The Portland daily press., 1881-11-14

and while he stood there watching and half
| hidden by the hedge, her merry laugh rang
| out upon the still summer air in peal which
re-echoed in jack heart like the death
knell of all his dearest hopes. o, he was
reaping the whirlwind, and no mistake
| about it!
Snow did you do as I adyised?" Montagu
| asked at mess that night, in tone of sneer-
| ing triumph. care you convinced?'
''Hang youp' cried Jack passionately.
"By no means,"4 returned Montagu calm
ly, going on with his dinner as if that was
the chief object of his existence. "You
shouldn't allow yourself to fly into such
transports of rage, my dear chap; it's not
good form, to begin with; it's bad for the
digestion-bad every way. You're deuced
good fellow, Sinclair; but you go into every
thing with such terrible earnestness. 1t
spoiis you, my dear fellow; aud it will be
| getting YOU into trouble one of these days,
take my word for it."
But during the week which followed,
| Jacks rage had time enough to cool. As
| far as Dorothy was concerned, he had re-
| signed in favor of Bryan Montagu who had
| contrived to get the entree to the house, and
| who pretty nearly lived there. Twice, Dor
othy had written to know why he kept away
| and to ask him to come; and both times he
nau SEM d loriudi lepiy uccuuinS tne ihf.uo
| ton. He scarcely went outside the barracks,
and when he did so went between 9 and T.
a time when he knew Dorothy was very un-
| likely to be out.
At last, however, he was one day compell-
| ed to go into town early in the afternoon
| and about half way down the High street he
Dorothy and Mentagu coming on the same
side of the street. They were close upon
him before he perceived them, but he did
not hesitate moment. He turned sharply
! to the right, and crossed over to the other
side without so much as look, and without
any recognition whatever. Dorothy turned
very white, but she kept brave front to the
world and laughed it off as usual. Mon
tagu tackled Jack upon the subject that ev-
| ening.
| CHOW, tell you what it is, Sinclair" he
| said, leaning back in his chair, and survey
| ing Jack with much amusement in his eyes,
| '.your behaviour is what / call uncommonly
| shabby. Blow hot, blow cold, you know"
''Mnd your own business" returned
| Jack, sulkily.
s'Ah, conscience touching you up bit,
eh? Well, it's what you must expect, while
| you behave as you've done lately. Oh, Sin
| clair, you've a great deal to answer for!
| You've brought desolation into once happy
home, grief to once happy heart OF
course, it's right and proper that you
should pay attention to the fair sex; their
youth and beauty demand it; the honor of
our regiment requires it,; but you sho uld
not concentrate your attentions, my dear
chap, yon should not concentrate; they
should be more general and less marked"
But Jack was sulky as a bear with sore
head, and would have no argument on the
subject, so Montagu was obliged to have it
all to himself. Not that that had any effect
on his tongue; he never let Jack rest mo-
ment
ssAh, you may well look so blue" he
would cry, "with such conscience as you
must have-enough to give you blue devils
for the rest of your life! Think of the young
affections you have blighted; think of the ir-
reparahle injury your heartless conduct has
wrought; think of the gay heart now made
desolate, the light heart which will be light
no more Look at him gentlemen" appeal
ing, after the manner of counsel in court
of justice, to the grinning officers round
about-s'look at the depraved individual
who stands before you, the male fiirt. All,
well, well, Sinclair, of all my sins, and they
are many, 1 do not carry ON my con-
science the shameful weight of young, fresh
affections trifed with, won, and thrown
aside.''
Poor Jack! he met Dorothy often enough
now. Dorothy always alone, with no Bryan
Montagu in attendance, but with, 0, such
blanched face, such world of woe in the
azure eyes, that if Jack had wished for re-
venge there it was. But Jack wished for
nothing of the kind. The sight Of his false
loves white face only made him miserable.
so utterly miserable that he could have fall
en- downsupon his knees in the very street,
and prayed her to try and look happier; he
could have choked the very life out of Mon
tagu as he sat sneering and jbing at the
mess-table, only that would not give him
back 10 Dorothy, or take away that piteous
woe from her face. And then Montague
took his long leave and Dorothy grew whit
er and whittier, until at length he missed
her altogether, and feared she must be ill.
Once or twice he felt half inclined to ig-
more the past and go and see her, but the re-
membrance that she was fretting for Mon
tagu kept him back; she wanted Montagu,
aad Jack Sinclair would be of no use; and
so when his time came for long leave he
went away, sore of heart, as was ever Doro-
thy St. George with hers breaking for the
love of the man who bore the name of the
Lady Killer-in- Chief.
The Cuirassiers had left Blankhampton
for Colchester on the way for India, and
Dorothy st. George had seen nothing more
of her two lovers since the day that Jack
Sinclair went away on long leave. True,
Bryan Montagu had called twice; but Doro-
thy had not seen him, being indisposed-
otherwise lying on the bed in the exhaustion
which usually comes after violent weeping.
Mr. Montague had staid half an hour each
time, talking serenely with Mrs. st. George,
and left with graceful regrets that Miss St.
George was not well enough to see him; and
that had been all, that was the end. And
yet she could not forget the past; she was
not allowed to 60 out of the house, for ter
rible cough had taken hold of her; she could
not rest anywhere; she thought herself that
she was going mad. AS the year drew to
close, and the day fixed for the embarkation
of the regiment drew near, she persuaded
her mother to take daily paper that she
might see the latest, and indeed last, intelli-
gence of them. She was not hard to per-
suade, for great dread had come over her
lest fher child, who was all she had in the
world, should be taken from her; and so for
a time the paper was left at the house daily.
The rnews about the Cuirssiers was but
scanty, and Dorothy used to fling the paper
down and sigh piteously each day, hoping
that the next would tell more. And at last
the sight of their own name caught her eye,
and she for the first time looked al the paper
with an interest unconnected with the Roy
al Regiment of Cuirassiers.
''If this should meet the eye of Florence
Meredith, who in September, 49,, was mar
ried in the parish church of Llangwylt,
North Wales, by the Rev. David Meredith
to George st. George, gentleman, she is re-
quested to communicate Immediately with
Messrs. Owen, Lucas & Co., Gray's inn
road, London, when she will hear Of some
thing to her advantage"
Dorothy read it aloud to her mother.
''What does it mean?' she cried, thinking
it might have something to do with-with-
''It is to say yonr father is dead" Mrs.
st. George, replied, an ashen hue overspread-
ing her face.
"And you will write?'
cat once" she said, in trembling voice.
"If he has relented, things may be very diff
ferent for u.s."
Two days passed by and no reply came.
Dorothy was wildly curious, fretfully i'm
patient, and when on the second morning
the postman past the house, intensely dis
appointed
81 believe it is a hoax" she cried.
But it was not so. Toward noon an i'm
perative knock resounded through the
house, and the woman who had gone every
day to help since Dorathy's illness, ushered
into the tiny sitting-room a small, grave
gentleman, clad in black, and with an ire
proachable white neckcloth.
'Mrs. st. George?" he said, with a grave