“HARDCASTLE.”
The second letter was from Frank Varley, written on the eve of his wedding-day, and ran as follows:—
“DEAR HARDCASTLE,—
“I dare say you have but one feeling in your heart for a poor, weak-minded wretch like me, that of utter unmitigated contempt. I don’t attempt to justify myself, for under present circumstances it would be impossible. I am only, writing to enclose a small packet—a blue bow of ribbon. You will know, old fellow, to whom it belonged, and why I am sending it to you. I couldn’t find it in my heart to put it behind the fire.
“Ever yours,
“FRANK VARLEY.”
“Poor Varley,” said Lord Hardcastle, when he read this. “He spent his strength for nought, and gave in before the race was half run! And yet who am I that I should pity or blame him? The end alone will show whose life has been best worth living!”
And now the preparations for the journey to France were completed, and one dull misty November afternoon, Mr. Warden and Lord Hardcastle said a long good-bye to the High Elms. Very damp, very cold and dreary the old house looked as they turned the corner of the steep avenue.
“Not in this world,” said Mr. Warden, mournfully, “shall I call any place home again.”
What could Lord Hardcastle say in reply? He clasped his old friend’s hand with a firmer, tighter clasp, while the thought ran through his own mind—