HENRY DUNBAR.

Bruce Herald, Volume III, Issue 66, 13 July 1865, Page 6

HENRY DUNBAR.

By the Author of 'Aurora Floyd,' '.Lady Audley's. Secret/ &c, &g. {Continued from our last.) ,

CHAPTER XXII.

. The Steeple-Chase. j After considerable discussion, it was settled; that Laura Dunbar's wedding should take place on the' ?th' of November. It was to be a very quiet wedding. The banker had especially impressed that condition upon his daughter. His health was entirely broken, and he would assist in' no splendid ceremonial to . which- half the connty would be invited. If Laura wanted bridesmaids, she might have Dora Macmahon and any particular friend who lived in the neighboi'hood.. ■ There was to be no. fuss, no publicity. : Marriage was a very solemn business, Mr. Dunbar said, and it would be as well for his daughter to be undisturb?d by any pomp or- gaiety on; har wedding-day. So the marriage w,as appointed to take place on the 7th, and the arrangements- were to be as simple as the. circumstances of the bride would permit. Sir Philip was- quite willing that it. should be so. He was much too happy to take objection to any such smallmatters. He only wanted the sacred words to be spoken which made Laura Dunbar his own for ever and for ever. He wanted to take her away to the southern regions, where he had travelled so gaily in lii.a careless bachelor days, where hQ would be.. so supremely happy now with hisi' bright young bride by his side. For* tune, who certainly spoils some of her children, had been especially beneficent to this young ; man. She hadgiven him so many other best gifts, and. had bestowed upon him, over and above, the power to enjoy h^r favors. It happened that the 6 th of November was a day which, some time since, Philip Jocelyn would have considered the most important, if. not the happiest day of the year. -It 1 was the, day of the Shorncliffe steeple-chases; and the baronet had engaged himself early in the preceding spring to ride his thoroughbred mare Guinevre, for a certain silver cup, subscribed for by the officers stationed at the Shorncliffe barracV.. Philip Jocelyn looked forward to this race with a peculiar interest, for it was the last he would ev;er. vide—the very last : he hadgiven this solemn promise to Laura, who had in vain tried to persuade him against even this race. She was brave enough npon ordinary occasions, but she loved her betrothed husband too dearly to be brave on this. ' I know it's very foolish of me, Philip,' she said, ' but I can't help being frightened.! • I can't help thinking of all the accidents I've ever heard oi', or read. ot. I've dreamt of the race ever so many times Philip. Oh, if you would only give it up for my sake.' ' My darling, my pet, is there anything I would not do for your sake that I could do in honour? But I can't do this Laura dearest. You see I'm all right, myself> and the mare's in splendid condition : — : well, you saw her take her trial gallop the other morni»g, and you must know she's a flyer, so I won't talk about her. My name was entered for this race six months ago, you know, I ear, and there are lots of small farmers and country people who have speculated their money on me. and they'd all lose, poor fellows, if I hung back at the last. You don't know what play-or-pay bets are, Laura dear. There's nothing in the world I would'nt do for your sake,, but my backers are . poor people and I can^t put them in a hole. I must ride. Laura, and ride to win too/ Miss Dunbar knew what this last phrase meant, and she conj ured up the image of her lover flying across country ori < that fiery chestnut mare, whose reputation was familiar to almost every man, woman and child in Warwickshire : but whatever her fears might be, she was. obliged to be; satis* fied wita her lover's promise that this should be his last steepfle-chase. - : ' The day came at last, a pale November day, mild but not sunny. The sky was all of one equal gray tint, and seemed to] hang a little above the earth. The caps and jackets of the gentlemen ridersf made; spots of 'color' against that .uniform - grayskyj, and the. Besses Tol^e<iis^ifiS;^;the

humble wooden structure which did dutyi as a grand stand, brightened the level landscape. „,.,. The course formed a lorg oval, and extended over three or four meadows, and crossed a country lane. It was a'tolerably flat course y but the leaps, though roughly constructed, , were rather formidable. Laura had been over all the ground with her lover on the previous day, and had looked fearfully at the high ragged hedges and broad ditches of muddy water. But Philip only made light of her fears, and told her the leaps were nothing, scarcely worthy of the chestnut mark's powers. The course was not crowded, but there was a considerable sprinkling of spectators on each side of the ropes — soldiers from the Shorncliffe barracks, country people, and loiterers of all kinds. There were a couple of drags, crowded with the officers and their friends, who clustered in all man ncr of perilous positions on the rooi, and consumed unlimited champagne, bitter beer, and lobster-salad, in the pauses between the races. A single line of carriages extended for some little distance opposite the grand stand. The scene was gay and pleasant, as a race-ground always must be, even though it were in the wildest regions of the INew World: but it was very quiet as compared to Epsom Downs or the open heath at Ascot. Conspicuous amongst the vehicles there was a close carriage drawn by a pair of magnifieGnt bays — an equipage which was only splendid in the perfection of its appointineuts. It was a clarence, with dark subdued-looking panels, only ornamented by a vermilion crest. The liveries of the servants were, almost the simplest upon the course | but the powdered heads of the men, and an indescribable something in their style, distinguished them from the country-bred coachmen and hobbledehoy pages in attendance on the other carriages. ( . , Almost everyone on the course knew that crest of an armed hand clasping a battleaxa, and knew that it belonged to Henry Dunbar. The banker appeared so very seldom in public that there was always a kind of curiosity about him when he did show himself j and between the races, people who were strolling upon the ground contrived to approach very near the carriage in which the master of Maudesley Abbey sat, wrapped in Cashmere shawls, and half-hidden under a great fur rug ; in the legitimate Indian fashion. He had consented to appear upon the race-course in compliance with his daughter's most urgent entreaties. She wanted; him to be near her. She had some vague) idea that he might be useful in the event of any accident happening to Philip j Jocelyn He might help her. It would be same consolation, some, support to have him with her. He might be able to do something. Her father had yielded to her entreaties with a very tolerable grace, and he was here ; -but having conceded so much he seemed to have done all that his frigid nature was capable of doing. He took no interest in the business of the day, but lounged far back in the carriage, repeatedly complaining very much of the cold. The vehicle had been drawn close up to the boundary of the course, and Laura sat at the open window, pale and anxious, straining her eyes towards the weig linghouse, and the paddock, the little bit of enclosed ground where the horses were saddled. She could see the gentlemen j riders going in and out, and the one rider on whose safety her happiness depended, muffled in his great coat, and very busy and animated amongst his grooms and helpers. Every body knew who Miss Dunbar was, and. that she was going" to be married to the young baronet j and people looked with interest at that pale j face keeping such anxious watch at the carriage window. lam speaking now of the simple country people, for whom a race meant a day's pleasure. There were people on the other side of the course who cared very little for Miss Dunbar or her anxiety j who would have cared as little if the handsome young baronet had rolled on the: sward, crushed to death under the weight of his chestnut mare, so long as they themselves were winners by the event. In the little enclosure below; the grand stand, the betting* men—that strange fraternity; which appears on every racecourse; from Berwick-oa-Tweed to the Land's End, from the banks of th«

I Shannon to the smooth meads of pleasant Normandy — were gathered thick, and the talk was loud about Sir Philip and his competitors. < Among the men who 'were ready to lay against anything I,'and1 ,' and were most unpleasantly vociferous in the declaration of their readiness, there was one man who was we'll known to the humbler class of book--makers with. whom he associated, who was known to speculate npon very small capital, but who had never been known as a defaulter. The knowing* ones declared this man worthy to rank high amongst the best of them, but no one knew where he lived or what he was. He was rarely known to miss a race, and he was conspicuous amongst the crowd in those mysterious purlieus where the plebeian booki ment, who are unworthy to enter the sacred precincts of Tattersall's, mostly do congregate, in utter defiance of the police. No one had ever heard the name of this man, but in default of any more particular cognomen they had christened him the Major, because in his curt manners, his closely buttoned-up coat, tightly -strapped trousers, and heavy moustache, there was a. certain military flavour which had given : rise to the rumor that the unknown had. in some remote period been onp of the defenders of his country. Whether he had enlisted as a private, and had been bought off by his friends ; whether he had borne the rank of an officer, and had sold :his commission, or had been cashiered, or had deserted, or had been drummed out of ;his regiment — no one could say. People called him Major ; and wherever he appeared, the Major made hiinsell conspicuous by means of a very tall white hat with; a broad black crape band round it. He was tall himself, and the hat made him seem tuller. , . His clothes were very shabby, with that peculiar shin? shabbiness which makes a mun look as if he had been oiled all over, and then rubbed into a high state of polish. He wore a green-ish-brown greatcoat with a poodle collar, and was supposed to have worn the same for the last ten years. Hound his neck, be the weather ever so sultry, he wore a comforter of rusty worsted that had once been scarlet, and above this comforter appeared his nose, which was a prominent aquiline. Nobody ever saw much move of the Major than his nose and his mous^ tache. His hat came low down over his forehead, which was itself low, and a pair of beetle brows, of a dense purple black, were faintly visible in the shadow of the brim. He never took off * his hat in the presence of his fellowmen j and as he never encountered the fair . sex, except in the person of the bar-maid at a sporting public, he was not called upon tounbonnet himself in ceremonious obeisance to lovely woman. He was eminently a mysterious man, and seemed to enjoy himself in the midst of the cloud of mystery which surrounded him/ The Major had inspected the starters for the great event of the day, and had sharply i scrutinised the gentleman riders as they went in and out of the paddock. He was so well satisfied with the look of Sir Philip i Jocelyn, and the chestnut mare Guninevere that he contented himself with laying the odds against all the other horses, and allowed the baronet and the chestnut to run for him. He asked a, few questions- prei sently about Sir Philip, who had taken off his great coat by this time, and appeared in all the glory of a scarlet satin jacuet and a velvet cap. A Warwickshire farmer, who had found his way in among the knowing ones, informed the Major that Sir Philip Jocelyn was going to be married to Miss Dunbar, only daughter and sole heiress of the great Mr Bnnbar. ' The great Mr Dunbar ! The Major, usually so imperturbable, gave a little start at the mention of the banker's name. 1 What Mr Dunbar V he asked. 1 The banker. Him as come home from the Indies last August/ The Major gave a long low whistle j but he asked no further question of the' farmer. He had a memorandum book in his hand — a greasy and grimy looking little volume, whose pages he was \rovit to study profoundly from time to time, and in which he jotted down all manner of queer hieroglyphics with half an inch of fat lead pencil. He relapsed, in to the cojaternplatiori of this book now j but he.muttered to himself ever and : anon in under--tones, and his inutterihgs: had' relation : to ■ Henry Dunbar. r'r v -;: !r .-.* ■:/■■?:,- ".<r,::i" &.

' It's him/ he muttered ; ' that's lucky. I read all about that Winchester business in the Sunday papers. I've got it all at my fingers' ends, and, l don't see why I shouldn't make a trifle out ot it. I^te^'t. see why I- shouldn't win a little money 0 upon Henry D unbar. I'll have a look at my gentlemen presently, when the race is over.' The bell rang, and the seven starter went off with a rush ; four abreast, and three behind. Sir Philip was among* the four foremost riders, keeping the chestnut well in hand, and biding his time very quietly. This was his last race, and lie had set his heart upon winning. Laura leaned out of the carriage-window, pale and breathless, with a povverfull race-glass in her hand.- , She watched the riders as they swept round -the curve in the course. They then disappeared, and the few minutes during which they were out of sight seemed.- an, : age to that anxious watcher. The' people run away to see them take that double leap in the lane, and then come trooping back again, panting and pager, as three of the riders appear again round another bend of the course. • * " The scarlet leads this time. The honestcountry- people hurrah , for. the master Jocelyii's Rock. Hav.e they not put their money on him, and are they not proud of him •?— prou &*oi his handsome face, which, amid'all its easy good nature, has a certain 'dash of hauteur that befits one who has a sprinkling; of the blood of Saxon kings in his veins ; proud qf .his, generous heart) which beats with a thousand kindly impulses towards his fellow men. -They shout aloud as he flies past them, the long stride of the chestnut skimming over the ground,, and spattering fragments of torn grass and ploughed up earth, about him as he-g-oss. Laura sees the scarlet jacket rise for a moment against v the low gray sky, and then fly onward, and that is about all she sees of the dreaded leap which she had looked at in fear and trembling the day before. Her Jleart is still beating with a strange vague terror, when her lover rides quietly past the stand, and the people ■about her cry out that the race has been nobly won. The other riders come in very slowly, and are. oppressed by that indescribable air of sheepish ness which is peculiar to gentlemen jockeys when they do not win. . The girl's eyes -fill suddenly with tears, and she leans back in the carriage, glad to hide her. happy face from the crowd. Ten minutes afterwards Sir Philip Jocelyn came across the course with a great silver-gilt cup in his arms, and surrounded by an admiring throng, amongst whom hehad just emptied his pursfl. ' I've brought you the cnp, Laura j and - I want you to be pleased with my victory. It's the last triumph of my bachelor days, you know, darling.' i i Three cheers for Miss Dunbar !' shouted some adventurous spirit among the crowded about .the baronet. - i> -■" In the next moment the cry was taken up, and two or three hundred voices joined in a loud hurrah ifor the banker's daughter.- . The poor girl drew back into the carriage blushing and frightened. 'Don't mirid them, Laura dear, Sir Philip said; /they mean well, you know, and they look u-non me as public property. Hadn't you better them a bow, Mr Dunbar V- he added in an undertone to the banker. ' It'll please them, I know.' Mr Dunbar frowned, but he bent forward for a moment, and, leaning his head a little way out of the window, made a stately acknowledgment of the people's enthusiasm. As he did so, his eyes met those of the Major, who had crossed the course with Sir Philip and his admirers, and who was 'staging straight before him at the banker's carriage. -Henry Dunbar drew back immediately after making that very, brief salute to the populace. * Tell them to drive home, Sir Philip/ he said. '* The people mean well, I dare say ; but I hate these popular demonstrations. There's "something to be done about the settlements,; by the by y you'd better dine at the Abbey this evening. John Lovell will be there to meet you.* The carriage drove awaj j and though the Major pushed his way through the crowd pretty rapidly, he • was too late to witness its departure. He was in a very good temper, 'however; for he had won wb.at his companions called a hatful of money on the steeple-chase^ and Jie sjtood . .to -win on .other races .that were, to, come r , o|f c tnat"afterrio6n. V During the internal , Dnat?'*lapscd before the next nJc^het^lkeU"

to a social bystander, about Sir Philip Jocelyn," and-the }'oung lady he was going to marry. He ascertained that the wedding was to take j)lace the next morning, and jfr Lisford church. '^ In that case,' thought the Major, as he went back to the ring, 'I shali sleep at Lisford to-night; I shall make Lisford my quarters for the present ; and I shall follow up Henry Dunbar r *

CHAPTER XXIII..

The Bride that the Rain rains on.. There was no sunshine upon Laura Dunbar's wedding 1 morning. The wintry sky was low and dark; as if the heavens had been coming gradually down to crush this wicked earth. The damp fog, the slow drizzling rain, shut out the fair landscape upon which the banker's daughter hail been wont to look from the pleasantcushioned seat in the deep bay-window of her dressing room. - . The broad lawn was" sod:dened by that perpetual rain. The incessant rain-drops dripped from the low branches of the. black spreading cedars of Lebanon ; the smooth beads of water ran off the shining laurel leaves ; the rhododendrons, the feathery furze, the glistening arbutus — -everything was obscured by that cruel rain. The water gushed out of the quaint dragon's mouths ranged along the parapet of the Abbey roof ; it dripped from every stone coping and abutment ; from window ledge and porch, from gabel-end and sheltering ivy. The rain was everywhere; and the incessant pitter-patter of the drops beating against the windows of the Abbey made a dismal sound, scarcely less unpleasant to hear than the perpetual fomentation of the winds, which to-day had the sound of human voices; now moaning drearily, with a long, low, wailing murmur, now shrieking in the shrilly tones of an angry vixen. Laura Dunbar gave a long- discontented sigh as s)ie' seated herself at her favorite bay -window and looked out at the dripping trees upon the lawn below. She was a petted heiress, remember, and the world had gone so smoothly with her hitherto, that perhaps she scarcely endured calamity or contradiction with so gooa' a grace as she might have done, had she been a little nearer perfection. She was hardly better than a child »3 yet, with all a child's ignorant hopefulness and blind trust in the unknown future. She was a pampered child, and she expected to have life made very smooth for her. « What a horribly dismal morning !' Miss. Dunbar exclaimed. 'Did you ever see anything like it, Elizabeth ?' . Mrs Madden was bustling about, arranging her young mistress's breakfast O'pon- a little table near the blazing fire. Laura had just emerged from her bath room, and had put on a. loose dressing gown of wadded blue silk, prior to the grand ceremonial of the wedding toilet, which was net to take place until after breakfast. , I think Miss Dunbar looked lovelier in this deshabille than many a bride in her lace and orange blossoms. The girl's long golden hair, wee from the bath, hung in rippling confusion about her fresh young face. Two little feet, carelessly thrust into blue morocco slippers, pieeped out from amongst the folds of Miss Dunbar's dressing gown, and one coquettish scarlet heel tapped impatiently upon the floor; as the young-lady watched that provoking rain. * What a wretched morning !' she said. 'Well, Miss Laura, it is rather wet/ replied ; Mrs Madden, in a conciliating tone. . ' * * Rather, wet !' echoed Laura, with an air of vexation ; ■■' I should think it was rather- wet, indeed. It's miserably wet; it's horribly wet. To- think thst the frost should have lasted very nearly three weeks, and then must needs break up on my wedding morning: Did ever any boiiy know Anything so provoking f . 'Lor', Miss Laura," rejoined the sympathetic Madden, / there's all mariner of provoking things allus ■ happeriin' in this blessed, wicked, rampagious world of ours, only such young ladies as you don't often come across 'em. , Talk of being -born with a silver spoon in -your moath, Miss Laura; I do tb.infc;as. yeu: ; musfr haye -cdttte into this mortal spear with a whole /service of gold plate; 'And' don't you fret yoflr pre^ eious heart, my blessed Miss Laura; .if the

rain is contrairy. I dare say the clerk of the weather is one of them rampagid' radicals that's allus a goin' on about the bloated aristocracy, and he's done it a purpose to aggeravate you. But what's a little rain more or less to you, Miss Laura, when you'e got more carriages to ride in than if joa was a princess in a fairy tale, which I. think the Princess Baltroubadore, or whatever her hard name was, in. the story of Aladdin, must have had no carriage whatever, or she wouldn't have gone walkin' to the baths. Never you mind the rain, Miss Laura/ '* But it's a bad omen, isn't it, Elizabeth V asked Laura Dunbar. ' I seem to remember some old rhyme about the bride that the sun shines on, and the bride that the rain rains on.' Laws, Miss Laura, you don't mean to say as you'd bemean yourself by taking any heed of such low rubbish as that !' exclaimed Mrs Madden ; ' why such stupid rhymes as them are only made for vulgar people that have the banns put up in the parish church. A deal it matters to such as you, Miss Laura, if all the cats and dogs as ever was come down out of the heavens this blessed day.' But though honest hearted Elizabeth Mtidden did her best to comfort her 3 r oung mistress after her own simple fashion, she was "not herself altogether satisfied. The low, brooding sky, the dark and murky atmosphere, and that monotonous rain, would have gone far-tp depress the spirits of the gayest reveller in all the Tin i verse. In spite of ourselves, we are the slaves of '■atmospheric influences ; and we cannot feel very light hearted or happy upon black wintry days ; when the lowering heavens seem to frown upon our hopes ; when, in the darkening of the earthly prospect, we fancy that we see a shadowy curtain closing* round an unknown future. Laura fel'c something of this ; for she said, by and by, half impatiently, half mournfully — ' What is' the matter with me, Elizabeth? Has all the world changed since yesterday? When I drove home with papa, after the races yesterday, everything upon earth seemed so bright and beautiful. Such an overpowering sense of joy was in my heart, that I could scarcely believe that it was winter, and that it was only the fading November sunshine that lit up the sky. All my future life seemed spread before me, lite an endless series of beautiful pictures—^pictures in which I could see Philip and im'self, always together, always happy. To-day, to-day, oh ! how different every thing is !' exclaimed Laura, with a little shudder. ' The sky that shuts in the lawn yonder saems to shut in my life with it. I can't look forward. If I was going to be partedL from Philip to-day, instead of married to him, I don't think I could feal more miserable than I feel now. Why is it, Elizabeth dear V 1 My goodness gracious me ! " cried Mrs Madden, * how should I tell, my precious pet? You talk just like a poetry- book, and how can I answer you unless I was another poetry -book 1 Come have your breakfast, do, that's a dear sweet love> and try a new laid e^g. New- laid eggs is good for the spirits, my poppet.' ! Lanra Dunbar seated herself in the | comfortable arm-chair between, the fireplace and the little breakfast-table. She made a sort of pretence of eating, just to please her old nurse, who fidgeted about the room; now stopping by Laura's chair, and urging her to take this, that or the other ; now running to the dressing-table to make some new arrangement about the all-important wedding toilet; now looking out of the window and perjuring her simple soul by declaring that 'it ' — namely, the winter sky— was going to clear up. ' It's breaking up above the elms yonder, Miss Laura,' Elizabeth said ; 'there's a bit of blue peepin' through the clouds; leastways, if 'it ain't quite blue, it's a much lighter black than the rest of the sky, and that's something Eat a bit of Perrigorge pie, or a thin wafer of a slice off that Strasbog 'am, Miss Laura, do now. You'll be re&dy to drop with feelin' faint when you get tc the altar-rails, if you persist on bein' married on an empty stummick, Miss. Laura. Its a moriel impossible as you can Jook your best, my precious love, if you enter the church in astate. of starvation, just like one of them respectable 'beggars wofc pins a piece of paper on their 'weskitt with '-I ana hungry.' wrote upon it in large-hand, and stands at the foot of o«« of the. bridges oft th» Surrey aid« of

the water. And I shouldn't think as you would wish to look like that, Miss Laura, on your wedding-day ? I shouldn't if I was goin' to he own wife to a baronet ! ' Laura Dunbar took very little notice of her nurse's rambling- discourse ; and lam fain to confess that,, upon this occasion, Mrs Madden talked rather more for the sake of talking- than from any overflow. of animal spirits. ° The g-ood creature felt the influence of the cold, wet,, cheerless morning- quite as keenly as her mistress. Mrs Madden was superstitious, as most ig-norant and simpleminded people generally are, more or less. Superstition is, after all, onlj a dim., unconscious poetry, which is latent in most natures, except in such very hard practical minds as are incapable of believing 1 ia any thing-— not even in Heaven itself. Dora Macmahon came in presently, looking- very pretty in blue silk and white lace. She looked very happy, in spite of the bad weather, and Miss Dunbar suffered herself to be comforted by her half-sister. The two girls sat at the table by the fire, and breakfasted, or pretended to breakfast together. Who could really attend to the common business of eating and drinking on such a day as this I , l I've just been to see Lizzie and Ellen,' Dora said, presently 3 ' they wouldn't come in here till they were dressed, and they've had their hair screwed up in hair-pins all night to make it wave, and now it's a wet day their hair won't wave after all, and their maid's going to pinch it with fire irons — the tongs, I suppose.' Miss Macmahon had brown hair with a natural ripple ia it, and could afford to •laugh at beuufcy that was obliged to adorn itself by means of hair pins and tongs. Lizzie and Ellen were the daughters of a Major Melville, and the special friends of Miss Dunbar. r JLVy had come to Maudesley to act as her bridesmaids, according to that favorite promise which young latties so often make to each other, and so very often break. Laura did not appeiir to take much interest in tjie Miss Melvilles' hair. She was very meditive about something; but her meditations must have been of a plea^ sunfc nature, for there was a smile upon her face. . v 1 Dora. ' she said, by and by, 'do you know I've bsen thiuking about something?' I About what, dear ? ' ' Don't you know that old saying about oae wedding making something ? ' Dora Macmuhon blushed. ' What of that, Laura dear ? ' she asked very innocently. ' I've been thing that perhaps another wedding may follow mine. Oh, Dora, I [ can't help saying it, I should be so happy if Arthur Lovell and you were to marry. Miss Macmahon blushed a much deeper red than before. * Oh, Laura,' she said, l that's quite impossible.' But- Miss Dunbar shook hnr head. I 1 shall Mve in the koDe of it, notwithstanding-,' she said. * I love Arthur almost as much—or perhaps quite as much, is if he were my brother — -so it isn't strange that I should wish to see him married to my sister.' The two girls might have sat talking for some time longer, but they were interrupted by Miss Dunbar's old nurse, who never for a moment lost sight of the serious business of the day. ' It's all very well for you to sit there jabber, jabber, jabber, Miss Dora,' exclaimed the unceremonious Elizabeth $ ' you're dressed, all but your bonnet. You've only just to pop that; on;, and there you are. But my young lady isn't half dressed yet. And now, come. along, Miss Laura, and have your laair done, if you mean to have any back hair at all to-day. It's past nine o'clock, and you're to be at the church at eleven.' • And papa is to give me away ! ' murmured Laura, in a low voice, as she seated herself before the dressing-table. ' I wish he loved me better.' 'Perhaps, if he loved you too well, he'd keep you, instead of giving you away, Miss Laura,* observed Mrs. Madden, with evident enjoyment of her own wit-; i and I don't suppose you'd care agouti s that, would you miss ? Hold your head still, that's a precious darling, and don't you. trouble yourself about any thing except looking your Terj best this day.'

CHAPTER XXIV.

The Unbidden Guest who came to Laura Dunbar's Wedding. The wedding- was to take place in Lisiord church — that ..pretty, quaint, old church of which I have already spoken. The wandering* Avon flowed through through this rustic churchyard, along. & winding channel fringed by tall, trembling rushes. There wa3 a wooden bridge across the river, and there were two opposite entrances to the -churchyard*' Pedestrians who chose the shortest route between Lisfordand Shorneliffe went in at one gateand out at another, which opened on. tothe high. road. The worthy inhabitants of Lisford were almost as much distressed by the unpromising aspect of the sky as Laura Dunbar and her faithful nurse themselves. New bonnets had been specially prepared forfor this festive^occasion. Chrysanthemums and dahlias, gay-looking China asters, and. all the, lingering flowers that light up the-early-winter landscape, had been collected to strew the pathway beneath the bride'spretty feet. AH the brightest evergreens in the Lisford gardens had been gathered; as a fitting sacrifice for the 'young lady from the Abbey.' Laura Dunbar's frank good-nature andreckless generosity were well rememberedon this occasion ; and every creature in: Lisford was bent upon doing 1 her honourBut this aggravating rain baulked every body, What was the.use of throwing wet dahlias and flabby chrysanthemums into puddles through, which the bride must tread, heiress though she was Z How miserable would be the aspect oi two rows of damp charity children, with red nosesand no pocket-handkerchiefs 1 The rector himself had a cold in his bead, and would be obliged to omit all the n*s and m's inthe marriage service. In short, every body felt thatthe Abbey wedding was to be destined more or less a failure. It seemed very hard that thechief partner in the firm of Dunbar and. Balderby could not, with all his wealth, .buy a little glimmer of sunshine to light up his daughter's wedding. It grew sodark and fog-g-y towards eleven o'clock, that a dozen or so of was candles were hastily stuck about r the neg-hborhood of thealiar, in order that the bridegrooms might be able, each of them, to see the person that he or she was taking for better or worse. Yes, the dismal weather made ev3ry thing- look dismal in unison with itself. A wet wedding is like a wet pic-nic. The most heroic nature gives way beiore its-, utter desolation j the wit of the party forgets his best anecdote; the funny man.breaks down in the climatic verse of hisgreat buffo song- ; there is no brightness in the eyes of the beauty ; there is neithersparlde nor flavor in the champagne, though the grapes thereof have been grown in the vineyards of Widow Cliquot herself. •There are something's more powei-fu lth an even Emperors, and the atmosphere is one of them. Alexander might conquernations in very sport j but I questionhe could have resisted the influence of a wet day. Of all the people who were to assist at Sir Philip Jocelyn's wedding, perhaps: the father of the bride was the person who> seemed least affected by that drizzling rain, that hopelessly-black sky. If Henry Dunbar was grave and. silentt a-day, why that was nothing, nevr : for he was always grave and silent.. If the* banker's manner was stern and rooody today, that stern moodiness was habitual to him, and there was no need to blame themurky heavens for any change in his temper. He sat by the broad fireplace watching the burning* coals and waiting until heshould be summoned to take his place by his daughter's side in che carriage that was to convey them both to Lisford church j. and he did not utter one word of complaint about that sg'gravating weather. He looked very handsome, very aristocratic, with his gray moustache carefully trimmed, and a white camellia in. his but-ton-hole. Nevertheless, when he cama out; ' into the hall by and by, with a. set smileupon his face, like a man who ;is going toact a part in a play, Laura Dunbar: recoiled from him with „a n. involuntary shiver, as she Jiad done ; upon the- day .of her first meeting with. •him. in Portland Place. . .-: ■ \ />, ■ ,■_.:,.■ But he offered her >;his haad, iand: .she" laid the tips of her. fingers ia ihisßbroadl palm, and went with him to the carriage^ (To ha continued^ \,