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when people passed her with a bow, who, a
"He will come back again," she said, so she did not tell anyone of this new sorrow, only night after night she set her door ajar to guide his footsteps safely; and night after night she would stand for hours against the passage wall, waiting until the light in his room was put out.
She hoped against hope, all through that weary month. She held her head higher than ever amongst the towns-people, although she came to be dimly conscious of half averted faces, and hurried whispers as she passed. She smiled and talked more than ever as she walked with Bertie through the autumn days, although it seemed as if her heart was breaking. Her mother sat placidly by the open door, and Sir Arthur came and went, while Bertie grew fretful and irritable, and avoided Bee's clear eyes with sullen shame.
"It's no use, Bee " he said to her one morning as they stood side by side in the garden. "It can't be helped; the old life drags me down-down to hell, Bee, and I can't stop myself, you must let me go
"Why, Bertie, I cannot do that," said Bee, her hand closing involuntarily on his arm, "we must try more than ever, and, please God, you will be safe yet. There must be something we have failed in."
"There is something we have failed in," she repeated to Sir Arthur that evening as they sat alone together in the curtained room.
"Never mind, Bee," said Sir Arthur, leaning forward, "it must come right."
Bee rose from her chair and knelt down beside him, laying her head upon his arm, Arthur, Arthur," she said softly, "it has been growing on me for months-you know my sorrow, so I can speak to you."
"Tell me anything you like," he said, "excepting that you have ceased to love me." "Would that be possible?" said Bee. "Surely not! Arthur, there is something I have not given up to Bertie yet, and I am afraid."
He put his arm round her, and turned her face upwards. "If you mean me," he said, "I cannot let you go."
"But, Arthur," she pleaded, with sweet tearless eyes, "I dare not give him up nowand how can I marry you, and go away and leave him to destruction?" He was silent.
"I have been trying to say it to you for months," she said, "I have been trying to think that you were my first duty-but, ah! my poor Bertie, my poor Bertie."
Still Sir Arthur sat silent, touching her bent head with lingering hands.
"You are not angry," she said. "He is falling back, you see, and I am so happy with you. I forget him sometimes-I have not given up enough yet-what have I given that I valued -until now."
"You shame me, Bee," said Sir Arthur, hoarsely. "What shall I do?”
"You shall be quite free," said Bee.
"I-I will try again," said Bee.
He took her closer to him, and kissed her once. "Free!" he said, "I am no more free than I was that day I asked you to be my wife-you are so brave and strong that you shame me, Bee; but I will wait for you. What else have I to wait for, dear?"
"But you are quite free," said Bee, hurriedly. "It was to tell you that that I came back to you to-night."
"And now you have told me! But, Bee, I could help you better if you were my wife. Hush! I must speak now; marry me at once, and let us bear this together. Believe me, I would be as gentle with Bertie as you could be." Beatrice lifted her face to his again, with a passionate sorrow in her large clear eyes. "Ah, no! that cannot be," she said. "You would be good to him I know-you would bear with him for my sake, Arthur-but I love him, you see, and have loved ever since we were babies together, and that makes all the difference."
Sir Arthur had risen, and was standing close beside her. "Then you are quite free, quite free,” he said. "It shall be just as you wish,
and I-if need be-can wait a lifetime."
have come, and all the work of months would be lost. With a sigh she turned, and rang the bell.
So Bee closed the door of happiness on herself, and went out from her safe haven into the wilderness of sin and sorrow-her face a little graver, her smile a little rarer, but sweeter than before. Even those who did not love her, respected her. They called her quixotic, and spoke of the pitch wherewith she had defiled herself, and how she had put herself beyond the pale of society-that society that tolerated the evil habit until it developed into sin, and then drew its garments aside and turned coldly away. And Bee bore it aloneshe told her mother nothing that was not hopeful when they talked together of Bertie-as they very seldom did. So Mrs. De Visme knew nothing of his backslidings and terrible failures, or of his changeable moods. Sometimes he resented interference, sometimes he was sullenly indifferent; more often he clung to Bee with the desperation of a weak despair. And, so strong where they were so weak, she took up her heavy burden and moved beside them, while Sir Arthur stood on one side-waiting.
It was one cold and frosty night, in January, that Bee was walking down the street alone walking listlessly, with her head raised, and all the countless myriads of stars shining on the street, and on her heavy dress and pallid face, and she was thinking-as she so often did-of Bertie. He had taken a better turn lately, and she was thankful for the change.
He was gentler to her, tender and affectionate to his mother, and Bee had given up so much for him that a love-a better, deeper love than that of mere blood relationship had grown up between them. It was a protective sort of love-shielding, patient, unconscious, and it was a safeguard to him. She stood for a minute now on the doorstep, with her hand on the bell. She dreaded to go in, because she knew that there was to be a dinner at the club some night the next week, and Bertie's invitation, about which he was so anxious, must
Two young men, who had been following her, came under the gaslight, and looked up. One was tall and slight, with a pleasant dark face. Bee knew him by sight as a Mr. Merton; the other was a broad-shouldered young giant. Mr. Merton took off his hat, and ran up the steps. "Miss De Visme, I believe; will you kindly give this to your brother?"
He put an envelope into her hand, and in the semi-darkness she looked straight into his eyes for a minute, and thought what pleasant eyes they were. He joined his companion, and they strode away together, but, in a second, a clear, distinct call followed them; Mr. Merton turned back.
"Then may I," she said, raising her piteous eyes, that had fallen on the letter, tear it up, and not give it to him at all?"
"O, no, I say, Miss De Visme," said the young man who had not yet spoken, 66 we all think De Visme such a good fellow, you know, he is such good fun."
Bee seemed hardly to hear him, as she looked beyond him straight at Mr. Merton, who stood hesitating, with a peculiar look on his face.
"Let me tear it up," she urged, in her cold monotonous voice. "Let him have this one more chance."
Mr. Merton roused himself and looked up, like one awakening from a dream. "Do as you like," he said, "I have left it in good hands."
In a minute the little atoms of white paper were floating down upon the steps, and the door was flung open. Light and warmth streamed out on to the bitter night, but Bee, in the loneliness of her pride and misery, felt chilled to the heart. For the first time, she had broken down the barrier between herself and the hard censorious unforgiving world, and everyone had a right now to cross the Rubicon, as she had done.
"They will not tell him," she thought, "but it is bitter, bitter."
Meanwhile, the two young men were striding down the street together, and one of them was grumbling. "It was a great shame of you,
Merton," he said, "De Visme is great fun, particularly after dinner, and he sings well."
"I could not help it," said Mr. Merton, hurriedly.
"By Jove, she is very handsome," said the young man, lighting a cigar.
"She is very miserable," replied his friend, slowly, "I cannot get her face out of my head. Have you ever seen a woman with a broken heart? I think we have had a glimpse of one to-night."
"Allerton's! the ring you used to wear." "I have-given it up," she said, faltering. He took two or three turns across the room, and then came and stood beside her. Bee sat quite still until he spoke. "I told you I should be a curse to you," he said, in a harsh voice. "I will not stand between you and your happiness."
"You stand between me and nothing," said Bee. "Sir Arthur and I have parted.'
"It is my doing-my doing," said Bertie. But Bee's heart never broke, because she "Bee, let me sink-you have done your duty never despaired. Down into those depths-go and be happy in your own way, and leave where Bertie's wandering footsteps led him, me to fight it out alone." she walked beside him—a pure, serene companion, who knew no shame for him, but only the tenderest love and pity. If anything she lifting her face to his. held her head a little higher in the town, and her smile grew braver, though every day she dreaded to hear the question that came at last.
"And do you think that I should be happy then?" she asked, in her sweet, serene voice,
He groaned aloud. "Was not my own wrecked life enough without this?" he cried. "I never knew it till now, I cannot bear it."
"I can't think why the fellows did not ask me to their dinner to-night!" said Bertie, dropping the paper on to the floor suddenly, and turning restlessly upon Bee. "They can't have forgotten me, you know, at least Merton can't."
For the first time it seemed as if the shame and humiliation of his lot had struck him suddenly, and his eyes were opened. He turned and covered his face with his hands, but Bee had risen, and her arm was round him. "It is so much easier to bear it together," she said. "Please God, it will be all right yet."
"Ah, no!" he said, drawing a long breath. "I am beyond your help."
"Did you want to go?" said Bee, very slowly.
"No; only a fellow does not like to be left out."
Bee's face was as white as death; she had to clench her hand upon her knee to prevent it trembling.
"Do you mean that, Bertie?" she said, with earnestness in her sweet voice. "Are you contented here?"
"I am safe here," he said, with an odd smilea swift smile, that lit up his haggard face, and gleamed in his sunken eyes, that made Bee glance for an instant to the smiling countenance of the boy soldier. But her eyes came back to him; she loved him so much more than she loved that bright, sweet portrait of unrestrained youth, so infinitely more than she had ever loved him, before she had sacrificed her happiness for his sake. For a minute, she sat motionless-questioning herself should she tell him the whole truth, and let his anger vent itself on her; or should she leave him in ignorance of that unread letter she had scattered to the four winds of heaven. "I will not tell him," she thought to herself, "he will be piqued, and angry, and reckless. I cannot trust him." But she had no cause to trouble herself. Bertie's mind had wandered from the subject, and standing on the hearth beside her, he was looking closely and keenly at the hands lying idly crossed upon her lap. "Where is your ring, Bee?" he said, abruptly. "What ring?" asked Bee, instinctively covering her slender left hand.
But Bee had a smile on her face like light. Poor, degraded, weak, irresolute, he had sounded his own weakness at last, and her strength.
So far, she had dragged him up out of the abyss by sheer dogged strength; now he had given his first upward step alone, he was ashamed. "We will go away somewhere," she said, hurriedly, touching his bent head. "I have been planning it for a long timejust you, and mother, and me. It is so difficult," she continued, drawing a long sigh, "to creep up amongst all the people we have known; we will go away somewhere, and live down the remembrance of these years in some new town. Will you like that, Bertie?"
"So long as you don't get tired of me," he said, with a sad smile, "I shall be satisfied." "I shall not get tired of you yet," she answered.
But when the excitement had died away, and the lights were out, and the fire a mere dim spark amongst the coals, Beatrice was still sitting where he had left her, looking with strained eyes into a future that missed something, that held an intolerable void that no duty would ever entirely fill. When she lifted her eyes from the coals they were dim with tears, and the grey morning light just outlined her figure and the unringed hands clasped together on her knees.
(To be Continued.)
BY BANISTER LUPTON.
ODE FIFTH, BOOK FIRST.
HORACE. veyance. In the distance was the river Thames, and a practised eye might hence descry the spot where the ill-fated "Princess Alice" was run down by the "Bywell Castle." Along the streets of what appeared to be a good-sized town, were ranged numbers of buildings and sheds, all connected with the manufacture of instruments of destruction, from a bullet the size of a lady's thimble to the giant eighty-ton gun, constructed to throw five hundred-weight of iron some miles through the air.
What slender dainty youth is he, Oh, Pyrrha! who his suit, to thee, Urges with eager fervency?
Sweet essences perfume his dress Whilst you a couch of roses press, Within a grotto's cool recess.
For whom dost thou thy locks confine,
Alas! how oft will he bewail
The changeful gods, when he shall fail
Who, credulous, each peerless charm
As rivals. Who hoped thee to find
Unhappy they, before whose sight,
The sea god's temple wall now shows
A VISIT TO WOOLWICH ARSENAL.
OME time ago, furnished with a ticket of admission, through the kindness of a "friend at Court," we journeyed by the South Eastern Railway to Woolwich. The running of the train and the hours of admission to the Arsenal not altogether harmonising, we had the option of waiting at perhaps the most dismal station in the Kingdom, or wandering about the town amid the frost and snow. After a judicious combination of these alternatives, the hour of two in the afternoon was ushered in by the tolling of a large bell, which summoned the workmen to their afternoon's labour. Making our way along with the crowd, we presently found ourselves entering a large gateway, in the centre of a pile of buildings of no great pretensions, and walking along what looked like a clean and wellpaved street, from which many others diverged at right angles; along each ran a narrow line of rails to convey materials to various parts of the works, the distances being too great, and the weights in general too heavy, to admit of movements by other modes of con
Now, in war it is not enough to possess military engines, but it is also necessary to provide means for their conveyance. explained the fact that the first building we entered was a joiner's shop, where boxes were made for the conveyance of cartridges, and the next a similar place for the manufacture of gun-carriages. Here we saw machinery applied to all manner of operations. For greater security the boxes were dove-tailed, none of the work being done by hand; some machines were sawing out the most intricate patterns; others were cutting wood into lengths, or planing it smooth. Circular saws were whizzing in all directions to such an extent that we were glad to escape from the buzzing and dust, into the works where bullets were passing through all stages of production. First came a long rope of lead. This was cut by a machine into the proper lengths. These were reduced by another machine to a conical or sugar-loaf form, finally re-appearing carved and polished to the required degree.
Emerging from this building, we came to a museum in which are kept specimens of the shot manufactured at the Arsenal, such as the monster naval ordnance, grape-shot of all huge sugar-loaves of steel and iron hurled from varieties, and hollow shot containing lamps and parachutes to unfold in the air, float over an enemy's camp and reveal his whereabouts. An obliging attendant produced from a little box a lump of something slightly resembling a cube powder, and that if the powder used in large of plumbago; this, he told us, was a grain of ordnance were similar to that employed in an ordinary fowling piece, a great part of it would be blown out of the gun's mouth unburnt. The object of these large grains is to secure the combustion of the powder, so that the whole of it may produce its effect in propelling the shot.
Dotted about over a large extent of ground, we noticed a great number of cannons of all ages. These were guns which either from bursting or the march of modern invention had been rendered useless, and were consequently consigned to the "Cemetery," as this part of the Arsenal is called.
Whilst looking over some of these old artillery veterans, we received notice that an operation
connected with the making of a heavy gun was just about to begin, and, therefore, hurried on to the furnaces. Here we saw a piece of iron, fifty feet long, slowly drawn, white-hot, from a furnace. Its extremity was attached to a cylinder, which, by its revolutions, converted the iron into the resemblance of a magnified corkscrew, presently to be re-heated, hammered and manipulated until fit to form part of a thirty-five ton gun.
A casual observer would suppose that a large gun consisted simply of one piece of metal all cast at the same time. But this is not generally the case; a gun is in construction more like the handle of a cricket bat. There is a central steel tube, round which are coiled long and ponderous bars of iron, like the waxed thread round a bat handle. Where the strain is greatest it is necessary to place more of the coil, hence the irregular shape of the gun.
The analogy between a great gun and a bat handle must not be carried too far. The wrapping on the handle is small compared with the handle itself; the coils round the central tube of the gun are just the reverse; again, the string is first wrapped round the handle, but the gun coils are first wrapped round the cylinder, and then the central part is driven into them with a steam hammer.
These, the most ponderous implements of modern times, are marvellous, not only for the vast force they exert, but also for the ease with which they may be regulated. It is just as easy to crack a walnut with a steam hammer
as to crush a score of tons of iron.
During our tour through the Arsenal the largest hammer was at work. When the time for its use drew near spectators came together from all parts of the works, and the workmen stood ready. Presently the signal was given; forth from the furnace was drawn a mighty mass of iron of dazzling whiteness; guided as if by some unseen but irresistible force, it slowly moved under the immense hammer raised aloft. All is ready; down comes the weight with a thundering crash. Sparks of molten iron fly around, and the foundations shake under our feet beneath the resistless stroke. Again and again is the process repeated until the work is done, and we turn away to contemplate fresh objects of interest in the shed where guns are turned, cut, polished, and grooved. Here we saw an eighty-ton gun receiving a few finishing touches; it would be about six feet in diameter at the broadest part.
Our next visit was to the furnaces where iron was being melted and formed into shot and shell. From these furnaces flowed two streams, one of liquid slag or refuse, the other the pure iron, which the workmen appear to handle like water, pouring it from one vessel
into another, and taking up a ladleful now and then at pleasure.
Darkness coming on, we commenced our return to the entrance. We noticed many of the sheds lighted by numerous gas jets, but there were one or two sheds in which the light was much more radiant and pleasing. This was caused by the use of the electric light. One great difficulty attending its use, the expense of providing machinery and motive power, does not deter the authorities at Woolwich from employing whatever method of lighting suits them best; for they have a nation's money to spend, and the number of engines constantly at work renders the provision of motive power easy.
The electric light was the last object of our curiosity, and we left the Arsenal fully assured that the time was not yet come for the beating of swords into ploughshares, and wondering at the number of pruning hooks that might be made from an eighty-ton gun.
BY MRS. GEORGE CORBETT.
N the long struggle for supremacy between Catholicism and Protestantism, which lasted for thirty years (from 1618 to 1648), and was consequently called "The Thirty Years War," one of the most remarkable actors was "Wallenstein," and it is here proposed to give a brief outline of his character and history.
Ferdinand, then Emperor of Germany, calling strategy to his aid, had vanquished the most formidable of his foes, and once more the Catholic cause was triumphant. Notable son-in-law of James of England. among these enemies was the Elector Frederic, But the son-in-law of James of England. peace which prevailed for a short time was only apparent, for the Protestant Princes were bent upon saving their Faith from the utter destruction with which they rightly suspected that Ferdinand meant to visit it. The annihilation of Protestantism in Germany was what Ferdinand aimed at, and he again began to look around for a competent Commander-inChief to carry on the war, which had already lasted so long, and had produced so much misery. But here a difficulty arose. To pursue his undertaking, Ferdinand needed money, and that was a scarce commodity with him just then. Hitherto the victories had been achieved principally by the Bavarians, under the leadership of Duke Maximilian of Bavaria, and of Tilly. But the Emperor began to dread the vast power which the Duke was gaining by the very efforts made to serve him