In the intervals between his professional occupations he took walks over

the sand-flats near, or among the farms which were gradually

overspreading the country in the vicinity of Cape Town. He grew familiar

with the outline of Table Mountain, and the fleecy 'Devil's Table-Cloth'

which used to settle on its top when the wind was south-east. On these

promenades he would more particularly think of Viviette, and of that

curious pathetic chapter in his life with her which seemed to have wound

itself up and ended for ever. Those scenes were rapidly receding into

distance, and the intensity of his sentiment regarding them had

proportionately abated. He felt that there had been something wrong

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therein, and yet he could not exactly define the boundary of the wrong.

Viviette's sad and amazing sequel to that chapter had still a fearful,

catastrophic aspect in his eyes; but instead of musing over it and its

bearings he shunned the subject, as we shun by night the shady scene of a

disaster, and keep to the open road.

He sometimes contemplated her apart from the past--leading her life in

the Cathedral Close at Melchester; and wondered how often she looked

south and thought of where he was.

On one of these afternoon walks in the neighbourhood of the Royal

Observatory he turned and gazed towards the signal-post on the Lion's

Rump. This was a high promontory to the north-west of Table Mountain,

and overlooked Table Bay. Before his eyes had left the scene the signal

was suddenly hoisted on the staff. It announced that a mail steamer had

appeared in view over the sea. In the course of an hour he retraced his

steps, as he had often done on such occasions, and strolled leisurely

across the intervening mile and a half till he arrived at the post-office

door.

There was no letter from England for him; but there was a newspaper,

addressed in the seventeenth century handwriting of his grandmother, who,

in spite of her great age, still retained a steady hold on life. He

turned away disappointed, and resumed his walk into the country, opening

the paper as he went along.

A cross in black ink attracted his attention; and it was opposite a name

among the 'Deaths.' His blood ran icily as he discerned the words 'The

Palace, Melchester.' But it was not she. Her husband, the Bishop of

Melchester, had, after a short illness, departed this life at the

comparatively early age of fifty years.

All the enactments of the bygone days at Welland now started up like an

awakened army from the ground. But a few months were wanting to the time

when he would be of an age to marry without sacrificing the annuity which

formed his means of subsistence. It was a point in his life that had had

no meaning or interest for him since his separation from Viviette, for

women were now no more to him than the inhabitants of Jupiter. But the

whirligig of time having again set Viviette free, the aspect of home

altered, and conjecture as to her future found room to work anew.




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