Seventy Times Seven

Southern Cross, Volume 7, Issue 41, 6 January 1900, Page 13

Seventy Times Seven

By ADELINE SERGEANT, Author of “ The Story of a Penitent Soul,” “ Jacobi’s Wife,” “ Rodger Yanbrough’s Wife,” “ The Great Mill Street Mystery,” “ A Life Sentence.” “ Dr Endicott’s Experiment,” “ A Rogue’s Daughter,” “ The Luck of the House,” “ Casper Brooke’s Daughter,” “ No Ambition,” &c., &c.

(0 0 P 7 B I G H T)

CHAPTER I.—THE WEDDING GUEST. . It was a pretty scene. The sky was deep blue overhead, flecked here and there with snow white films of cloud ; the sun shone brilliantly upon the old grey church in its green •environment of stately trees and velvet turf, upon the red roofs of the cottages, upon the glowing faces of the villagers gathered about the churchyard gate —village people, men, women, and children, all in their “ Sunday best,” with smiles on their faces, and flowers in their hands. They had a festive look, and a glance at the triumphal arches with which the gateway and the road were decked would have told a stranger that some joyful event was about to be celebrated. The church stood on a hill, and from its western door the gravelled path sloped rather steeply towards the gate, * The village lay in a hollow, the church rising above it like a giant guardian, all in gray and green. The houses were mostly built of red brick, and the roofs were of a still deeper hue ; they had an air of warm picturesqueness, standing back from the road in their own gardens, where the June roses were now in bloom. There was certainly no want of flowers in the little Kentish village of Riversmead. The gardens were still gay with blossoms, although so many had been gathered that morning to make wreaths and to fill baskets, and to make posies for the school children. There were few persons present who did not carry flowers to strew under the feet of the beautiful bride, who was that day to go from amongst them and be known by another name.

Weddings were not very common occurrences in the little Riversmead church, and the village people always flocked into the church and the churchyard to see the marriage party. On this occasion it seemed as though only the sick and the infirm could have been left at home. Such a gathering had seldom been seen at Riversmead ; the people had flocked from far and near; tor the wedding was that of Magdalen Lingard, the Squire’s only daughter, and was therefore a great event. Not that the Squire was a rich or powerful man ; his estates had dwindled away almost to nothing, and the big house in which he lived was comfortless and poverty - stricken. But Miss Lingard’s bright smile and kindly words had made her dear to the hearts of the Riversmead people, and many of them were deeply grieved to think that they were going to lose her, “ It’ll be a bad day for ns when she’s gone, pretty creatur’ ” sighed one old dame to the other, as they stood in the green churchyard. “ Many and many’s the pound of tea she's brought to me, though little enough money she’s had to call her own, as everybody knows; and the woollen things she’s knitted, and the stockings, and the petticoats—she’s the kindest ’art and the quickest fingers of any lady in the country side.’

“ She’ll be a grand lady now,” said her friend, in reply. ‘ The gentleman she’s agoing to marry has got plenty o' money and a fine place near Scarsfield —one o’ them manafact’ring towns T the North, I’m told. She’ll be a great lady up there, no doubt.’

‘ The Lord’ll bless her wherever she goes,’ said the first speaker.

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‘Maybe,’ said the second —evidently a more worldly-minded person than her friend— ‘but He won’t spare her trouble and sorrow any more than He spares other folk. To my mind, she’ll have a peck o’ trouble with her husband’s relations ; they seem all to live up Scarsfield way ; and I never yet knew a young married “pair get on well if they lived amongst their own folk. One or t’other’s sure to breed mischief.’

‘ They’ll all love Miss Magdalen,’ answered the other woman confidently. 4 And as for relations, Captain Esher has on’y sets of them at Scarsfield ; and one’s Mr and Mrs St. Aidan, that she’s so fond of a’ready, and the other’s a maiden lady, Miss Esher, who’s going to leave the Captain all her money.’

‘ Much he needs it ! He’s as rich now as Creeses,’ said her friend, rather viciously. At this moment some children, near the gate, set up a shout : ‘ They’re coming ! they’re coming ! I hear the wheels.’ Every head was forthwith turned towards the But the wheels belonged only to a dilapidated old cab, drawn by a de-jected-looking horse in the direction leading from the nearest railway station. One or two of the children narrowly escaped a cuff for giving false news ; but, luckily for them, public attention was diverted from their misdeeds to the new arrival. The cab stopped at the gate, and the red-faced driver got d<*wn from his seat, whip in hand, and opened the creaking door. 4 It be one of the visitors come from London to the wedding,’ respectfully murmured a woman to her neighbour. 4 I heard tell they expected a sight o’ folks ; but, bless me, she ain’t much to look at, is she ?’ 4 In a black gown !’ commented her friend, eyeing the new comer with much disfavour. 4 T thought it weren’t lucky to come to a wedding in black. They’re nice little children, ain’t they ?—if they didn’t look so white and peaked.’ Meanwhile the woman paid the driver and dismissed him, then turned her face towards the church, and also, of course, towards the waiting crowd. The gaze of the village folk seemed bo disconcert her. She started, flushed deeply, and then grew very pale. With shaking fingers she drew down her veil, took a hand of the two children who accompanied her in each of her own, and, thus leading them, passed up the gravelled walk into the church. In the absence of any other object of interest, the people watched her as she went. She was not very young —probably between thirty and forty years of age; her face was worn and lined like that of an agsd person, or one who has known much sorrow ; the cheeks ware thin and pale, the veins on the temples painfully prominent. He blue eyes had a strange, haggard expression; and the fair hair that strayed over her forehead gave her a wild, dishevelled look. Her dress was plain and even poor ; coarse in texture and sombre in hue. The two children —little girls of three or four years old—were, however, dressed in white, daintily decked with embroidery and blue ribbons. It was suggested by the watchers that they were children of some friends of the bride or bridegroom, and that the woman was their nurse. But a quick-eared school girl deposed to having heard one of them call her 4 auntie ’ as they walked up the churchyard path. Inside the build-

ing, the woman went deliberately to the front pew. It was still unoccupied, being reserved for certain members of the wedding-party ; and the old pew-opener hurried up, with an anxious and important face, to turn the ill-advised new comers out of the prominent place that they had chosen for themselves. The children looked up at him with frightened, imploring eyes, but did not stir. The woman seated herself beside them, and took no notice of the old man’s remonstrance.

‘ Don’t ye hear what I say ?’ he grumbled, in a still louder tone. These ’ere seats is for the weddingparty, I tell ye. Come o’ that pew, ma’am, for goodness, sake, or I’ll call the vicar.’

‘ Call him,’ said the woman, lifting her veil and fixing her weird blue eyes upon the little withered man in his black gown, as he stood by the pew and actually shook the door in his agitation of mind. ‘ Call him, by all means. I wish to speak to him.’ ‘ I’ll put you into quite as good a pew, ma’am. This ’ere place is reserved for them as belongs to the wedding-party. ‘ I belong to the wedding-party.’ said the stranger, coldly. Then she dropped her veil and said no more. The old man, whose name was Binns, turned away in despair. The vicar Mr. Kirton, was already in the vestry, and Binns thought of asking him to come and dislodge the unwelcome visitor; but he was a little afraid the clergyman would pooh-pooh his complaint, and say that people must seat themselves in their own way. Binns was uneasy. Visitors kept arriving every moment, and were shown to their places by the vicar’s son — visitors in silks and satins, velvet and broadcloth, resplendent with jewels and flowers and perfume — and this strange woman, poorly clad in rusty black, had taken the best place of all, the place reserved for the most distinguished of the guests ! What could he do P

Carriages rolled up to the gate: the bridesmaids were standing at the door in readiness for the bride, the distinguished guests had found some other seat, and a general move of expectation showed that the most important personages were about to arrive upon the scene. A little buzz of voices told of the bride’s approach. Mr Kirton and Mr St Aidan, the bridegroom’s clerical uncle, had taken up their position in the middle of the church, where the earlier part of the service was to be conducted. This fact seemed to puzzle the stranger, who had expected the wedding party to come up .to the communion rails at once, in the old unecclesiastical fashion, and had therefore kept her eyes steadily fixed on the east end of the church. Thus she missed the entrance of the clergymen, and also of the bridegroom with his best man. She now turned hastily round, and. seeing her mistake, rose up. The bride was entering the church at that very moment, with her attendant maidens, dressed in white. Children threw flowers on her path, the organ pealed out a joyful strain, the sunshine fell through the coloured windows in rosy and purple patches on her satin gown as she passed up the church upon her father’s arm.

At that moment the woman in black left her seat and walked down the aisle towards the clergymen who awaited the bride’s approach Her movements were scarcely noticed, except by those in her immediate vicinity, for the eyes of neatly all were fixed upon the wedding-partj. Perhapsonlyold Binns was scandalised by the sight of that black figure, edging its way with steady purpose through the gaily decked feminine crowd of guests. Behind the woman came the two children, grasping each other by the hand, evidently frightened at the scene in which they found themselves, but not daring to stay behind. And, as it happened, the woman reached the clergyman before the bride was more than half way up the church ; and when she had reached him, she quietly laid her band upon his arm. Mr Kirton started violently. He

looked in amaze at the intruder, then, glanced round hurriedly in search of Binns, who was seen in the background, working with arms and should ers through a crowd of stragglers in a vain endeavour to get to his master’s side.

‘ What do you want P Go back, go back!’ said the vicar, in a low reproving voice.

The little group at the foot of the chancel steps looked round enquiringly. The Vicar laid his hand on the woman’s shoulder. ‘ What do you want here ?’ he asked.

‘ I have brought Philip Esher’s children to see his marriage,’ she replied, in so distinct a tone that her words were clearly heard by every one within a radius of half-a-dozen yards, and therefore by the whole of the wedding party ; ‘ and to ask him what has become of the woman who ought to have stood in Miss Lingard’s place.’

There was a momentary hush. The stranger had again thrown back her veil; her thin cheeks were touched with a hectic flush, and there was an unnatural brilliance in her wild blue eyes. Before her the marriage procession came to a sudden stop ; for a moment the two women who were more deeply interested than any other in the ceremony about to be performed looked straight into each other’s eyes. What Miss Lingard saw we know. What the stranger had already seen was the conventional bride, in white satin and white lace, leaning upon her father’s arm; pearls, orangeblossoms, a diamond clasp, a sno'wy film of tulle, the tip of a satin shoe—of all these details the unbidden guest was conscious. But suddenly the bride also threw back her veil, and then the wild-eyed, black-robed woman saw something more. Magdalen’s figure was tall and slender, but exquisitely proportioned ; the features of her face were finely cut and full of expression. Her complexion was not rosy, but neither was it usually very pale; the slightest emotion called up a carnation hue to the fair oval of her cheek, just as it made her eyes gleam and her mouth ripple with smiles or tremble with tenderest feeling. But what rendered her face more striking was a certain contradiction between this frequent change of colour and expression and some of its most characteristic lines. A peculiarly tranquil look was given by the almost level line of the dark eyebrows beneath the smooth white forehead; the welldeveloped chin spoke of a strong will, and the firmly closed lips of determination, It might be inferred that the quickly changing colour and the varying expressions were the outcome of youth, inexperience, and keen sensibility, but that behind these were to be found the resolute will, the clear judgment, the unfailing capacity for action, that would make of her in time what the world often calls ‘ a woman of character,’

Close to her stood Philip Esher, the bridegroom-elect. He was just Magdalen’s height, not very tall for a roan, lithe, lean, and sinewy; more singularly handsome than even the bride herself, partly because of the rather unusual contrast between the colour of his hair and eyes. The closely - cropped head and heavy moustache were gold brown ; his face, though bronzed now, had once been fair, but his eyes were dark, remarkably restless and brilliant, and set in long almond-shaped sockets, like those of an Eastern girl. The forehead was broad and low, the nose aquiline, with, thin nostrils; the lips also thin, and very much curved. It was curious that with all the physical beauty of this man’s face, the first impression produced by it was rarely pleasant. There was a subtle suggestion of possible cruelty, of scorn and hatred, in the curves of that fine mouth, apt to make a psychological student recoil. But as most of his friends and Magdalen’s friends had known him for many years, they perhaps scarcely noticed the stereotyped sneer upon his face. Only here and there one or two, more keen-witted than the rest, wondered how Madalen Lingard,

wifcb her high instincts, her noble aspirations, could tie herself for life to a man like Philip Esher. Magdalen had been leaning on her father’s arm. He was a tall, upright man, "with a white moustache, and something of a soldierly air. When the sound of the stranger’s voice fell upon his ears, his eves flashed fire, he made an involuntary movement forward, then checked himself and put his arm round the girl’s slender waist, as if be feared that she would fall. Bat Magdalen showed no symptoms of uncertain balance. She was pale, it is true, and her eyes grew large with astonishment and dismay, but she kept her confident bearing, and looked the woman steadfastly in the face. There was a much more startling change in Phillip Esher’s appearance. His face grew absolutely livid—more, as it seemed, from rage than fear: he clenched his fist and uttered a word which, profane in itself, was particularly unsuitable at such, a time and in such a place.

Even Madalen’s brow contracted as she heard it, and Mr. St. Aidan, his uncle, immediately uttered a short, stern reproof, But Captain Esher did not heed.

* Turn her out!’ he said, in a hoarse with passion. ‘ Turn her out, I say ! What does she come for ?, ‘ To confront you with the memory of your own evil deeds,' said the woman, with the peculiarly distinct utterance which made the words penetrate far into the depths of the listening crowd. ‘To call your past life to your mind ; to ’ ‘ This is a most unseemly interruption,’ said the who meanwhile beckoned to one of his sons and the parish constable, and felt moie confident of his position when they were at his side. ‘lf there is any reason why the service should not proceed, adjurn with me to the vestry ; if not, be silent, or I must have you removed, Do you allege any obstacle to Captaon Esher’s marriage with Hiss Lingard P’

The woman folded her arras and looked at Captain Esher with a malicious smile, but made no answer. ‘ I swear that there is no obstacle,’ said Esher, who was evidently much agitated. ‘ I know of none, and she knows of none either.’ ‘ Hot even if Alice Mackworth were alive ?, asked the woman, in a lower tone. The change in Captain Esher’s face was almost answer enough. For a moment he looked sick with dread, and the grey pallor of his lips etartled those who had hitherto believed most fully in his innocence. ‘ Sir,’ said Mr. Lingard, sternly, * I must have an explanation of this charge.’

‘We had better go back to the vestry,’ said Mr. St. Aidan to his brother clergyman. ‘ A few minutes’ conversation may put the thing right. Don’t you think it would be better P’ * There is absolutely no need,’ said ■•Captain Esher hurriedly. His tones were lowered, as befitted the place in which he stood ; but he moved to Magdalen’s, side and tried to take her hand,’ ‘ Magdalen, you believe me, do you not ?’ She lifted her eyes to his face : a beautiful trust and love shone in their liquid depths. ‘ Yes, Philip,’ she answered, gently. “Then why should we delay P Go on, sir,’ said the young man, turning triumphantly to the clergyman with his bride’s hand clasped in his own. ‘ There is no obstacle, I repeat: have the goodness to go on with the service.’ ‘ Wait, sir,’ Mr Lingard interposed, in his impressive voice, *My daughter is under age. 1 forbid her to give herself to this man until we have enquired into the accusation brought against him. Magdalen, come with me.’ She did not resist, though her face turned pale and the tears rose to her beautiful dark eyes. Mr Lingard went with her towards the vestry, and the wedding party broke up in confusion.

CHAPTER 11.-MISS MACKWORTH’S STORY. The vestry was a spacious but gloomy room, panelled in oak, with small pointed windows high in the wall. Oak chests were ranged round the walls, and an oak table stood in the middle of the room. Half-a-dozen surplices and cassocks hung upon pegs on one of the walls, and the table held a few books and a carafe of water. A carved high back chait and some wooden forms completed the furniture of the place. Into this room came the persons chiefly interested in the scene which had just occurred. The two clergymen followed Mr Lingard and his daughter : then came the woman in black, escorted by the vicar’s son, with the two children clinging to her dress. After them walked Captain Esher, reluctantly yet desperately, like a man going to certain destruction. And, last of all, an old lady, with silvery hair and a rugged, hardfeatured face, rose up from the pew in which she had hitherto been sitting, and stalked solemnly np to the vestry door. She was at once admitted, as having a right to be present at the conference. She was Philip Esher’s aunt —the lady of whom the village gossips had spoken as likely to leave him all her money when she died.

As soon as the door closed Philip Esher burst out passionately. ‘ There is no charge against me of any kind. This woman has made none. Are you not prepared to take my word of honour as a gentleman— ’ ‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Lingard, politely but coldly. * I think that a charge has certainly been made. This lady speaks of someone who should stand in my daughter’s place. I claim a right to defer the marriage until this extraordinary allegation has been disproved. When it is disproved I will beg your pardon for seeming to doubt you ; but with my daughter’s welfare at stake, I should not be justified in proceeding otherwise.’ Philip Esher turned away his face to mutter an impatient ‘ Tedious old fool!’ in his uncle’s ear. Mr Lingard was a man of the old school; a man of laboured courtesies and studied phrases, and he had never liked Captain Esher. ‘ Come to the point,’ said Mr Sc. Aidan, not unkindly, though with a reproving glance at Philip. ‘ Have you anything to say, my good woman? What reason have you to give for interrupting the marriage service ?’

The scene was curiously like that of a justice-room. Mr Kirton had taken the chair at the head of the table, while Mr St. Aidan stood beside him and put questions or made suggestions with a judicial air. At the other end of the table stood the woman in black, with James Kirton on one side and the children on the other. She looked at that moment like the accused, not the accuser. Miss Esher, Mr Lingard, and Magdalen formed a little group apart, midway between the table and the door ; and Philip Esher stood beside his uncle, with his eyes fixed on Magdalen. He had tried to get close to her, but her father and his own aunt had waved him off. One or two questions must be asked and answered before he could be allowed to treat her as his promised wife. ‘ What reason had you for interrupting the marriage service ?’ asked Mr St. Aidan. ‘ This reason : he is not fit to be the husband of a girl like that P’ said Mr Kirton, quickly. The woman looked sullenly at Captain Esher, and then at the two clergymen in turn. ‘ Yes,’ she said, slowly, after what seemed a long and terrible pause, ‘ he is married—he has been married —and these are his two children.’ ‘ It’s a lie !’ thundered Esher, his eyes glittering, the veins on his forehead standing out like whipcord, at’s a lie —an infernal lie! She can’t prove it. I defy her to prove it. I was never married.’ ‘ Perhaps you will say next that these are not your children,’ said the

woman, coldly. Her excitement had died oat as that of Philip Esher rose ; her voice was low, her eyes dull, her face colourless. But there was a quiet resolution in her air which made the listeners fear the result. ‘ Perhaps you will say that you did not desert your wife and her two babies at Wingfield three years ago ? Perhaps you will deny that you ever courted Alice Mackworth ? I can get plenty of witnesses as to that point, and I don’t doubt that I can prove the desertion and the cruelty too. You reckoned without your host, Philip Esher, when yon forgot me/

‘ Are yon his wife, then ?’ asked Miss Esher, in a horrified tone. Philip seemed unable to speak; his face expressed an anguish of despair. The woman turned to the speaker with a quick gesture of repulsion. ‘ Me, his wife ! ’ she cried. ‘ No, thank God. I haven’t fallen so low as that. I'm his wife’s sister. I am Louisa Mackworth, and it-was AlDe that he married.’ ‘ I never married her ! ’ came from Captain Esher’s white lips in a sort of gasp. An evil and malignant look shot from his long dark eyes. And Magdalen, glancing at him then, shivered and dretf back. ‘ You had better hold your tongue, Philip,’ said old Miss Esher, sharply. ‘ You will only make bad worse. Can you prove what you are saying, or can you not ?’ she added, turning abruptly to the accuser. ‘Do you think I should come here if I could not prove it F’ said Louisa Mackworth. ‘ I have the papers with me.’ ‘ Philip ! ’ It was Magdalen who spoke. The name fell from her lips in a low, agonised wail of entreaty. For the last few moments no one had looked at her; they had all been absorbed in the words and movements of the accuser and accused ; but now every eye was turned upon her. She was deadly white ; her eyes were dilated, her lips parted, her hands clasped before her; her head was slightly turned over jber shoulder, as if she were listening to some unexpected sound.

They knew what it was. The church clock was striking twelve. Mr St. Aidan moved aside with a grey look upon hia usually florid countenance, and began with a trembling hand to take off the surplice that he had donned that morning witb such a joyful heart. ‘ There can be no wedding this morning,’ he said, as he flung it across one of the oaken chests. He did not mean anyone save Mr Kirtou and his nephew to hear him. But Magdalen also heard.

She had always been a girl of great outward calmness, great selfcontrol. She had made no outcry, shed no tear during all these bitter moments. But the strain was too much. From the arm that her father had placed around her, she slid quietly, helplessly to the floor, where she lay in a dead swoon, white as her wedding gown, lifeless as the orange blossoms that were crushed in her dark hair. They were all beside her in a moment; one with smelling-salts, and one with water, one raising her head, another chafing her hands. Only Louisa Mackworth and the children held aloof. She looked on with cold composure, as if Magdalen’s sorrow could be no business of hers. The children, frightened and crying, were hiding their faces in her black gown, and imploring her to take them away. Bat she made no response. Miss Esher took matters into her own hands. ‘ Stand back, all of you !’ she said, peremptorily. ‘ Get up, Philip Esher, and don’t make a fool of yourself!’ For Philip had grasped the poor cold hand, and was kissing it and calling out to Magdalen to hear him. He had entirely lost his self-possession—-he was generally so self-possessed — and nobody who saw him at that moment could doubt that he loved with his whole heart the woman whom to all appearance he had so shamefully deceived; ‘ No, I won’t

have yon here,’ said the old lady; and in a still more positive tone, ‘ Go farther off; do you wish to kill her ? Give her air!’ ‘My God ! is she dead ?’ cried old Lingard, wringing his hands. Then be turned fiercely upon Captain Esher, who had retired a few paces, and stood looking down upon Magdalen’s prostrate form with an expression of utter misery. ‘ This is your work, sir. God reward you for what you have done !’ Esher shuddered involuntarily. Then an angry light leapt into his eyes. ‘lbave done nothing—nothing to hurt her,’ he declared. ‘ Why are : you such foels as to listen to that woman’s lies ! I tell you I can explain it all to you in five minutes. ‘ Don’t tell me ! I don’t believe yon,’ said Miss Esher, as she sprinkled water on Magdalen’s face. ' James Kirton, are you there. See if there isn’t a doctor in the church. And send the people away as soon as you can, and bring the carriage round to the vestry door. We had better get the child home as soon as possible.’ ‘ The carriage is at the door already,’ said James Kirton, reappearing after a few moments’ absence. ‘ Here is Dr Symonds. The people are all crowding up to the vestry door now,’ he said, turning to his father. ‘ Will you come out and speak to them, sir ? And the guests —what are they to do P’ ‘ My house is at their service,’ said Mr Lingard, catching the words, and spreading out his trembling fingers with a slight deprecatory bow. ‘ They will excuse my presence, and that of my daughter —but the house is open —let them eat and drink—and go !’ He turned away and put his hands before his eyes; the shock had unnerved him, and he was shaking from head to foot.

‘My dear Mr Lingard, don’t take the thing too seriously,’ said the vicar in an undertone, as he divested himself of his surplice, and prepared to make his way into the lay world without. ‘ There will be, I trust, only a temporary delay. From what Captain Esher says, I feel sure thut he is not so much to blame —that there is some mistake ; we shall have the wedding to-morrow, never tear.’ ‘ 1 am afraid that I know better,’ said Mr. Lingard, sternly. He moved from the vicar, as if he could not bear another word. Mr. Kirton hurried back into the church, where he spoke to some of the guests, who were still standing about the aisles or sitting in pews, full of dire consternation and dismay. The pretty bridesmaids were especially to be pitied. Two of them had already been indignantly borne away by their parents, who were scandalised at the interruption of the ceremony ; one, Mr Kirton’s own daughter, was in tears ; the other three had come from London, and were staying at the Lingard’s, to whose house they did not like to return until something definite was known. Mr Kirton went from one to another, murmuring soft words of explanation that explained nothing, offering the hospitality of his own house to some of the guests, and putting every facility for departure in the way of others. Binns and one or two faithful assistants cleared the church, and, to a large extent, the churchyard, of village people ; the choir-boys disrobed in the porch, as the vestry was occupied; the organist locked up his organ ; the ringers went sadly home without the beer which they had been led to expect. One by one carriages drove away, laden with excited occupants ; the village women loitered back to their cotttages; and the children, to whom a holiday from school had been given, got into mischief far and wide. For what would become of the tea that had been provided for them; and the presents for their mothers; and the games in Mr. Lingard’s field P These wore ‘ treats * that had been expected on the occasion of Miss Magdalen s marriage, and as Miss Magdalen was not married, of course there could be no treats. And at first there wr»3

lamentation and mourning and woe amongst boys and girls ; but afterwards an evil spirit entered into them, and caused them to wish to visit their disappointment on somebody else’s head —no matter whose. Therefor®, they got into mischief ; and there were more patesof glass broken, more panes of glass broken, more gardens trampled down, more field-gates left open so that cattle might get out, more poultry chased, more cats worried, and more devilment amongst the small fry of Riversmead village on the day fixed for Magdalen’s wedding than there had been in all the previous six months. Nevertheless, they had their tea, and their presents, and their games, that afternoon —at least, those of them did who had not been sent to bed by their mothers, nor were being thrashed by their fathers, nor were in custody of the village constable, nor were sulking in woods and fields miles away from home. But no work was done in the cottages that day; for the women were all standing at each other’s doors, comparing notes and telling stories of fine gentlemen and their wicked ways ; so that, when the labouring man came home at night, there was no evening meal ready for him, and a good deal of unpleasantness followed. After which, the labouring man resorted to the nearest public-house, and drank and smoked until it was time for him to stumble home to bed, and to that sleep which Solomon tells us is so particularly sweet ; and his wife had a black eye in the morning, or a bruise which she did not like to show. Such were some of the dire results of poor Magdalen’s interrupted wedding. When Mr Kirkton had seen the coast clear, he came back to the vestry and helped to carry Magdalen to the carriage. She was halfconscious by this time, but not able to walk or speak. Miss Esher followed her into the carriage, and put her arm round her.

‘ Let me speak to her —just a word,’ cried Philip, as the girl was borne away. But Mr Lingard interposed with a stern word of refusal ; Mr St. Aidan laid his hand restrainingly on the young man’s arm, and Magdalen —Magdalen would nor, look. She hid her face on Miss Esher’s shoulder as soon as she was placed in the carriage, and seemed neither to see nor hear. Philip Esher stamped with fury, and muttered words which his uncle thought it better not to notice, unsuitable though they were. And then the four men —for Mr Lingard had not accompanied his daughter—went back to the gloomy oak-panelled room, where Louise Mackworth patiently awaited their return. Philip Esher’s face had by this time assumed a very dogged and sullen expression. Mr St. Aidan knew the 100k —there was a peculiar whiteness about his lips and nostrils —and knew that it boded nothing good. Philip had said that he could ‘explain’; his uncle began to doubt whether explanation were possible. Certainly the young man began by carrying matters with a high hand. ‘ Now,’ he said, as he advanced to the table beside which Miss Mackworth was sitting, with a dark and threatening brow, ‘ what is the meaning of this trumped-up story, this farrago of lying nonsense P I suppose I need not remind you that I can prosecute you if you fail to substantiate your charges P —which you cannot do.’ His piercing eyes looked straight into hers for a moment. She read a menace in them : she also read a fear. She smiled slightly as she replied — ‘ You were married to Alice Mack-

His piercing eyes looked straight into hers for a moment. She read a menace in them : she also read a fear. She smiled slightly as she replied — ‘ You were married to Alice Mackworth on the 7th of February, 1874, at the B-egistry Office in B— street, Bloomsbury, London. I have here a copy of the entry in the register. The gentlemen may see it if they please.’ She pushed a paper across the table to Mr St. Aidan, who knitted his brows sadly over its contents. ‘ You settled Alice in lodgings, first in London, and then at a country place —Wingfield, in Warwickshire ; her twin children were

born there in May, 1875—three years ago. You visited her from time to time, but as she was ill and weak, you tired of her ; and at last you wrote her a letter saying that yon did not mean to coma back, bat that you enclosed a cheque for twenty pounds, and that she mustn’t expect you to do any more for her. Cruel desertion is what the law call* that sort of conduct, isn’t it, sir ? She stayed on at Wingfield for some weeks, till the money was all spent, and then she tried to get work to do ; bat there was little work to be found for her weak hands ’ ‘ Philip! Philip !’ said Mr St. Aldan, getting up and pushing back his chair, ‘ for God’s sake say that this story is not true !’ ‘ I have said so all along,’ answered Philip, keeping his eyes fixed on the table, however, ‘ and you would not believe me.’ ‘How much of it is untrue P’ asked Louisa Mackworth, in a voice of hard sarcasm. ‘lt is certainly true that she came back to me, her eldest sister,twelve months ago, ill, starving, almost beside herself with misery. What else is untrue P I have yonr letter to her in my pocket. Here’s the registrar’s certificate copied. If anyone likes to go to the registrar’s clerk in Bloomsbury, or to the lodging-house keeper at Wingfield, either of them will identify Alice’s husband, though he did call himself Philip Ashe to the landlady. What untruth is there in all that ?’ The three men who were, so to speak, judging the case, looked sternly, anxiously, at Philip Esher. He was still very white about the lips, and hia hands had begun to tremble. For the first time he stammered when he spoke, lifted his eyes for a moment to Mr Lingard’s face, and then dropped them hastily, as if ashamed to look. ‘ I—l did not say that I had never known the girl of whom you speak,’ he faltered : ‘ your details are falsified —not the main fact, perhaps —but I thought—l thought —that she was — dead.’ ‘ And there you were not wrong,’ said Louisa Mackworth, composedly. ‘ Your wife is dead.’ (To be continued.)