Chapter XXI.

The circumstances under which Gertrude Chesney started for New Zealand have been mentioned in a former chapter

When she arrived at Auckland she learnt that Malcolm Butler was at Drury, and having hired a conveyance, proceeded to that place; on reaching it, she found that he had gone to Forest Lodge, and as the distance was not great, she was driven on to that place. She stopped her carriage at some distance from the house, and went on to it on foot, as she wished to approach it unobserved. On reaching the front door, she found it open, and it was thus that she came so unexpectedly on the scene we have described.

Mr. Mandeville—as soon as she (Gertrude Chesney) had sufficiently recovered from her grief for the loss of the man who had ruined her, but whose memory she still loved, to answer questions—obtained from her a full confession of the falsehood of the statements which Malcolm Butler had made to his uncle, and also to Mr. Mandeville himself, as to Henry Ancrum being the father of her child. This confession, which proved that Henry Ancrum was entirely guiltless of what had been laid to his charge, Mr. Mandeville reduced to writing and forwarded to Sir John Ancrum, Henry's uncle.

We must now return to the said Henry Ancrum himself. The agitation he went through at the time of his escape, together with the thorough wetting he got in crossing the deep water in the swamp, brought on an attack of illness which long confined him to his bed, during which time it was thought dangerous by his medical attendants to tell him any exciting news; consequently it was not until long after poor Celia's death that he heard of the sad event, and also of the decease of his cousin Malcolm Butler. Even after he received this intelligence it was many weeks before he felt himself well enough to travel. During this interval he received several letters from Mr. Mandeville, urging him when he came to Auckland to make his (Mr. Mandeville's) house his home.

Henry was a little puzzled when he received the first letter conveying this invitation, but when the subsequent ones explained that the cruel falsehoods which had been told bout him had been found out, and that he might still hope to be his uncle's heir, he was at no loss to understand the extraordinary change in the feelings of the astute merchant towards him.

The meeting of Henry Ancrum and Edith Mandeville was one of those events which happen to few persons in this world—and why? Because there are few who have loved so fondly, so devotedly, and so unselfishly as these two had done. It would be difficult to picture the happy feelings of Edith as she was pressed to the heart of the man she adored, who had as it were been dead and was alive again.

But with him there was one drawback: he felt like a guilty person; he had to explain to Edith all the events which had occurred since they last met. How was he to do this? But it must be done— truth and honour required that the tale should be told. He told it; perhaps reserving a little, perhaps extenuating as much as he could, for he was mortal—we are all mortal—but the task was easier than he thought. She, with a woman's devotion to the man she loves, would not believe that he had been to blame. No (she thought) it was that woman, that horrid woman, that artful creature, who entangled him; and as to her being in danger herself during that night when she had made Henry promise to marry her, she (Edith) would never believe it. No, it was all deceit; and so she forgave her poor Henry, and the subject was never again mentioned between them.

In due course a letter arrived from Sir John Ancrum, saying that the proofs he had received of his nephew Henry Ancrum's perfect innocence of all that had been laid to his charge were so convincing, that he had the greatest pleasure in re-placingreplacing him in the position of heir to his estates, and expressing sorrow that he should so long have been deceived as to his character. Subsequent letters from the worthy old gentleman acknowledged the receipt of intelligence of the proposed marriage of Henry Ancrum and Edith Mandeville, of which he cordially approved; but he added a condition which the young people at first hardly liked—which was, that the whole party should return to England, in order that the marriage might take place at Ancrum Hall.

Mr. Mandeville, however, who had now had plenty of time to realize his various ventures, and whose affairs had taken a favourable turn, thought the project a very good one; and therefore, after a prosperous voyage, our friends found themselves all in the old country again.

We will not describe the wedding. Henry Ancrum and Edith Mandeville were formed by nature for one another; they have every thought and feeling in unison, and they are happy. They live at the old Hall, where they enjoy every comfort and luxury this World can afford, and Henry is in no hurry to succeed the kind old man who has been so generous a benefactor to him.

Gertrude Chesney lives in her former pretty little cottage, and has received a promise that her old dream shall be accomplished, and her son be nominated to the Indian Civil Service, if he should pass what she calls "that dreadful examination."

Mr. and Mrs. Mandeville have gone back to New Zealand, but it is only for a time, as Mr. Mandeville intends to dispose of his landed property, which is rapidly increasing in value, as soon as he can do so to advantage, and to wind up his other busi-nessbusiness affairs, when they will return to England and settle down somewhere in the neighbourhood of their daughter and son-in-law.

The regiment to which Mr. Singleton belonged was one of the first to return home from New Zealand after the war was over, but, unfortunately for Mrs. Singleton, it was sent to Ireland and disembarked at the celebrated town of Cork. Here it was impossible for her to talk any more of "her father's estates!" and, moreover, the expenses of home service pressed so heavily that poor Mr. Singleton was unable to keep even the "one-horse chaise!" which Henry Ancrum had predicted would be the extent of their carriage accommodation; and it ended by Mrs. Singleton persuading her husband to exchange into a regiment in India, where the extra pay permits them to live with tolerable comfort, and where she has been enabled to renew her former style of boasting without fear of detection.

Major and Mrs. Brennan have settled down on their land near Napier, which being close to the town, the Major has been able to sell part of it in town lots at a good price, and the worthy old gentleman is therefore much better off than when we last saw him. He still tells his old stories, and laughs his old laughs.

Dr. Smith has also been successful in his own line: he has become Doctor and Superintendent of a lunatic asylum, where his pompous manner has an immense effect on the feebler inmates, who in their lucid intervals look up to him with intense awe and veneration. With regard to the more refractory patients, the Doctor is accustomed to boast that he has only to give them what he calls a "coop-de-ale" (coup d'œil), to reduce them to submission immediately.

Mrs. Smith is more genteel (to use her own phrase) than ever, and she now seldom gives more than one finger even to her most intimate friends.

Babington has retired from the service. He now belongs to a celebrated West End Club; he is well up in the economical dodge of taking half portions of every eatable under the sun. He is perfectly acquainted with the latest intelligence which has been received at the modern Babylon. Should you meet him in great excitement at any time, and ask him what is the matter, he will probably tell you, "The Indian Mail is late—late, sir, by George!—Six hours over the last one." Then again, you will occasionally see him at the corner of a street, crushing a delicate little pink note in his hand, and he will stop you and say, "From that deuced fine woman, you know! Eh, old fellow! eh!" And you are lucky if he does not give you a poke in the ribs.

Adelaide Brown—poor Adelaide Brown! how sad she was. Regiment after regiment was leaving New Zealand. Algernon Neville's regiment must soon go, and he had not proposed—he had said nothing; she had no heart for "dodges" now.

Perhaps she was a bit of a flirt; perhaps we must confess that; she had certainly begun by flirting, but she had become caught herself. She loved Algernon Neville, she knew she loved him. She would think of him all day; she would fall asleep at night thinking of him; she would say to herself, "Why do I love this big, blundering fellow?" but it was of no use—she did love him.

One day she was seated idly at the window doing nothing, only looking out at the ships in the beautiful bay of the Waitemata, when Algernon came in.

"Addie!" he said.

"Don't call me Addie, sir," she replied, with a little of her old manner.

"Yes, I must; for I have come to say good-bye."

"Oh, Algy!" she cried; turning deadly pale.

"Yes, I am sorry to say it is too true; we go to Australia in a few days, and after that to England."

She looked at him, she did her best to restrain her feelings, but they would have way; she burst into a passion of tears, and hid her face in her hands.

Algernon Neville leant over her; he had thought, he had hoped she loved him as he wished to be loved. Now it appeared certain. Still he could not resist making one more speech in the old style, and so he said—

"Oh, you deceitful wretch! you loved me after all."

"Oh, Algy," she said looting up at him through her tears, "I could not help it, I did all I could to—to—hate you, but I coo—coo—could not; for, after all, I am only a boo—boo—poor fond wo—wo—woman." And again she hid her face, and wept more bitterly than before.

He could bear it no longer. He took her in his arms, and kissed her; he asked her to be his wife. Oh, how happy she was! It is needless to add that she said "yes."

After some time Algernon said—"But Adelaide, a good-natured friend told me all about the 'dodges' (you know good-natured friends do tell one everything).

Recollect, at least, we must nave no more of the aggravating dodge."

"Oh, no," she said, laughing. "Oh, no, Algy—no more dodges;" and to do her justice, she has never since tried either the sentimental, the religious, or the aggravating dodge.

The End.