[ALL RIGHT RESERVED] MARTIN DEVERIL'S DIAMOND

Waikato Times, Volume XXXIV, Issue 2790, 31 May 1890, Page 5 (Supplement)

[ALL RIGHT RESERVED] MARTIN DEVERIL'S DIAMOND

A NOVEL By ADELINE SERGEANT, Author of "Jacobi's Wife," &c., &c.

CHAPTER XV.-Lady Eleanor's Wedding-day.

Never once had Lady Eleanor been wanned into interest or enthusiasm repecting the arrangements for her wedding-day. Her very short engagement left her no time in which to recover from the shock given her by Clifford's explicit rejection of her love. The stupor into which her heart and mind seemed to be plunged by his conduct made her as one deaf and blind to everything around her. She cared nothing about her marriage, nothing about the man she was to marry —until the night before her wedding-day. And then she awoke with strange suddenness and vivid pain to the consciousness that she had promised to marry Mr Lorraine, and that she was a lonely, miserable creature, in love with a man who had absolutely refused to be her husband, and far too broken-hearted and brokenspirited to care for anybody else. So she thought; but she was not broken-spirited at all. Early on the wedding-day she sent for Lady Vargrave, and announced to her that she would not marry Mr Lorraine ; she would not be coerced into marrying anybody ; she would go to the grave unwedded. At first Lady Vargrave treated her protest with kindly banter; but when Eleanor waxed passionate and determined her aunt assumed a more rigorous demeanour, and spared neither her niece or her niece's father in her denunciations. What was Eleanor and what was her prospects that she should refuse the hand that had been held out to her ? Harsh words were not spared ; Lady Vargrave had no nierjy. The girl shrank crushed be leath Jie storm of the worldly woman's wrath ; she quivered under the scathing rebuke, the pitiless contempt with which her words were treated. Lady Vargrave had a hard fight, but she won the day at last. Eleanor was helpless; she had no friends to whom she could turn for aid ; this loveless marriage was the only path open to her. If she had roused herself earlier she might have appealed to Mr Lorraine himself; neither uncle nor nephew would have attempted to force her inclinations ; but the awakening came too late. There was nothing for it but to submit ; to allow herself to be decked out in the conventional white lace and orange blossoms, while her shoulders were still heaving with sobs, ati;l her eyes yet red with the tears by which she had beguiled the weary hours of waiting through the day. Many times did Lady Vargrave wish, with a sigh, that she had allowed the marriage to take place at nine o'clock in the fmorning, according to Philip Lorraine's earliest suggestion. How would they get through the day % And yet, at four o'clock, the bridal party came smiling, and triumphant to the church doors, bringing with them the pale little bride whose tears were scarcely dry upon her childish cheeks. Poor little Lady Eleanor looked very slight.and very young indeed in her bridal array. Her cousins were her only bridesmaids, and she was not to have a wedding-feast spread for her ; but Lady Vargrave had decided that there should be no lack of magnificence iu the bride's costume. White brocade, half hidden Vy the costliest laee (Mr Anthony Lorraine's present), fine pearls in her dark hair, at her neck, and on her arms; the fairest of exotic flowers in her bouquet—all these things had been heaped upon this one little person with the small, pale face and wistful, dark eyes that looked melancholy and out of place amidst so much bridal splendour. She was led in by the cousin who had succeeded to her father's title— a stout and florid country gentleman, at whose side she looked a mere baby ; and Lady Sandown followed with the Vargraves, Miss Lorraine, Clifford, and a few intimate friends. Among those friends, of course, came Anthony Lorraine. Philip and Giles Ivinglake were awaiting the bride's arrival within the church. But Eleanor saw nothing ; she moved as though she were in a dream. The first few sentences of the marriage ceremony were spoken. Then came the point where Philip's voice was heard pronouncing the first response. lie did not speak loudly, but his voice had a curiously resolute distinctness which was noticed by mauy persons present. Lady Vargrave was anxiously and intently watching Eleanor. She was really not quite certain of her niece's state of mind, nor whether Eleanor knew by this time that she had made a mistake in thinking that she was to be married to " old " Mr Lorraine. Lady Vargrave at that moment was congratulating herself that for the last two or three days at least she had made no mystery about the matter, but had spoken openly in Eleanor's hearing of Philip as the bridegroom. Any girl with ordinary good seuse must have understood! But Eleanor liad acted as ono

bereft of ordinary good sense during the days of her engagement. And now, at the sound of Philip's voice, Lady Vargrave saw that Eleanor suddenly raised lier bead and looked at him. Then a great wave of colour rushed into her pale face. She glanced round, met the kind and encouraging smile from Mr Anthony Lorraine, who was standing a little way behind his nephew, and then turned as white as death. Lady Vargrave had an instant's agony; was the girl going to faint or scream ? Neither. In another moment Eleanor had cast one mute, scared glance at the brilliant company of which she was the central figure, had recognised the fact that there was now no chance of escape or evasion, and then collected herself sufficiently to [ answer the solemn question which was put to her, and of which she heard nothing but the few concluding words. " Forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, as long as ye both shall live." Could she promise to do this—poor Eleanor, who know as little of her husband as any Oriental woman who sees her lord for the first 'gtime upon her marriage day ? Some people declared afterwards that Lady Eleanor never said "I will " at all, and that the officiating clergyman—a dignitary of the Church, and a relation of Lady Vargrave herself—after waiting for a decent interval of time, and seeing her pale lips move (although no sound came forth from them), hastened co turn to the rubicund Lord Sandown and to say, " Who giveth this woman to be married to this man !" Certainly not even the bridegroom heard the answer that she ought to have made iu that place. But when the hands of the man and the woman were joined, and Philip had made his vow to love and to cherish, to have and to hold, the woman from whom, the day before, he would willingly have parted for ever, and Eleanor's turn came to speak, she said her words after the priest as clearly as he himself had done. But she was shaking in every limb, and tliero was a darkness before her eyes. She did not fall, and she did not cry out; but she heard not a word more of tho servioo. Prayers, psalms, and homily, of which the Archdeacon spared them not a word, fell in her case upon unheeding ears. But Philip lost not a syllable; and perhaps his torture was worse than hers. Eor he had entered open-eyed upon this business; and he was a man of sensitive conscience, which was now bitterly tormenting him for the lie with which he was compelled to enter upon his married life. Was there ever a more thoroughly loveless marriage than this of Philip Lorraine and Eleanor Monckton? How could such a marriage be expected to end in happiness ? The register was signed, the procession to the carriage carried out in due form. Lady Eleanor passively allowed herself to be kissed and congratulated, and did not attempt a word of reply. She was glad that her husband did not try to embrace her; she felt as if she could not bear a kiss from him. But when they were seated in the carriage, and the blinds were down to exclude the sunshine and the gaze of the passers-by, Philip did turn to his bride as if he meant to press his lips to her soft cheek. But she, with a look of horror and repulsion in her eyes which he couid never quite ferget", pushed him away with her little gloved, passionate hands. " Don't touch me," she said, with an angry, tremulous gasp. " You knew that it was all a mistake. I never thought that it was you! Let me alone!" Philip lost some of the words as the carriage rolled through the streets, but he caught sufficient of their meaning to feel considerably startled. He made no comment. He was a patient man, and he could bear to be silent while his wife, huddled up in her white brocade and lace, leaned back in her corner of the carriage, and drew her veil over her face. Lady Vargrave's drawing-rooms were full of visitors. There was a rustling of silks, a clinking of teaspoons, a wafting of delicate perfumes, a low hum of voices, which the hostess found very pleasant. Her relief was unspeakable when the marriage ceremony was safely over, and the bridal party back again in the house. Up to the last moment she had been afraid that Eleanor would expose by some mad freak, some token of insubordination or ill-breeding, which would bring disgrace upon herself and her friends. But Eleanor's conduct had been irreproachable, and Lady Vargrave was well content. Nevertheless, when the bride appeared, a little hush fell upon the talkers in the drawing-room. Lady Eleanor's face was as white as her brocade, and her large, dark eyes were full of trouble and amaze which were indescribably pathetic. For almost the first time Anthony Lorraine felt a doubt as to the future happiness of his nephew and his nephew's wife. Lady Eleanor Lorraine looked anything but happy. Some of the guests glanced at her and whispered amongst themselves. Philip exerted himself to speak and smile, but he did it with so little spontaneity that the effect was more significant than silence. Clifford Vargrave caught his mother by tho arm as she tamed

aside from the guests for a moment and spok* in his ear. " Good heavens ! can't you get her to look differently ?" he said, in a low, eager tone. " It's horrible to see her ! Everybody is remarking.it." "My dear Clifford, what can I do ?" said Lady Vargrave, despairingly, but before the words were out of her mouth he had passed on with a look upon his face which she had never seen there before. She caught sight of him again a few minutes later, looking furtively at his cousin with tho same startling expression of doubt, dismay and pain. But even as she gazed she saw that Eleanor, after a word to Charlotte and Augusta, was slipping out of the room, and she drew another long breath of relief. Now that she was gone there was surely no more to be feared. " She has gone to change her dress," she said, smiling sweetly to her nearest neighbour. She did not see her maid appear at the door shortly afterwards and beckon Clifford out of the room. | But Philip saw. It was Pointer who said to Clifford as soon as she could spoak to him without boing overheard : " My lady wants you, sir. Just for a moment, she says. I did not like to disturb you, sir, but she says that it is very important." And Pointer gave him a strange, puzzled look. " All right, Pointer," said Clifford. " Where is Lady Eleauor ? " " In the old schoolroom, sir, upstairs." Clifford nodded and left her. He uneasy and perplexed. Why had he come to the wedding? Why had his mother and sisters allowed the bride to slip out of their sight ? What could Eleanor have to say to him now? If he could well have refused to go to her he. would have clone so, but, like all the Vargraves, he was a little afraid of Eleauor's passionate and imperious nature. He wante3 to get her off j quietly with Lorriiue; he might manage her if he could. He opened the schoolroom door and understood the meaning of Pointer's curious look. Lady Eleanor stood in the middle of the room. She was dressed in black ; not in any garment belonging to her wedding trousseau, as Clifford was quick to see, but in one of her plainest and oldest gowns, and the little black hat and cloak in which she had first made her appearance at Lady Vargrave's house in London. Clifford stood aghast at the change, She held her hands to him with an impulsive gesture of appeal. " Help me," she said, " Clifford ! Help me ! I have nobody but you." " What do you mean, Eleanor ?" He took her hand in his, as he could not well refuse to do ; but he did not understand the expression of her face. There was no softness in it, no affection ; only haggard misery in the restless eyes, and a hard, strained setting of the muscles of the mouth, which made her look suddenly careworn and old. "I must go away," she said, briefly. " 1 can't stay. I have made a mistake." Clifford was amazed to find himself so painfully shocked by these words from her lips. " You can't go away now, my dear," he said, trying to soothe her. "You must be brave. You knew it all before. It is too late to change your mind." She uttered a cry of anguish, snatched her hands away from him, and wrung them together. " But I did not know it all before," she said. " Aunt Selina deceived me. She made me think that it was Anthony Lorraine—and it was Phillip all the time—and I never knew — I never knew ! I never would have married Phillip if I had known !" She sank into a chair, sobbing and hiding her face in her hands. " I ought not to say it to you—of course, I know I ought not," she broke out again, while Clifford stood by, knitting his brow and wishing himself at the ends of the earth rather than in his present position. " But I have nobody else to speak to—nobody else iu the house has been kind to me—and I cannot bear the thought of going away—with him." " But what else can you do ? Don't be a foolish girl, Eleanor. You cannot stay here." "I know that I cannot stay here. I am not such a child as you think," she said, sitting up and drying her eyes with an affectation of dignity which was even more childish than her previous tears and words had been. " You are my nearest relation, and you might take my part, and tell Mr Lorraine that I will have a separate house—that I will not live with him at all 1 Such things are often done!" she said, with indignant anger at Clifford's obtuseness. " My own mother did not live long iu my father's house ; I have heard him say so." She stood up, twisting her handkerchief in her hands aud looking at him defiantly. " Am I to go down before all these people and tell him so 1" she asked, with one of those sudden bursts of passion which used to perplex Lady Vargrave. " Eor God's sake, Eleanor, no !" " Then help me—help me. Take me away—send him away—anything ! Only don't tell me that She stopped short and looked at the door. Lady Vargrave's startled and discomfited face presenced itself at tho apfirtun>. " Eleanor! Clifford ! V/hut aro

you doing hero? In that dress, Eleanor ! How can you behave so madly—so shamelessly ? Clifford, be so good as to go downstairs, and leave me to deal with her." Eleanor's cheeks turned scarlet) her eyes glittered. " You cannot deal with me any longer," she said, turning sharply upon her aunt. " You have deceived me so cruelly that I will never believe a word you say; I will never speak to you again. You have tricked me, and cheated me into marrying Philip Lorraine, when I " "Stop, Eleanor! for your own sake, stop !" cried Lady Vargrave, clasping her hands. " Hush, Eleanor!" Clifford interposed at the same moment. They had both seen Philip Lorraine at the door. His hand had pushed it open as Eleanor began her last sentence, and before she had finished it he stood before her eyes. A dead silence fell upon the little group. Lady Vargrave bit her lip, and beat her foot upon the floor. Clifford turned away and examined one of the prints upon the walls; the husband and wife stood as if transfixed, looking steadfastly into each other's faces. Eleanor's breath came fast; the feverish colour in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, gavo an almost startlingly brilliant character to her beauty. Philip, on the contrary, was very pale ; his mouth was firmly sot and his eye tranquil, but his calmness gave him an air of power which impressed the others, and kept them waiting until ho choso to break the silence.

He turned, after that moment's pause, to Lady Vargrave. "Excuse me," he said, iu a low, clear tone, " if I ask you to leave me with my wife for a little time." Ho laid an emphasis upon the words —an emphasis which made Eleanor start and wince. Clifford took the opportunity of vanishing from the scene. Lady Vargrave moved towards u ho door, but Eleanor tried to detain her. " Don't leave me yet," she said, breathlessly—" not until you have explained ; not until you let liim know " My dear Eleanor, I have nothing to explain," said Lady Vargrave, very primly. " And if there is anything to be explained, my wife had better explain it to me herself," said Philip. J Eleanor shrank back. Lady Vargrave gathered up her skirts aud hurried through the door which Philip quietly held open for her. Then he shut the door and turned to his wife. " What is it that has to be explained ?" he said, with such gentleness that she might well have felt reassured. " What is it that I ought to know V "I can't tell you," she murmured, casting down her eyes. " Clifford can tell you—-I said it all to him before you came." A look of pain crossed Philip's face. " I heard something as I came in," he said, almost with diffidence. " I hope I did not hear aright. I thought that I heard you say you had been tricked and cheated into marrying me." " It was true," she said, passionately. " I did not want to marry you ; I never even likecl you. It is all their doing—not mine." " All their doing ? You never even liked me !" Philip's face grew pale as he heard her impetuous, reckless words. " Child," ho said, so pityingly that even Eleanor felt abashed and penitent for a moment, " what have you done ? Why did you ever consent to marry mo 1 Why did you not tell me before it was too late ?" " Tell you !" she repeated. " But I could not tell you ; I did not know. I thought " She stopped short. A blush rose to her face. Her eyes fell. It seemed impossible to tell him what had been the mistake that she had made. Philip looked at her wonderingly ; then his brow grew dark—not with anger against her, but with anger at the persons § who had entrapped and deceived them both. " What did you think ?" he said, somewhat sternly. " You made a mistake—how? You did not believe" —speaking very slowly—" that you were about to marry —your cousin, Clifford—for instance ?" " Oh, no, no, no !" she cried burying her face in her hands. He paused and reflected, with his eyes on the ground. "Was it—my uncle V he said, in a very subdued voice. She did not'answer, but he heard her sob, and guessed the truth. " I wish to God that you had," he said, with sudden bitter vehemence'; and then her voice broke, and he repented him of his ejaculation as he glanced at her bowed liead and the slender fingers which vainly tried to hide the shamed crimson of her cheeks, and the streaming tears that would not be controlled. " Poor child ! poor Eleanor!" he sighed, using her Christian name for the first time in her hearing without a prefix. "You would have been happier with him than with me !" " I am sure I should !" sobbed Lady Eleanor. CHAPTER XVl.—Husband and Wife. There was a short silence. Philip, looking pained and grieved, waited for the girl's sobs to die away before he spoke again. But before Lady Eleanor dried her eyes, she addressed him with halting yet passionate vehemence. "Anrl now that you do know," she said, "you will not want to keep me. will vou ? You wili lt>t me frn and live q.M.'tly away frocu you i ; I wofl't be much

expense to you. Indeed, I will try to earn my own living if I can ; I might be a governess to very little children, although I could not teach them very much." She could not go on. She had pushed off her hat, and her hair was straying wildly about her forehead; her clasped hands lay before her upon tho table. She leaned forward in a suppliant attitude as she spoke. "I would do anything you asked but that," he said gently. " But it would not be right for you to leave me," Her eyes dilated with a sudden terror. " Do you mean," she said, " that you will not let me go away ? But I will! I must! I will not be your wife !'' " Listen to me," said Philip, entreatingly. "I do not want to make you unhappy ; but I cannot let you do a thing which you may afterwards repent, little as you think so now. If I had known beforehand all that I know now, no power on earth would have induced me to marry you to-day, Lady Eleauor ; but since you are my wife—yes, remember that you are my wife now and bear my name ; you are part of myself now, Eleanor—therefore I cannot let you go out into the werld alone and bear its harshness and its cruelty. For it would be very harsh to you if you left me on your wedding-day." '• I do not care what the world says or does !" "But where could you go? What could you do?" asked Philip, treating the matter with argumentative seriousness which almost quenched the fire of Lady Eleanor's wrath. " You could not stay hare; Lady Vargrave would not keepe you. Your cousin, Lord Sandown, would be equally unwilling to do so. Your

friend, Cicely Lorraine, is my cousin, and lives in the village from which I come. Even if I arranged a separate establishment for you—whieh I would certainly do if you desired it—it would take time to settle the details and make the arrangements. The least difficult plan would be for yon to come away with mo just now, for a short time. We would go abroad— to Prance, Italy, or anywhere that you pleased—to Ladywell at once, if you chose—so as to avoid the chatter and scandal which really would be painful both to you ami to your family ; and then, in a few weeks, we could come to an understanding about the future. I would spare you my presence as much as possible. Indeed, I think that this would bo the better and pleasanter way—for you." He said the last two words in a much lower tone and with an involuntary sigh. Lady Eleanor glanced at him and then looked down at the drenched morsel of cambric and lace whieh she was nervously rolling and nnrolling in her hands. She did not know what to say. "Or," Philip continued rather hesitatingly, "I could go away myself—if you preferred it—and leave you at the Grange. You would be mistress of the house, and could do :.-xactly as you pleased.''

"Would you and Mr Lorraine both go away?" she asked, witli kindling eyes. "Both —quite away—for the whole winter —for years? because, you know, I don't want either of you near me any more." What a child she was ! Even in his mortification and distress Philip could hardly forbear a smile. "lam afraid," he said, "that I could scarcely ask my uncle to leave the house for so long. He might stay with you while I went away for a time." '• Oh, no !" she said, with a sudden, vivid blush, which brought back to him the memory of her mistake." He had for the moment forgotten it. His uncle seemed so old a, man that he could with difficulty believe that this youug, childish creature had looked contentedly upon the idea of marrying him. He was obliged to think of some new expedient. " My uncle almost always spends the autumn and winter abroad," he said. " I did not want to interfere with his plans." "Your uncle! it is always your uncle and his plans!" said Lady Eleanor, petulantly. Her nerves were so thoroughly unstrung that she did not even know that she was rude. " I don't want to go with your uucle. Let him go abroad, and ,let me stay in England—at the Grauge. That is the easiest way." " At the Grange ? With me?" " Yes; with you. Only for a little time, you know, until you can arrange about some place where I can live. It seems the easiest plan." "Perhaps it is." "And you will get your uncle to go away ?" "I will try." " If you don't—if he won't go—l will not come with you to Ladywell." " He will do what you wish ; I am sure of that." "But you will not—you must not " Her face again turned crimson, and her chest began to heave, but she would not bate one jot of her imperiousness. " You will not, of course, tell him why—why I want him to go away ?" "Don't you think that I shall take care to guard my wife from anything that could hurt her?" said Philip, kindly. "Need I tell you that nobody shall know what we have said to each other this afternoon ?" She murmured a faint word of thanks aud looked at him wistfully, as if hoping —such a child as she was—for some word of comfort or commendation. Philip began to feel the full extent of his own deficiency in the matter of this marriage. If he could have approached her with loving words and caresses, if he could have told her then that she might make the light and the happiness of his home, his task would have been much easier. She was so gentle and subdued, when the fiery fit was over, that she would have made any concession to his wishes, and almost given him her heart out of shame of her own wildness, aud gratitude for his affection. But he could not feign a love that he did not feel. He could be kind and gentle with her—he could feel a great pity for her, and a great desire to make her happy ; but he had no love to give. There came a tap at the door. Lady Vargrave's voice was heard without. " May I speak to you, Mr Lorraine ?" "Keep her out," said Eleanor, with a flash of her dark eyes. " I will not see her or speak to her again." She put her hands over her face. Philip went out into the passagp, closing the door behind him. " I am afraid that you will be late for your train," said Lady Vargrave hurriedly. She did not like the grave, cold look which tho young man bent upon her. " Your uncle wished me to say that he is waiting—tho carriage is at tho door." "I should like to speak to ray uncle in private for a few minutes. Will you kindly allow Lady Eleanor to remain here alone wfeilst I do so ?" Philip's impassive manner was so stately that Lady Vargrave shrank back abashed. " I hope ' that Eleanor is more reasonable now," she began. " She is perfectly reasonable. I need express no opinion as to the manner in which she must have been kept in the dark as to your projects, Lady Vargrave. I can only hope that complete silence will bo observed as to tho nature of her interview with your son anil wit.h ourselves this afternoon. Her feeling towards mo had better not. be made a topic for dismission." His face threatened more than he knew,

Lidy Vargrave stammered out some confused and eager words of excuse, to which Philip listened in silence that confused her more than ever. Then he repeated his demand tor a private interview with his uncle, whom Lady Vargrave immediately went to seek, after showing the nephew into her own little boudoir. The guests had dispersed, marvelling greatly over the disappearance of bride and bridegroom, and the air of agitation , worn by Lvly Vargrave and her son. | The explanation offered, that Lady Eleanor had been taken ill, and would be tended by nobody but her husband (" whom she adores," said Lady Vargrave, with a gracious smile, but a fixed and anxious eye), was received with polite incredulity. Everybody expressed civil regret, and everybody went away declaring that there was something wrong about the marriage. Whoever heard of a young bride's mysterious illness upon her wedding-day, if the marriage were a happy one? "Depend upon it, she hates hirn like poison, my dear," said Lady Sandown to her husband. "It is one of Selina Vargrave's arrangements, no doubt. Odious woman !" Anthony Lorraine hurried into the room where Phillip was awaiting him, and found the young man standing by the window, looking out into the street. He turned round as his uncle entered, and stood for a moment without speaking. "Why, 'Philip, what is the matter? Is Bhe ill ?" said Mr Lorraine, who firmly believed the truth of Lady Vargrave's report, and imagined the worst from the disorder of the young man's appearanee. Philip's hair was pushed off his forehead ; the flower in his button-hole was crushed and broken; his face was pale and drawn, as though from pain. He did not immediately answer his uncle's question, and, when he spoke, his voice was hoarse and unlike itself. "III? No, she is not ill," he said curtly. "That is another of Lady Vargrave's lies." " My dear Phil !" " Uucle Anthony, that woman has deceived us all. She made you think that Lady Eleanor cared a great deal forme; I find that Lady Eleanor does not care for me at all. I should have done better not to have married her." " Impossible Phil! She told me herself that she was sure to be happy in her married life." " Poor child !" Philip paused, bit his lip, and went on hastily. "It cannot be helped. We have had an explanation, and I see my mistake. I must tell you so much that you may understand— no, not that you may understand, for you cannot do that—but that you may excuse me —pardon me—and her—[or what lam going to say." " My dear boy," said Lorraine, taking Philip's n:md and holding it affectionately between his own, "say anything you like." Philip's lips twitched as he replied — " We do not iutend to go abroad—at least not yet. We thought of going down to the Grange for a short time, in order to settle our future plans." " Yes, yes, my boy, I sec. We'll telegraph to the Louvre that you are not coming after all. It's easily done. I'll stay in Loudon for a week or two, and leave you to settle down together." " But there is something more than that, uncle," said Philip, turning paler than ever with the effort to make his uncle understanding his meaniug. ''I don't know how to ask you, but if you would not mind staying away from the Grange for more than a week or two ; if you would kindly leave us entirely for a time—l cannot explain why—but although I do not want to keep you long out of the Grauge, I think that, at first, as my wife aud I have begun with rather unusual frankness towards each other—"

" You did not mention Mrs Le Breton 0 her, I suppose?" said _Mr Lorraine, sharply. "No : certainly not." " That was right. When I heard Le Breton was dead, I had a terrible mis giving Phil—l may confess it to you now —I feared that you should regret the engagement to Lady lileanor, But that, is all over. Leave you together ? Of oourse. I must have been an old fool not to think of that before ; but I had grown so fond of that sweet little girl that I fancied she would put up with my presence, even if I joined you in Switzerland in a few days, as I thought of doing, although it was her wedding tour ! But, naturally, you would like better to be alone." " Don't talk of it in that way, unfile. It is very hard to me to ask you to turn out of the Grange even for a day. But you are fond of her—l think you will make allowance for a girl's fancies, oven when you don't understand them. I suppose." said Philip, sadly smiling, " that I may learn to do that myself in timo." " You may have the Grange to yourselves as long as you like, my dear Phil. 1 don't want to be baulked of my run over to Switzerland. And I rather thought of going to Rome for the winter, or even to Cairo." Philip quite understood that this notion had never crossed his uncle's mind uutil that very moment. " I was always a wanderer, and I suppose that I always shall be. You will run up to town and see Loveson sometimes about the business. There is no need for you to go up as often as I used to do, you know. I liked if, and you don't." " You are very good to me, Uncle Anthony," " I have nobody but you to be fond of, you see, Phil. Stay at the Grange, boy, and telegraph for the old man wheu you want him—and not before. I will setoff to-night, and arrange about the rooms for you. I shall just have time to catch the" train. Where are you going tonight!" "T am not sure. Either to tiie Langham or down to Ladywell," " The Grange will be unprepared for you. Stay in town and telegraph to Hopkins to get your rooms ready for tomorrow. Good-bye, my dear boy. God blesßyou." " I can't thank you half enough, uncle." " Don't thank ine at all. My love to the little lady ; she will not care to see me to-night, perhaps ? Poor little, lonely soul! I think you have misunder.-tood her, L'hil. I do not believe that she would ever have epoken anything but the truth. And she said she should be happy." " Ay, with you," thought Phil, his smile covering an aching heart as ho bade his uncle farewell. "Anybody would bo happy with you, dear, blundering, generous old man ! No woman ever cared for me, or ever will. Poor Eleanor !" He found that Eleanor had been keeping tho door against her aunt and cousins, and refused to admit anybody but her husband. It was plain that she looked upon Philip as a bulwark of defence against the Vargraves, so long as she was in the Vargraves' house. She had readjusted her hair a litt'e and replaced her hat upon her head. Philip asked her whether she would not see Cicely before she went. " Where are you going to take me?" she said half fearfully. •'To the Langliam Hotel for the night, if you do not mind. Cicely is still here, anil will be disappointed if she does not see yon," " Yes,'' said Eleanor, trembling a 1 ttle, although she scarcely knew why. *'I

will see her here—and then we had better go." So Cicely came, and 'although knowing nothiug of the circumstances of the cage, managed to Bay soothing, comfortable words, and to make matters look much brighter in Eleanor's eyes than they bad done before. She suggested that Eleanor should change her sombre'garments for something more befitting her bridal day before she left the house. " No, no," said the girl, almost angrily. " I will wear the mourning that I have been wearing for my father. There is nothing in to-day's ceremony to induce me to leave it off, is there? Is a wedding supposed to be so very joyful an occasion ?" •' It is not so with mine. If I had not been in black already I would have put on black to-day. There, Cicely, let me go; you don't understand. Good-bye." She allowed herself to be kissed by Philip's cousin, and then came downstairs, startling everybody whom she met by her black clothes and white, resolute face, The Vargraves and Philip met her in the hall. Lady Vargrave and her daughters advanced with outstretched arms and words of tenderness which at that moment were not altogether feignnd; but Eleanor passed them by with scorn. She would neither kiss them nor take their hands. Philip offered his arm to lead her to the carriage, and she accepted it; but just as she reaohed the hall door she saw that Clifford was be?ide her. Ho was looking at her intently, curiously, yet with a certain ex-

presaion of pain and anxiety which went to her very heart. She freed hewelf suddenly from Philip's arm, turned to her cousin, and held out both her hand*. "I did not mean to go without saying good-bye to you," she said, with infinite sweetness in her eyes and voice. "You used to be good and kind to me ; the others have never been good and kind. Thank you, Clifford; and good-bye. Don't quite forget ine." To the scandal of Lady Vargrave and her daughters, Lady Eleanor held up her pale, innocent face to be kissed. Clifford at once stooped down and silently kis-ed the fair cheeks presented to his lips. Philip Lorraine stood by, keenly observant of all that passed, but he also did not say a won). Then the little bride, half frightened at what she had done, coloured deeply, and rushed away with her handkerchief up to her eyes. She would have fallen but for Philip's hand and arm; these were ready, and these led her safely to the carriage. Lady Vargrave bemoaned herself bitterly when the bride and bridegroom had departed. " Everything has lt; :n as unfortunate for ine as it could possibly be," she said, weeping tears of vexation, as she sat in the drawing-room with her children. " Philip Lorraine is as angry with me as lie well can be ; I cm see that. And Eleanor ! —to no off in that w«y, without saying good-bye, befor.' all the servants ! It was too bad ! Ungrateful little chit !" "I must say, mother," said Clifford, who was looking pale and weary, '' that we are all sufficiently paid in out' own coin." " What do you mean, Clifford V' ".Ttist what I say. Eleanor has a spirit, and meets hate with hat", scorn with scorn, and love with love. If you had cared for her a little more she would not have been coerced into this miserable marriage." " Coerced ! Miserable marriage ? Clifford are you mad ?" " No, but I have been," said Clifford with violence. " I was mad when I let you marry her to Lorraine. She is fur too good for him, poor child !" " It's a pity you did not marry her yourself," said G'nssy, flippantly. " A sad pity," Clifford rejoined. For once he spoke in seriom earnest, Htidhis sister did not venture to reply. Cicely Lorraine gave a detailed account, of the day's proot.'o lings to Paulino. It svas an account which produced a very painful impression upon Mrs L; Brelou's mind. " Surely then,'' she said, " Mr Lorraine was mistaken when ho told us thifc Tjidy Eleauor was so devoted to Pail. What, a terrible mistake." " Yes, it is terrible," said Cicely. " 15ut one can't quite well judurn from the few words that she spoke. Eleanor was always an excitable little thing. When she i-t settled down at the Grange w > shall be better able to see whether fin is happy. But Cicely was not to be allowed as yet to form a judgment of Eleanor',s happiness. News came next day that, the bride and bridegroom were goiuu t'l Italy ; and would not be baok for a month or six weeks at least.

Clifford wondered discontentedly hw Lorraine had managed to suhdnn ihit fiery little spirit to his will. For Kk'tnor would uever have gone abroad with him under compulsion, ho was quite sure of that. (To bv continued.J