now met, when they met indoors. Lavirotte had still some of the money Lionel Crawford gave him, and when the affairs of the dead man were investigated it was found that he had some money left. This naturally became Dora's. Eugene's reverse of fortune arose at a time when his father believed matters would still come right, and that there would be no risk in his son's marrying. But the reverse of fortune, or rather the disappointment of expectations, had come upon Lavirotte before he was married, and while there was yet time to prevent a headlong plunge of their two lives into an uncertain future. He had put the whole matter cogently to Dora. He had told her that both he and Eugene were advised by the best judges to study music in Italy for about two years before appearing on the stage. To ensure success this was essential. Would it not then be wiser that they should wait as they now were, until he came back from Italy fully qualified to take his place in the front rank of tenors? Everyone said his voice was excellent. Everyone said it required training. He proposed to go to Italy with the O'Donnells, and he suggested that she should stay where she was, in the lodgings she now occupied, until his return. Eugene approved of this he said. Nellie thought it hard on her, Dora. Dora smiled faintly, and sighed and said: "No doubt the men knew best. They were sure to be wiser over the affair than she." He said they were both very young still, and could afford to wait in order to be sure of success. When he was gone she wept to think that her life seemed destined to be one of delays in love. After all had been settled between her and Dominique, he had been compelled to leave her, to leave London, and to live hundreds of miles away. The sea, and weary leagues of miles, had separated them long; and often in those early days of dereliction she had imagined that the space was bridgeless, and that he would never stand by her side again, take her hand in his, call her his own. Then he had come to London, and that tyranny of search for the treasure had come between them and parted them again. Before she knew, in that London period, what absorbed Dominique's time, she had taken it for granted that it was something upon which there was little or no need to fear the risks. Now, this separation between her and Dominique, which would necessitate his going to Italy, seemed of greater import than any which had occurred before. Ireland was a portion of these kingdoms in which people spoke the same language as she did. She had the average knowledge of school-girl French, and could speak to him, after a fashion, in his own tongue. Now he was to go among people of whom she knew little, and be subject to conditions with which she was wholly unfamiliar. What could be harder on a girl than that she should love as she loved, and be so constantly, so completely denied? It seemed to her that, notwithstanding his professions of unmixed devotion, there was always something which occupied more of his attention than thoughts of her. This was a cruel reflection for her, who could think of nothing but him all day, all night. He was the sun, the moon, of her existence. How could he, if she were to take his words literally, love her as she loved him, when he could say he loved her above all other things on earth, and yet could neglect her for the ordinary pursuits of material advancement? She did not understand such matters. She heard that love in woman was an essence, in man an accident. This she believed now. But why could not the accident of his love be complete, even for a while? Why could not his regard for her be so all-absorbing as to make everything else seem small; her love for him dwarfed all other things when brought into comparison with it? But there was now no use in thinking, no use in even mental protest. He, being a man, was naturally wiser than she, being a woman, and there could be no doubt this going of his to Italy was approved of by all other men, who were also wiser than she. It was in sorrowful mood she parted from him. The slenderness of their means, and the great distance between London and Milan, made it unlikely he should return more than once or twice during the two years or so. He, however, promised faithfully to come back at the end of the first year, if not before, and on this understanding they parted; he, Eugene O'Donnell, and Nellie getting into the train at Charing Cross, with brave words and encouraging gestures; she weeping a little there and then, and much after. They had arranged between them that each was to write to the other once a week. He was much better than this, for during the first two or three months he wrote her always twice, and sometimes thrice a week. Then his letters dropped to once a week, and after that to once a fortnight. He playfully explained to her that as during the earlier portion of their separation he had exceeded his promise, he was persuaded she would now allow him a little latitude out of consideration of that. To this she answered in a cheerful letter that she was quite willing to adopt his suggestion. She wept in writing her cheerful letter, and cried in posting it. "If he wrote me twenty times a week," she cried, "when he first went away, I want to hear forty times a week from him now." As time went on, the letters from Dominique to her decreased in frequency. A whole month passed without a line. Then six weeks. Then two months, and by the end of the first year he had not written to her for three whole months, although during that time she had never failed to write to him every week. At the end of the first year, Eugene O'Donnell said to his wife one day: "I don't think the godfather of our boy" – they had now a little son, a few months old-"is quite as attentive as he should be to Dora, and I greatly fear he has got entangled, in some other affair. You know Luigia?" "What!" cried Mrs. O'Donnell, in astonishment. "You don't mean that handsome flower-girl?" "Yes," said Eugene, "that handsome flower-girl to whom we took such a liking." For a moment Mrs. O'Donnell looked perplexed. "It would hurt me to the heart," she said, "to think that poor Dora should have any further reason to suspect him. I do not like him, you know. How can it be that he who made love to Dora, who is dark, should care for this handsome Italian girl, who is fair-skinned and light-haired?" "The unusualness, partly," said Eugene, "and partly, Nellie, that she-" He paused, and did not finish the sentence. "That she what?" said the young wife, with a perplexed look upon her face. "That she resembles you." "Good Heavens, Eugene! what a horrible thought! I shall never be able to look with patience at Lavirotte again. Who is this coming here?" "I don't know; I will go and see." After a few moments, Eugene returned. "A telegram," he said, "with bad news, Nellie." "My mother? Your father? Your mother? Who is it?" she cried. "I know someone is dead." "Yes," he said quietly, "but none of those." "Then, in God's name, who?" "Dora." She had come out of the sunlight, which pierced the windows of that tower, and had fallen swiftly beneath the shadow of the old man's arms.
CHAPTER XIII
The news of Dora's death was a great shock to the O'Donnells. The girl's landlady had telegraphed to them in order that they might break it to Lavirotte. Of late, O'Donnell had begun to think that Lavirotte was not treating Dora very well, and Nellie was distinctly of opinion that his conduct towards the poor girl was very far from what it ought to be. Neither knew exactly to what extent his neglect had gone. He spoke little of Dora of late. They knew she wrote to him regularly every week, and in palliation of the tone which he took when speaking of her, O'Donnell said: "Smooth water runs deep. He may be fonder of her than ever. It may be only his way of trying her constancy." At this Mrs. O'Donnell would become very wroth, and cry out: "Trying her constancy indeed! That is an odd way for you who know everything about him to put it. Whether is it he or she is more likely to be inconstant?" If Lavirotte had had any notice that Dora was ill, he had kept it to himself. The telegram was very brief. It simply stated that the girl died after a few days' illness, and that they were to break the news to Lavirotte. In the face of her sad end, both their hearts softened towards the Frenchman. Whatever may have been his past, even if he had been a little careless of her, and had carried on an undignified flirtation with the flower-girl, Luigia, it never occurred to either of them he had the faintest notion of finally abandoning Dora. Now there was but one thing to be thought of, and that was how they could best break the sad news. They sent for him, and it was agreed before he came that O'Donnell should speak to him alone. "Something wrong?" said Lavirotte, on entering the room where he found Eugene. "I wanted to see you particularly," said the other. "Are you prepared for any unpleasant news?" Lavirotte started and coloured, and looked uneasily about the room. "Has anyone come from London? I swear to you, Eugene, there is nothing in that Luigia affair. I know I shouldn't have started even a flirtation. I am sure you did not tell Dora. She has come to Milan, and is with your wife? Am I not right?" "No, Dominique. No, my dear Dominique. I wish she were." "Then, the girl is dead?" cried Lavirotte. "My Dora is dead! Tell me so at once, and put me out of pain, Eugene!" "I had a telegram, Dominique." "Yes, yes. I know. You need say no more," said the Frenchman, as he threw himself on a chair. "I am accursed! Poor girl! Poor child!" He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. Eugene put his hand softly on the shoulder of his friend as a token of his sympathy, and then stole quietly out through the window
