plied heartily with his wish; told him all that brought me here, and the business I was about, He listened attentively. Then we wandered back, step by step, slowly and agreeably too, till we got to the old, old days, where we called up all those scenes,—Dora, the military balls, the pleasant nights, and pleasant days; what seemed like pictures or scenes out of a beautiful play seen in childhood—misty, indistinct, but delightful to think over. He spoke charmingly, regretfully, and even tenderly.
"Those were happy and innocent days," he said. "Scarcely happy after all for me, though there is a sort of happiness in such suffering. Yet compared with all I have gone through since——! Still in this life," he added, nodding at the cave behind us, "there is an excitement, too—it helps one to forget."
"But think, how will it end?" I said, with some excitement. "It cannot have the slow progress of what you call a life. It must hurry on suddenly to destruction. Oh, Grainger, stop, I implore of you, before it be too late!"
"But if it be too late," he said, "and was too late years ago? But I don't know if I saw any road—it is all a jungle, or my eyes have got dim. Still, since you have talked to me, and brought before me those days, I don't feel quite so bad. We will speak of those things again—her name to me may have some power, at least, and if you will not think it a trouble or a bore while you are here——"
I wrung his hand warmly. "I would take it as a favour," I said; "oh, let me help you in some way, and if I have injured you, let me at least try and keep you from this life, which must end in misery and ruin."
"Well, we shall see," he said.
Two people came out of the cave a little hurriedly. It was the youthful husband walking first, by himself, his hands in his pockets, his face flushed. She was tripping behind him, with the most dismal depicted expression on her face. In a moment that small hand, it had a tiny black mitten on, was on his arm. It seemed to receive an impatient welcome there, and dropped again.
Grainger followed my eyes, "Ah!" he said, "the old story!"
Hers met mine, and they seemed to say, "Oh, how right you were;" I knew I was—an instinct told me I should be so. After all, bred in a country town, as I was, my dear Dora, I have learnt to judge a little of human nature. It comes by a sort of instinct. I wish I had been wrong in this mistake; but the same instinct whispers to me that this is but the end of the first act. Poor little pair!
"That was the way it was with me at first," said Grainger; "I know that story pretty well. I have seen it here over and over again. Will you come in with me and see me try my hand—a new face brings new luck. And yet to-night it seems to jar upon me—you have brought me back into the old days. But still what can I do. As well tell a man who has sold himself to brandy, not to drink. Besides, what would be the use? I may as well finish, as I have begun. I have nothing to look to now."
"I cannot tell you how this pains me, Grainger," I said, really distressed. "O, if my words could but have some little effect! Do—as you say the holy influence of the past is upon you—just for this night abstain. Even for Dora's sake, whom you once so loved, and who would rejoice to know that her name even had that little power left. If you knew its effect on me!"
A very curious look came into his face. He turned it off with a laugh. "Well, a night doesn't make much difference. I'm a fool, I know. There, we'll walk about instead."
I felt almost a thrill of pleasure at this unexpected success. My pet's name is, indeed, an amulet to conjure with. After so many years, and at so many hundred miles distance, to have such a power! And I think I may fairly claim a small share of the credit. Earnestness and sincerity go some way: perhaps, too, that little magnanimity. There was some little tact in my reception of him; others might have grown confused or angry. Here am I praising myself; but I am in such good spirits. Put up your gentle prayer for him, Dora.
Wednesday.—I found Grainger last night really entertaining and amusing. Hitherto a good many of the people here have been like the figures in front of the old grinding organs, revolving, and glittering, and eccentric to look at, but still without names or characters. Grainger knows them all, names, dates, and addresses. There was the great banker, there was the great speculator, the man who could change paper into gold by a touch, by a word even, and who was now wandering about here, as poor as I or my companion. Did I see that ascetical-looking-man? that was the Bishop of Gravesend; or that woman in orange and black, the famous Phryne
