis. Get me my dressing case."

"Louisa, you cannot——"

"I insist upon being obeyed," she said imperiously. "Get me my dressing case."

With great reluctance he brought it from a distant table and placed it on a chair by the bedside. In obedience to her directions he opened it, and took therefrom a sealed envelope.

"In there," she said, as he held it in his hand, "is an account of all I saw on that fatal night. You must send that letter to Captain Larcher when I am dead."

"Louisa, do you wish to ruin me?"

"I wish to save you, Francis. Do not deceive yourself into a belief that the investigation is at an end. Claude may cease to meddle with the matter, for he is in love with Jenny, and will probably marry her, for by this time, according to you, he knows who she is. But I am afraid of Spenser Tait. He will hunt you down; he will urge Larcher to find out the truth. If it comes to that, send them my account of the matter."

"It will ruin me," he said again.

"It will save you," she repeated. "Do not be foolish, Francis. You can read it before sending it away."

"But you?"

"I shall be dead. I feel sure I shall not live. Promise me that if the worst comes you will send that letter."

"I promise," he said, sorely against his will, "but it will not be sent: you will live."

"I don't think so, Francis. I know better than the doctor. Now kiss me, my husband, and leave me to myself."

He did so in silence, and took up the dressing-case, whereupon she stopped him. "Let it be," she said quietly: "some of your letters are in it, and I wish to read them. Kiss me again."

Again he kissed her, and reluctantly left the room. So quiet and self contained was she that he had no inkling of her intention. Had he guessed her fatal resolve, little as was the love he bore her, he would surely have striven to turn her from her purpose. But he guessed nothing, and left her alone, with the devil tempting her.

Good-by, my husband!" she murmured, as the door closed, and then burst into tears. He had gone, she would never see him again, and she moaned over her lost beauty which failed to retain him by her side. He was coldly polite; he was affectionate out of pity, but he had no love for her, and she hungered for the want of it. Her life passed before her, episode after episode, till it stopped short at the spectacle of a closed door, and herself lying alone and deserted in that sickroom.

She wept and prayed, and then, with a firm hand, took out of her dressing case a small vial filled with a dark brown liquid. Twice she put it to her lips, and twice she hesitated; the third time she accomplished her purpose. The thought of her lost beauty, of her husband's neglect, of her childless home and wretched future, all these nerved her, and she drank off the contents, then quickly replaced the bottle in the dressing case.

When the nurse came in to see her patient, Mrs. Hilliston was lying back with a quiet smile on her pale lips. She had found peace at last.