ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH.

QUILLER-COUCH, ARTHUR THOMAS, an English writer of fiction; born in Cornwall, November 21, 1863. His family has lived in Cornwall for generations, and he comes of good stock; father, uncle, and grandfather being distinguished scientists in the fields of biology and medicine. He was educated in various Devonshire schools, then went up to Trinity College, Oxford. As an undergraduate he contributed clever verse to the college paper, adopting the pseudonym "Q." He was and is an athlete, as one might infer from his books. He took his degree in 1887, and was appointed classical lecturer at Trinity; but soon turned to fiction, went to London, and joined the staff of the "Speaker" Barrie being a fellow-worker. This newspaper connection has been retained ever since, although Mr. Quiller-Couch now lives in a charming country house at Fowey in Cornwall. The volume "Adventures in Criticism" is made up of selected book reviews representing his journalistic work, which is decidedly fresh and good. The Elizabethan anthology, "The Golden Pomp," also testifies to his reading and scholarship. His writings. include "Dead Man's Rock" (1887); "The Astonishing History of Troy Town" (1888); "The Splendid Spur" (1889); "Noughts and Crosses" (1891): "The Blue Pavilions" (1891); "I Saw Three Ships A-Sailing" (1892); "The Warwickshire Avon" (1892); "The Delectable Duchy " (1893); "Green Bays" (1893); "Wandering Heath" (1895); "The Golden Pomp" (1895); “ Lâ” (1896); "Adventures in Criticism " (1896); "Poems and Ballads" (1896).

THE CURTAIN FALLS.

(From "Dead Man's Rock.")

A WEEK had passed and I was standing with Claire beside Tom's grave. We had met and spoken at the funeral, but some restraint had lain upon our tongues. For myself, I was still as one who had sold his brother for a price, and Claire had forborne from questioning my grief.

The coroner's jury had brought in a verdict of "Murder by a certain person unknown," and now the police were occupied

in following such clues as I could give them.

All the daily papers assigned robbery as the motive, and the disappearance. of Tom's watch-chain gave plausibility to the theory. But I knew too well why that chain had disappeared, and even in my grief found consolation in the thought of Colliver's impotent rage when he should come to examine his prize. I had described the face and figure of my enemy and had even identified him with the long-missing sailor Georgio Rhodojani, so that they promised to lay hands on him in a very short space. But the public knew nothing of this. The only effect of the newspapers' version of the murder was to send the town crowding in greater numbers than ever to see the dead man's play.

Since the first night of "Francesca," Claire and I had only met by Tom's bedside and at his funeral. But as I entered the gloomy cemetery that afternoon I spied a figure draped in black beside the yet unsettled mound, and as I drew near knew it to be Claire.

So we stood there facing one another for a full minute, at a loss for words. A wreath of immortelles lay upon the grave. In my heart I thanked her for the gift, but could not speak. It seemed as though the hillock that parted us were some impassable barrier to words. Had I but guessed the truth I should have known that, unseen and unsuspected, across that foot or two of turf was stretched a gulf we were never more to cross: between our lives lay the body of my friend; and not his only, but many a pallid corpse that with its mute lips cursed our loves.

Presently Claire raised her head and spoke.

"Jasper, you have much to forgive me, and I hardly dare ask your forgiveness. It is too late to ask forgiveness of a dead man, but could he hear now I would entreat him to pardon the folly that wrought this cruel mistake.' "Claire, you could not know.

guess?"

How was it possible to

"That is true, but it is no less cruel. And I deceived you. Can you ever forgive?"

"Forgive! forgive what? That I found my love peerless. among women? Oh, Claire, Claire, forgive'?"

"Yes; what matters it that for the moment I have what is called fame? I deceived you-yet, believe me, it was only because I thought to make the surprise more pleasant. I thought but it is too late. Only believe I had no other

thought, no other wish. My poor scheme seemed so harmless at first: then as the days went on I began to doubt. But until you told me, as we stood beside the river, of him, I never guessed;-oh, believe me, I never guessed!"

Love, do not accuse yourself in this way. It hurts me to hear you speak so. If there was any fault it was mine; but the Fates blinded us. If you had known Tom, you would know that he would forgive could he hear us now. For me, Claire,

what have I to pardon?"

Claire did not answer for a moment. There was still a trouble in her face, as though something yet remained to be said and she had not the courage to utter it.

"Jasper, there is something besides, which you have to pardon if you can.

"My love!"

"Do you remember what I asked you that night, when you first told me about him?"

"You asked me a foolish question, if I remember rightly. You asked if I could ever cease to love you."

"No, not foolish; I really meant it seriously, and I believed you when you answered me. Are you of the same mind now? Believe me, I am not asking lightly.

"I answer you as I answered you then: 'Love is strong as death.' My love, put away these thoughts and be sure that I love you as my own soul."

"But perhaps, even so, you might be so angry that — Oh, Jasper, how can I tell you?"

"Tell me all, Claire."

"I told you I was called, or that they called me Claire. Were you not surprised when you saw my name as Clarissa Lambert?

"Is that all?" I cried. "Why, of course, I knew how common it is for actresses to take another name. I was even glad of it; for the name I know, your own name, is now a secret, and all the sweeter so. All the world admires Clarissa Lambert, but I alone love Claire Luttrell, and know that Claire Luttrell loves me."

"But that is not all," she expostulated, whilst the trouble in her eyes grew deeper. "Oh, why will you make it so hard for me to explain? I never thought, when I told you so carelessly on that night when we met for the first time, that you would grow to care for me at all. And it was the same after

wards, when I introduced you to my mother; I gave you the name Luttrell, without ever dreaming-"

"Was Luttrell not your mother's name?" I asked, perplexed. "That is the name by which she is always called now; and I am always called Claire; in fact, it is my name, but I have another, and I ought to have told you."

"Why, as Claire I know you, and as Claire I shall always love you. What does it matter if your real name be Lambert? You will change it, love, soon, 1 trust.”

But my poor little jest woke no mirth in her eyes.

"No, it is not Lambert. This is only the name I took when I went on the stage. Nor am I called Luttrell. It is a sad story; but let me tell it now, and put an end to all deception. I meant to do so long ago; but lately I thought I would wait until after you had seen me on the stage; I thought I would explain all together, not knowing that he- but it has all gone wrong. Jasper, I know you will pity poor mother, even though she had allowed you to be deceived. She has been so unhappy. But let me tell it first, and then you will judge. She calls herself Luttrell to avoid persecution; to avoid a man who is -"

"A villain, I am sure."

He is her husband; not my

"A villain, yes; but worse. father, but a second husband. My father died when I was quite a little child, and she married again. Ever since that day she has been miserable. I remember her face-oh, so well! when she first discovered the real character of the man. For years she suffered we were abroad then until at last she could bear it no longer, so she fled fled back to England, and took me with her. I think, but I am not sure, that her husband did not dare to follow her to England, because he had done something against the laws. I only guess this, for I never dare to ask mother about him. I did so once, and shall never forget the look of terror that came into her eyes. I only guess he has some strong reason for avoiding England, for I remember we went abroad hastily, almost directly after that night when mother first discovered that she had been deceived. However that may be, we came to England, mother and I, and changed our name to Luttrell, which was her maiden name. After this, our life became one perpetual dread of discovery. We were miserably poor, of course, and I was unable to do anything to help for many years. Mother was so careful; why,

she even called me by my second name, so desperately anxious was she to hide all traces from that man. Then suddenly we

were discovered not by him, but by his mother, whom he set to search for us, and she-for she was not wholly badpromised to make my fortune on the single condition that half my earnings were sent to him. Otherwise, she threatened that mother should have no rest. What could I do? It was the only way to save ourselves. Well, I promised to go upon the stage, for this woman fancied she discovered some talent in me. Why, Jasper, how strangely you are looking!"

"Tell me tell me," I cried, "who is this woman?" "You ought to know that, for you were in the box with her during most of the first night of Francesca.'”

A horrible, paralyzing dread had seized me.

"Her name, and his? Quick-tell me, for God's sake!" "Colliver. He is called Simon Colliver.

what is it? What-"

But, Jasper,

I took the chain and Golden Clasp and handed them to Claire without speech.

Why, what is this?" she cried. "He has a piece exactly like this, the fellow to it; I remember seeing it when I was quite small. Oh, speak! what new mystery, what new trouble is this?"

"Claire, Colliver is here in London, or was but a week ago."

"Here!"

"Yes, Claire; and it was he that murdered Thomas Loveday."

She

"Murdered Thomas Loveday! I do not understand." had turned a deathly white, and spread out her hands as if for support. "Tell me

"Yes, Claire," I said, as I stepped to her, and put my arm about her; "it is truth, as I stand here. Colliver, your mother's husband, foully murdered my innocent friend for the sake of that piece of gold; and more, Simon Colliver, for the sake of this same accursed token, murdered my father!"

"Your father!"

She shook off my arm, and stood facing me there, by Tom's grave, with a look of utter horror that froze my blood.

Yes, my father; or stay, I am wrong. Though Colliver prompted, his was not the hand that did the deed. That he left to a poor wretch whom he afterwards slew himself Railton - John Railton,”

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