CHAPTER XXVII.

Two days have passed--two days that have brought back to me all

the light and life and gladness of my girlhood. Never since my

marriage have I been so happy as now.

Marmaduke and I are the best of friends, there is not so much as

a shadow of a cloud between us, and I have convinced myself that,

as I was the most foolish girl in the world, so am I now the

luckiest, and that 'Duke is the dearest old boy to be found

anywhere. If I still feel guilty of having no passionate

attachment for my husband, I console myself with the thought that

I am probably incapable of a grand passion, and that haply I

shall get through life all the more comfortably in consequence.

Harriet and Bebe notice the new relations existing between me and

my husband with undisguised pleasure, but wisely make no comment.

Sir James sees it too, and once, in passing me, smiles, and pats

me approvingly on the shoulder. Dora and George Ashurst are too

much taken up with each other and their approaching nuptials to

notice anything but their own tastes and predilections. But

Blanche Goring sees it with an evil sneer.

---

It is three o'clock in the afternoon. Outside, the world is

looking cold and uninviting; inside, all is warmth and apparent

contentment.

Some of us are in the billiard-room, knocking about the balls,

but doing more talk than honest work. I for my part am starting

for a brisk run to the gardens, with a view to bringing Cummins

to order.

Cummins is an ancient Scotchman, old, crusty, and valuable, who

has lived as head gardener at Strangemore for more years than he

can remember, and who has grown sour in the Carrington service.

Having made himself more than usually obnoxious to-day, and

declined to part with some treasured article of his rearing for

any one's benefit, the cook has tearfully appealed to me, and I

have promised to exert myself and coax my own gardener into

giving me some of my own property. Throwing round me, therefore,

a cosy shawl, fur-lined, and covering my head with the warmest

velvet hat I own, I sally forth, bent on conquest.

The air is keen and frost-bitten. As I hurry along one of the

smaller paths, hedged in on either side by giant evergreens, with

my chin well buried in my fur, I come suddenly upon Sir Mark

Gore, leisurely strolling, and smoking a cigar.

Ever since my explanation with Marmaduke I have carefully avoided

Sir Mark. Not once has he had an opportunity of speaking with me

alone. Not once have I suffered him to draw me into personal

conversation. Consequently, I am doubly put out and annoyed by

this rencontre--conscience telling me he cares more for me than

is at all to be desired.

Seeing me, he flings the cigar over the hedge and comes more

quickly forward.

"Oh, don't do that," I say, as unconcernedly as I well can; "you

have recklessly wasted a good cigar. I am in a desperate hurry,

and cannot stay to interfere with your smoking."

"It is the simplest thing in the world to light another," replied

he, coolly. "But what a day for you to be out! I heard you say at

lunch you meant going, but felt positive this bitter wind would

daunt you. May I accompany you in your desperate hurry? Is it an

errand of mercy--a case of life or death?"

His easy manner reassures me.

"I am going to entreat Cummins," I say, laughing. "Don't you

pity me? Cannot you understand what a difficult task I have laid

out for myself? No, I think you had better not come. I shall be

able to use more persuasive arts if left to deal with him alone."

"I would back you to win were he the King of the Cannibal Islands

himself. If I must not witness your triumph, may I at least be

your escort on the road to it?"

I can see he is obstinately bent on being my companion, and grow

once more disquieted.

"Ye-es, if you wish it," I say, with obvious unwillingness; "but

it is such a little way now it scarcely seems worth your while."

"I think it very well worth my while, and accept your _gracious_

permission," replies Sir Mark, with a quiet stress on the

adjective, and a determination not to notice my evident objection

to his company. So there is no help for it, and we walk on side

by side in silence.

Presently, in a low voice, he says, suddenly and without

preface:---

"Why do you avoid me, Mrs. Carrington? What have I done to be

tabooed as I have been for the last two days? Have I offended

you in any way?"

"Offended me?" I stammer (when people are unexpectedly asked an

obnoxious question, what would they do if they could not repeat

their questioner's last words?). "Of course you have not offended

me. How could you? What can have put such a ridiculous idea into

your head?"

"Your own conduct. Do you think I have not seen, and felt, your

changed manner?" He is speaking almost in an undertone. "Were I

your greatest enemy, you could not treat me with more distant

coolness. You scarcely deign to speak to me; your eyes carefully

avoid mine, you hardly answer when I address you. Surely you must

have a motive for all this."

"In the first place, I do not acknowledge your 'this'. You only

imagine my manner changed. I certainly hare no motive for being

rude to you."

"Then I think you have treated me very cruelly--very

capriciously, considering all things."

The last words are barely distinct; he is evidently using great

self-control; but, in my present nervous state, all sounds are

very clear to me.

"What things, Sir Mark?" I demand, with an irrepressible touch of

hauteur. He is looking steadily at me--so steadily that, in spite

of myself, to my mortification and disgust, I feel I am blushing

furiously. Still I hold my ground; I absolutely decline to let my

eyes fall before his.

"I suppose," says Sir Mark, very quietly still, "when a woman has

led a man on to love her until he is mad enough to lose his head,

and imagine he has awakened in her mind some faint interest in

himself, she is not to be held responsible for any mischief that

may come of it. I say I suppose not. But it is, perhaps, a little

hard on the man."

"I do not understand you," I say, with as much calmness as I can

summon, though, in truth, I am horribly frightened, and can feel

my heart beating heavily against my side.

"Do you not?" exclaims he, with a rapid vehement change of tone.

"Then I shall explain. I am not so blind but I can see now all

that has been happening here during the past month. Were you

jealous of Marmaduke? Did you imagine he could love another, when

you were ever before him? Did you seek to revenge yourself upon

him by turning your sweet looks and sweeter words upon me, by

showering upon me all the childish maddening graces of which you

are capable, until you stole the very heart out of my body?"

"Oh, don't!" I cry, tremulously, recoiling from him, a look of

horrified amazement on my face. "You do not know what you are

saying. It is terrible. I will not listen to you."

"Yes you will," fiercely. "Does it hurt you to hear me? Does it

distress you to know that I love you I, who have never loved any

one--that I love you with a passion that no words could describe?

You have ruined my life, and now that you have attained your

object, have satisfied yourself of Marmaduke's affection, you

throw me, your victim, aside, as something old, worn out,

worthless, careless of the agony you have inflicted. It is cold,

cruel, innocent children like you, who do all the real mischief

in this life. Do you remember those words of Moore's? they haunt

me every time I see you;

'Too bright and fair

To let wild passions write

One wrong wish there.'

I believe you are incapable of loving, though so lovable in

yourself."

"You have said enough: is it manly of you to compel me to hear

such words? Surely you must have exhausted all your bitterness by

this."

"'Reproach is infinite and knows no end.' Yet of what use to

reproach you? You have a heart that cannot be touched. Possibly

you do not even feel regret for what you have done."

"Sir Mark, I entreat--I desire you to cease."

"You shall be obeyed; for I have finished. There is nothing more

to be said. I was determined you should at least hear, and know

what you have done. Now you can go home happy in the thought that

you have added one more fool to your list. Yes, I will cease.

Have you anything to say?"

"Only this: I desire you will leave my house without delay."

My lips are white and trembling, but it is anger, not

nervousness, that affects me now.

"This moment, if you wish it," with a short laugh.

"No; I will have no comments made. You can easily make a

reasonable excuse out of your letters to-morrow morning. After

all you have said, I hope I shall never see your face again."

"You never shall, if it depends on me."

"I regret that I ever---"

"Oh, pray leave all the rest unsaid, Mrs. Carrington," he

interrupts, bitterly. "I can fancy it. You regret, of course, you

ever admitted such a fallen character within your doors; I have

insulted and wounded you in every possible way. So be it. You say

so, therefore it must be true. At the same time I would have you

remember, what is also true, that I would die to save you from

any grief or harm. If," sinking his voice, and speaking in a

slow, peculiar tone, "if you are ever in deep trouble, and I can

help you, think of me."

I am impressed without knowing why. It is as though some one had

laid a curse upon me. I grow as white as death, and my breath

comes from me in short, quick gasps. At this moment, a deadly

fear of something intangible, far off, of something lying in the

mystic future, passes over me like a cold wind.

Sir Mark, raising his hat, draws near. He takes my chilled

gloveless hand.

"May I?" he asks, humbly, and with the natural grace that belongs

to him. "It is a farewell."

Oppressed with my nameless terror, I cannot reply. I scarcely

hear him. Stooping, he lays his lips lightly on my hand.

The touch recalls me. With a shudder I snatch away my fingers,

and drawing back, sweep past him in eager haste to rid myself of

him and the evil fears to which his words have given rise.

I hurry on with parted lips and trembling pulses, anxious to

escape. Crossing the rustic bridge that spans a small stream at

the end of a pathway, I glance instinctively backwards. He is

still standing motionless on the exact spot where we parted, his

arms folded, his head bare, his eyes fixed upon my retreating

form. Again I shudder and hasten oat of sight.

---

I have said, "I will never see his face again."

To carry out this design I determine on suffering from headache

for once in my life, and by this means absent myself from dinner.

Armed with this resolution, I go swiftly to my room as the early

night closes in, having lingered in the gardens as long as

prudence would permit.

Throwing myself upon a sofa, I summoned the faithful Martha, and

declare myself unwell. They hardly constitute a lie, these words

of mine, as my temples, through excitement and uneasiness, are

throbbing painfully. I feel feverish, and miserably restless,

though my foolish superstition of a few hours since has resolved

itself into thin air and vanished. Still, how can I draw breath

freely while "_that man_" continues to haunt the house?

"Dear, dear me, m'm," says Martha, coming to the front, as usual,

with mournful vehemence, and an unlimited supply of remedies.

"You do look bad, to be sure. You really should get advice, m'm.

There is young Dr. Manley in the village, as is that clever, I do

hear, as he can cure anything; and you are getting them headaches

dreadful frequent. Only two days since I used a whole bottle of

ody-collun upon your pore forehead. But vinegar is an elegant

thing, and much stronger than the ody. Shall I try it, m'm?"

"No thank you, Martha," I say, feeling hysterical: "I prefer the

'Ody;'" whereupon Jean Maria Farina is produced, and I am gently

bathed for five minutes.

Marmaduke comes softly in.

"A headache, darling," he says, with tender commiseration: "that

is too bad. Martha give me the bottle. I will see to your

mistress.

"The delicatest touch possible, if you please, sir," says Martha,

warningly, who doesn't believe in men, as she leaves the room.

She is dreadfully old-maidish, this favorite attendant of mine,

but she adores me, and with me to be loved is a necessity.

I have made up my mind to say nothing to 'Duke on the subject of

Sir Mark until the latter is well out of the house. So for the

present I permit my husband to think my slight indisposition

about the worst of its kind ever known.

"What can have given it to you?" he says, damping my hot brow

with more than a woman's gentleness. "I told you, Phyllis, it was

very foolish of you to venture out of doors to-day; I hope you

have not got a chill."

"I don't think so. I put on very warm things. But, Marmaduke, I

would like not to go down to dinner. Do you think my staying away

would appear odd?"

"Certainly not, pet. I will explain to every one. Bed is the best

place for you. Promise me you will go to sleep as soon as you

can."

"As soon as ever I can. Oh 'Duke there is a quarter past chiming,

and you not dressed yet. Hurry it will be dreadful if neither of

us can show at the proper moment."

"I won't be an instant," says 'Duke, and scrambles through the

performance with marvellous rapidity, getting down to the

drawing-room before the second gong sounds.

I have accomplished my purpose, and will probably, nay,

certainly, not be called upon to see the dreaded features of Sir

Mark again. Early to-morrow morning, I trust, he will be beyond

recall. It never occurs to me to think what hours the trains

leave Carston, which is our nearest railway station. To-morrow,

too, I shall explain everything to 'Duke: to conceal the real

facts of the case from him, even for so short a time, grieves me

sorely.

I begin presently to fancy what they may be saying and doing down

in the dining-room; and, so fancying, it suddenly comes to me

that I am healthily and decidedly hungry. When going in for a

violent headache, I certainly had not counted upon this, and

laugh to myself at the trap of my own making, into which I have

fallen, ill or not ill, however, dinner I must and will have.

I ring the bell and summon Martha.

"Well, m'm, are you anything better?" asks that damsel, stealing

in on tiptoe, and speaking in a stage whisper.

"I am," I respond, briskly, sitting up; "and oh, Martha, it is

odd, is it not, but I do feel so awfully hungry."

"No, do you really, m'm?" exclaims Martha, delighted, "that's a

rare good sign. I don't hold with no appetite, myself. Lie down

again, m'm, quiet-like, and I'll bring you up a tray as 'll tempt

you, in two minutes. A little bit of fowl, now, and a slice of

'am, will be the lightest for you; and will you take Moselle,

m'm, or Champagne?"

"Moselle," I reply, feeling something of the pleasurable

excitement of long ago, when Billy used to smuggle eatables into

my chamber of punishment; "and Martha, if there is any orange

pudding, or iced pudding, you know, you might---"

"I'll bring it, m'm," says Martha. And presently I am doing full

justice to as dainty a little dinner as Martha's love could

procure.

I sleep well, but permit myself to be persuaded; into staying in

my room for breakfast. After that meal down-stairs, Marmaduke

comes tramping up to see how I am. It is eleven o'clock; surely

Sir Mark can have made his excuses and taken his departure by

this tine.

"Is he gone?" I ask, in a hollow whisper, as 'Duke enters my

room.

"Who?"

"Mark Gore."

"No, not yet. Did you _know_ he was going?" looking much

surprised, and seating himself on the edge of the bed.

"I did. I _desired_ him to go. Shut the door close; and I will

tell you all about it. But, first, 'Duke, before I say one word,

make me a vow you will not be angry with him or take any notice

of what he has done."

"What has he done?" demands 'Duke, growing a trifle paler.

"No harm to any one. Make me your vow first."

"I vow, then," says he, impatiently. And I forthwith repeat to

him word for word all that passed between Sir Mark and me, in the

evergreen walk.

"The scoundrel!" says 'Duke, when I have finished.

"Yes, just so," say I. "I really think he must have gone mad.

However, there was no excuse for it, so I simply ordered him out

of the house. He looked dreadfully unhappy. After all, perhaps he

could not help it."

'Duke laughs in spite of his anger, which is extreme.

"Of all the conceited little women!" he says. "What gave you the

headache last night? Was it his conduct?"

"Well, I think it was founded on a determination not to see him

again. But I was afraid to tell you anything then, lest you might

refuse to sit at table with him, or be uncivil, or have a row in

any way. You will remember your promise, 'Duke, and let him go

quietly away. An explanation would do no good. Once he is gone,

it will not signify."

"He used to be such a good fellow," says 'Duke, in a puzzled,

provoked tone.

"Well, he is anything but that now," reply I, with decision. "If

you go away now, 'Duke, I think I will get up. I dare say he

will be on his way to London by the time I am dressed."

I get through my toilet with a good deal of deliberation. I am

in no great hurry to find myself downstairs; I am determined to

afford him every chance of getting clear of the premises before I

make my appearance.

When dressed to Martha's satisfaction, I go cautiously through

tho house, and, contrary to my usual custom, make straight for

Marmaduke's study. Opening the door without knocking, I find

myself face to face with Marmaduke and Sir Mark Gore.

I feel petrified, and somewhat guilty. Of what use my condemning

myself to solitary confinement for so many hours, if the close of

them only brings me in contact with what I have so striven to

avoid?

Marmaduke's blue eyes are flashing, and his lips are white and

compressed. Sir Mark, always dark and supercilious, is looking

much the same as usual, except for a certain bitter expression

that adorns the corners of his mouth. Both men regard me fixedly

as I enter, but with what different feelings!

Marmaduke holds out his hand to me, and the flash dies in his

eyes. Sir Mark's lips form the one word "false."

"No, I am not false," I protest, vehemently, putting my hand

through Marmaduke's arm, and glancing at my opponent defiantly

from my shelter; "'Duke is my husband; why should I hide anything

from him? I told you I would conceal nothing."

"What charming wifely conduct!" says Sir Mark, with a sneer; "not

only do you confide to him all your own little affairs, but you

are ready also at a moment's notice to forgive him any

peccadilloes of which he has been guilty."

I feel 'Duke quiver with rage, but laying a warning pressure on

his arm, I succeed in restraining him.

"He has been guilty of none," I cry, indignantly. "He never cared

for any one but me, as you well know."

Sir Mark looks down, and smiles meaningly; I redden with anger.

"Why are you not gone?" I ask, inhospitably; "you promised you

would leave early this morning."

"Grant me a little grace, Mrs. Carrington. Had I had time, I

might, indeed, have ordered a special train, but, as matters

stand, I am compelled to be your guest until one be allowed by

the authorities to start. But for your entrance here just now,

which I did not anticipate, I would not have troubled you by my

presence again. However, it is the last time you shall be so

annoyed. Perhaps you will bid me good-bye, and grant me your

forgiveness before I go. You at least should find it easy to

pardon, as it was my unfortunate and undue admiration for

yourself caused me to err."

His tone is light and mocking, there is even a half smile upon

his lips. He treats Marmaduke's presence as though he were

utterly unaware of it. Yet still something beneath his sneering

manner makes me know he does repent, either his false step, or

its consequences.

It is with amazement I discover I bear him no ill-will Indeed, I

might almost be said to feel sorrow for him at this present

moment. I shall be intensely relieved and glad when he is no

longer before me; but he has been kind and pleasant to me, in

many ways, during these past two months, and I forgive him. I put

my hand in his, and say "good-bye," gently. He holds it tightly

for an instant, then drops it.

"Good-bye, Carrington," he says, coolly: "I hope when next we

meet time will have softened your resentment."

He Moves towards the door with his usual careless graceful step.

"And I hope," says 'Duke, in a voice clear and quiet, yet full of

suppressed passion, "that the day we meet again is far distant. I

have no desire to renew acquaintance in the future with a man who

has so basely abused the rights of friendship and hospitality.

You have chosen to act the part of a scoundrel. Keep to it,

therefore, and avoid the society of honest men. For myself, I

shall endeavor to forget I ever knew any one so contemptible."

"Take care," says Sir Mark, in a low, fierce tone. "Don't try me

too far, '_Honest_ men!' Remember one thing, Carrington: you owe

me something for my forbearance."

For a full minute the two men glare at each other, then the door

is flung open, and Mark is gone.

"What did he mean by that?" ask I, frightened and tearful. "What

was that he said about forbearance? Tell me, 'Duke."

Marmaduke's face is white as death.

"Nothing," he answers, with an effort. "It is only a stagy way he

has of speaking. Let us forget him."

---

So Mark Gore drops out of our life for the present. Three days

later Lady Blanche Going also takes her departure.

As we assemble in the hall to bid her good-bye--I, from an

oppressive sense of what is demanded by the laws of courtesy, the

others through the dawdling idleness that belongs to a country

house--she sweeps up to me, and, with an unusually bewitching

smiles, says, sweetly:---

"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Carrington. Thank you so much for all your

kindness to me. I really don't remember when I have enjoyed

myself so well as here at dear old Strangemore with you."

Here she stoops forward, as though she would press her lips to my

cheek. Instantaneously dropping both her hand and my

handkerchief, I bend to pick up the latter; when I raise myself

again, she has wisely passed on, and so I escape the hypocritical

salute.

Marmaduke puts her, maids, traps, and all, into the carriage. The

door is shut, the horses start; I am well rid of another

troublesome guest. I draw a deep sigh of relief as two ideas

present themselves before my mind. One is, that I am better out

of it all than I deserve; the second, that never again, under any

circumstances, shall she enter my doors.

---

It is the night before Harriet's departure, and almost all our

guests have vanished. Our two military friends have resumed their

regimental duties a week ago; Sir George Ashurst has gone to

London for a little while; Dora has decided on burying herself at

Summerleas during his absence--I suppose to meditate soberly upon

the coming event.

It is nine o'clock. Dinner is a thing of the past. Even the

gentlemen, having tired of each other, or the wine, or the

politics, have strolled into the drawing-room, and are now

indulging in such light converse as they deem suitable to our

feeble understandings.

Suddenly the door is flung wide, and Bebe comes hurriedly in--so

hurriedly that we all refrain from speech, and raise our eyes to

rivet them upon her. She is nervous--half laughing--yet evidently

scared.

"Oh, Marmaduke!" she says, with a little gasp, and going up to

him and fastening her fingers on his arm, "I have seen a ghost!"

"A _what?_" says 'Duke.

"A ghost--a downright, veritable ghost. Now don't look so

incredulous I am thoroughly in earnest. I was never in my life

before so frightened. I tell you I saw it plainly, and quite

close. Oh, how I ran!"

She puts her other hand to her heart, and draws a long breath.

Naturally we all stare at her, and feel interested directly. A

_real_ spectre is not a thing of everyday occurrence. I feel

something stronger than interest; I am terrified beyond measure,

and rising from my seat, I look anxiously at 'Duke.

"I never heard there was a ghost here before," I say,

reproachfully. "Is the house haunted? Oh, 'Duke! you never told

me of it--and I have gone about it at all hours, and sometimes

even _without a light!_"

I conclude there is something comical in my dismay, as Marmaduke

and Lord Chandos burst out laughing, Thornton fairly roars, while

Sir James gets as near an outburst of merriment as he ever did in

his life.

"Is there a ghost in your family?" I demand, rather sharply,

feeling nettled at their heartless mirth.

"No; I am afraid we have nothing belonging to us half so

respectable. All the ancestors I ever heard of died most amiably,

either on the battle-field, or on the gallows, or in their beds.

We cannot lay claim to a single murderer or suicide; there is not

even a solitary instance of a duel being fought within these

walls. I doubt we are a tame race. There is not a spark of

romance about us. Bebe's imagination has run riot."

"I tell you I saw it," persists Bebe, indignantly. "Am I to

disbelieve my own sight? I was walking along the corridor off the

picture-gallery quite quietly, thinking of anything in the world

but supernatural subjects, when all at once, as I got near the

window, I saw a face looking in at me from the balcony outside."

"Oh, Bebe!" I cry, faintly, casting a nervous glance behind me,

as I edge closer to Lord Chandos, who happens to be the one

nearest me.

"It was a horrible face, wicked, but handsome. The head was

covered with something dark, and it was only the eyes I noticed,

they were _unearthly_--so large, and black, and revengeful; they

had _murder_ in them." Bebe stops, shuddering.

"Really, Carrington, it is too bad of you," says Chips,

reprovingly. "If you keep them at all they should at least be

amiable. I wonder Miss Beatoun lives to tell the tale. Pray go

on: it is positively enthralling. Did the eyes spit fire?"

"The head vanished while I stared, and then I dropped my candle

and ran downstairs, as though I were hunted, Oh, I shall never

forgot it!"

"Probably some poor tramp prowling about," says 'Duke seeing I am

nearly in tears.

"It was nothing living," declares Miss Beatoun with a settled

conviction that sends a cold chill through my veins.

"Bebe, how can you be so stupid?" exclaims 'Duke, almost

provoked. "Ghosts, indeed!--I thought you had more sense. Come

let us go in a body and exorcise this thing, whatever it is. I

believe an apparition should be spoken of respectfully in

capitals as _IT_. She may still be on the balcony."

"I think it improbable," says Chips: "she would see by the aid

of--of Miss Beatoun's candle that it is an unlikely spot for

silver spoons."

"Well, if we fail, I shall give orders for a couple of men to

search the shrubberies. And whatever they find they shall bring

straight to Bebe."

"They will find nothing," says Bebe, with an obstinacy quite

foreign to her.

I take Marmaduke's arm and cling to him. He looks down at me

amused.

"Why, you are trembling you little goose. Perhaps you had better

stay here."

"What! all alone!" I cry, aghast. "Never I would be dead by the

time you came back. No, I would rather see it out."

So we all march solemnly upstairs, armed with lights, to

investigate this awful mystery.

Sir James and Thornton take the lead, as I decline to separate

from Marmaduke or to go anywhere but in the middle. Not for

worlds would I head the procession and be the first to come up

with what may be store for us. With an equal horror I shrink from

being last--fearful of being grabbed by something uncanny in the

background.

The whole scene is evidently an intense amusement to the men, and

even Harriet, to my disgust, finds some element of the burlesque

about it. The lamps upon the staircase and along the corridors

throw shadows everywhere, and are not reassuring. Once Mr.

Thornton, stalking on in front, gives way to a dismal howl, and,

stopping short, throws himself into an attitude of abject fear

that causes me to nearly weep: so I entreat him, in touching

accents, not to do it again without reason.

Another time, either Harriet or Bebe--who are walking close

behind me (having ordered Lord Chandos to the extreme rear, as a

further precaution)--lays her hand lightly on my shoulder,

whereupon I shriek aloud and precipitate myself into Marmaduke's

arms.

At length we reach the dreaded spot, and Thornton, after a few

whispered words with Sir James, flings up the window, and, with

what appears to me reckless courage, steps out upon the darksome

balcony alone.

He is a long time absent. To me it seems ages. We three women

stand waiting in breathless suspense. Bebe titters nervously.

"He is without doubt making a thorough examination," says Sir

James, gravely.

We strain our eyes into the night, and even as we do so,

something supernaturally tall--black, gaunt, with a white plume

waving from its haughty head--advances slowly towards us, from

out the gloom. I feel paralyzed with fright, although instinct

tells me it is not _the thing_.

"Who are ye, that come to disturb my nightly revel?" says the

plumed figure; and then we all know we are gazing at Mr.

Thornton, lengthened by a sweeping-brush covered with a black

garment, which he holds high above his head.

"Thornton, I protest you are incorrigible," exclaims Marmaduke,

when at length he can command his voice; "and I thought better of

you, James, than to aid and abet him."

I am on the very verge of hysterics; a pinch, administered by

Bebe, alone restrains me: as it is, the tears of alarm are

mingling with the laughter I cannot suppress.

"My new black Cashmere wrap, I protest!" cries Harriot, pouncing

upon Chips and his sweeping-brush. "Well, Really, Chippendale---

And the feather out of my best bonnet. Oh, this comes of having

one's room off a balcony. Why, you wicked boy, you have been

upsetting all my goods and chattels. Who gave you permission,

sir, to enter my bedroom?"

"Sir James," replies Chips, demurely, who has emerged, from his

disguise, and is vainly trying to reduce his dishevelled locks to

order. "It was so convenient."

"Oh, James!" says his wife, with a lively reproach, "have I lived

to see you perpetrate a joke?"

"But where is the spectre?" I venture to remark.

"You must really ask Miss Beatoun," says Chips. "I have done my

duty valiantly; no one can say I funked it. I have done my very

best to produce a respectable _bona fide_ bogy; and if I have

failed, I am not to be blamed. Now I insist on Miss Beatoun's

producing hers. We cannot possibly go back to the domestics (who,

I feel positive, are cowering upon the lowest stair)

empty-handed. Miss Beatoun, you have brought us all here at the

peril of our lives. Now where is he?"

"It was not a man," says Bebe.

"Then where is she?"

"I am not sure it was a woman either," with some hesitation.

"Ye powers!" cries Chips. "Then what was it? a mermaid? an

undiscovered gender? The plot thickens. I shan't be able to sleep

a wink to-night unless you be more explicit."

"Then you may stay wide awake," retorts Miss Beatoun, "as I

remember nothing but those horrid eyes. You have chosen to turn

it all into ridicule; and who ever heard of a ghost appearing

amidst shouts of laughter? How dreadfully cold it is! Do shut

that window and let us go back to the drawing-room fire."

"I hope your next venture will be more successful," says Chips,

meekly. And then we all troop down again to the cozy room we have

quitted, by no means wiser than when we started.

Somehow I think no more about it, and, except that I keep Martha

busied in my room until I hear Marmaduke's step, next door, I

show no further cowardice. The general air of disbelief around me

quenches my fears, and the bidding farewell to the guests I have

got to like so well occupies me to the exclusion of all other

matters.

Then follows Dora's wedding, a very quiet but very charming

little affair, remarkable for nothing beyond the fact that during

the inevitable breakfast speeches my father actually contrives to

squeeze out two small tears.

The happy pair start for the Continent--the bride all smiles and

brown velvet and lace, the bridegroom, perhaps; a trifle

pale--and we at home fall once more into our usual ways, and try

to forget that Dora Vernon was ever anything but Lady Ashurst.

Marmaduke and I, having decided on accepting no invitations until

after Christmas, being filled with a desire to spend this season

(which will be our first together) in our own home, settle down

for a short time into a lazy Darby-and-Joan existence.

---

It is the second of December; the little ormolu toy up on the

mantle-piece has chimed out a quarter to five; it is almost quite

dark, yet there is still a glimmer of daylight that might,

perhaps, be even more pronounced but for the blazing fire within

that puts it to shame.

"What a cosy little room it is!" says 'Duke from the doorway.

"You make one hate the outer world."

"Oh, you have come," I cry well pleased, "and in time for tea.

That is right. Have you taken off your shooting-things? I cannot

see anything distinctly where you now are."

"I am quite clean, if you mean that," says he, laughing and

advancing. "I shall do no injury to your sanctum. But it is too

early to go through the regular business of dressing yet."

"Had you a good day?"

"Very good indeed, and a pleasant one altogether. Jenkins was

with me, and would have come in to pay you his respects, but

thought he was hardly fit for so dainty a lady's inspection. Have

you been lonely, darling? How have you occupied yourself all

day?"

"Very happily," I say, surrendering one of my warm hands into his

cold ones. And then I proceed to recount all the weighty affairs

of business with which I have been employed during his absence.

But even as I speak the words freeze upon my lips. Between me

and the dreary landscape outside rises something that chills

every thought of my heart.

It is a head, closely covered with some dark clothing--the

faintest outlines of a face--a pair of eyes that gleam like

living coals. As I gaze horror-stricken, it disappears, so

suddenly, so utterly, as to almost make me think it was a mere

trick of the imagination. Almost, but not quite the eyes still

burn and gleam before me, but to my memory comes Bebe's

marvellous tale.

"'Duke, 'Duke," I cry rising, "what is it? What have I seen? Oh!

I am horribly frightened!" I cling to him, and point eagerly

towards the window.

"Frightened at what?" asks 'Duke, startled by my manner, and

gazing ignorantly in the direction I have indicated.

"A face," I say nervously. "It was there only a moment ago. I saw

it quite distinctly, and eyes so piercing. Marmaduke," shrinking

closer to him, "do you remember Bebe's story?"

"My darling girl, how can you be so absurd," exclaims 'Duke,

kindly, "letting that stupid tale upset you so? You only imagined

a face, my dearest. You have been too much alone all day. There

can be nothing."

"There was," I declare, positively. "I could not be so deceived."

"Nonsense, Phyllis! Come with me to the window and look out. If

there really was any one, she must be in view still."

He leads me to the window rather against my will, and makes me

look out. I do so to please him, standing safely ensconced behind

his arm.

"The lawn is bare," he says convincingly; "there is no cover

until one reaches the shrubberies beyond; and no one _could_ have

reached them since, I think. Now come with me to the other

window."

I follow him submissively with the same result; and finally we

finish our researches in the bow-window, at the farthest end of

the room.

The prospect without is dreary in the extreme. A storm is

steadily rising, and the wind is soughing mournfully through the

trees. Great sullen drops of rain fall with vindictive force

against the panes.

---"Now, confess, you are the most foolish child in the world,"

says 'Duke, cheerfully, seeing I am still depressed. "Who would

willingly be out such an evening as this! Not even a dog, if he

could help it; and certainly a spectre would have far too much

sense."

"If it was fancy, it was very vivid," I say, reluctantly, "and,

besides, I am not fanciful at all. I was a little unlucky, I

think; it reminded me of--of---"

"A Banshee?" asks 'Duke, laughing.

"Well, yes, something like that," I admit seriously.

"Oh, Marmaduke, I hope no bad fortune is in store for us. I feel

a strange foreboding at my heart."

"You feel a good deal of folly," says my husband. "Phyllis, I am

ashamed of you. The idea of being superstitious in the nineteenth

century! I shall give you a good scolding for this, and at the

same time some brandy-and-water. Your nerves are unstrung, my

dearest; that is all. Come, sit down here, and try to be

sensible, while I ring the bell."

As he speaks he rings it.

"Tynon, have the grounds searched again directly. It is very

annoying that tramps should be allowed the run of the place. A

stop must be put to it. Half a glass of brandy and a bottle of

soda."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't give me brandy and soda-water," I say, with some energy.

"I do so hate it."

"How do you know?"

"Because I tested yours the other evening, and thought it a

horrible concoction. I was tired of hearing men praise it as a

drink, so thought I would try if it was really as good as they

said. But it was not: it was extremely disagreeable."

"It was the soda you disliked. I will put very little in, and

then you will like it better."

"But indeed, Marmaduke, I would rather not have anything."

"But indeed, Phyllis, I must insist on your taking it. If we are

going to be so ultra-fashionable as to encourage a real ghost on

the premises, we must only increase our allowance of spirits, and

fortify ourselves to meet it. By the by, have you decided on the

sex? Bebe was rather hazy on that point."

"I don't know," I say, shuddering; "I wish you would not jest

about it."

Then I drink what he has prepared for me, and, in spite of my

dislike to it, feel presently somewhat happier in my mind.

---

The world is only three days older, when, as I sit alone in my

own room reading, Tynon opens the door, and addresses me in the

semi-mysterious manner he affects.

"There's a woman downstairs, ma'am, as particularly wants to

speak with you."

"A woman?" I reply, lazily. "What sort of a woman Tynon?"

"Well, ma'am, a handsome woman as far as I can judge. A furriner,

I would say. A woman of a fine presence--as might be a lady; but

I ain't quite certain on that point."

"Oh, Tynon, show her up," I say, hastily, feeling dismayed, as I

picture to myself a lady left standing in the hall while Tynon

makes up his mind as to what her proper position in society may

be.

He obeys my behest with alacrity, and in a very few moments "the

woman" and I are face to face; nay, as she comes slowly forward,

and throws back her veil, and fixes upon me her wonderful eyes, I

know, with a sinking of the heart, that I am face to face with

Bebe's ghost.

I am startled and impressed--uncomfortably impressed--as I gaze

on the remains of what must once have been an extraordinary

beauty. I have risen on her entrance, and we now stand--my

strange visitor and I--staring at each other in silence, with

only the little work-table between us.

She is dressed in deepest black of a good texture; I am in rich

brown velvet. She is tall and full--truly, as Tynon had described

her, "a woman of a fine presence;" I am small and very slight.

Her eyes are large, and dark, and burning--such eyes as belong to

the South alone; mine, large too, are gray-blue, and soft and

calm.

I feel fascinated, and slightly terrified. At last I speak.

"Is there anything I can do? I believe you wished to speak to

me!" I venture, weakly, and with hesitation.

"I do," says my strange visitor, never removing her piercing gaze

from my face. "I also wished to _see_ you _close_. So you are

_his_ wife, are you? A child, a mere doll!"

I am so taken aback I can find no reply to make to this speech:

every moment renders me more amazed, more thoroughly frightened.

"You are Mrs. Carrington of Strangemore," she goes on, in the

purest English, but with an unmistakably foreign accent. "Well,

Mrs. Carrington, I have come here to-day to tell you something I

fear will be unpalatable to your dainty ears."

At this instant it occurs to me that I have admitted to my

presence, and am shut up with, an escaped lunatic. At this

thought my blood curdles in my veins; I move a step backwards,

and cast a lingering, longing glance at the bell handle. Watching

my every gesture, she immediately divines my intention.

"If you will take my advice," she says, "you will not touch that

bell. What I have to say might furnish too much gossip for your

servant's hall. No, I am _not_ mad. Pouf! what a fool it is,

trembling in every limb! Pray restrain yourself Mrs. Carrington:

you will require all your courage to sustain you by and by."

She is speaking very insolently, and there is a fiendish triumph

in her black eyes; I can hear a subtle mockery in her tone as she

utters my married name.

"If you will be so kind as to state your business without any

further delay," I remark, with as much hauteur as I can summon to

my aid, "I shall feel obliged."

"Good," says she, with a vicious smile: "you recover. The white

mouse has found its squeak. Listen, then." She seats herself

before the small table that divides us, leans her elbows upon it,

and takes her face between her hands. Her eyes are still riveted

upon mine; not for a second does she relax the vigilance of her

gaze. "Who do you think I am?" she asks, slowly.

"I have not the faintest idea," I reply, still haughty, though

thoroughly upset, and nervous.

"I--am--Marmaduke--Carrington's--lawful--wife," she says, biting

out the words with cruel emphasis, and nodding her head at me

between each pause.

I neither stagger nor faint, nor cry out: I simply don't believe

her. She is mad, then, after all. Oh, if Tynon, or Harris, or any

one, would only come! I calculate my chance of being able to rush

past her and gain the door in safety, but am disheartened by her

watchfulness. I remember, too, how fatal a thing it is to show

symptoms of terror before a maniac, and with an effort collect

myself.

"If you have nothing better to say than such idiotic nonsense," I

return, calmly, "I think this interview may as well come to an

end." As I utter this speech in fear and trembling, I once more

go slowly in the direction of the bell.

"Oh! must you then see my marriage-lines?" says the woman with a

sneer, drawing from her bosom a folded paper. "Is there too much

of the stage about my little declaration? Come, then, behold

them; but at a distance, carita, at a distance."

She spreads open the paper upon the table before me. Impelled by

some hideous curiosity, I draw near. With one brown but shapely

finger, she traces the characters, and I read--I read with dull

eyes, the terrible words that seal my fate. No thought of a

forgery comes to sooth me; I know in that one long awful moment

that my eyes have seen the truth.

Mechanically I put out my hand to seize the paper, but she pushed

me roughly back.

"No, no, ma belle," she laughs coolly; "not that!"

"It is a lie," I cry, fiercely; "a lie!"

Where now is all my nervousness, my childish terror? My blood

flames into life. For the time I am actually mad with passion, as

mad as I imagined her a little while ago. A cruel,

uncontrollable longing to kill her--to silence forever the

bitter, mocking tones, to shut the vindictive eyes that seem to

draw great drops of blood from my heart--takes possession of me.

I catch hold of a heavy ruler that lies on a Davenport near, and

make a spring towards her.

But I am as an infant in the hands of my opponent; I feel myself

flung violently to one side against a wall, while the ruler falls

crashing into an opposite corner.

"Bah!" she cries through her teeth. "Can English blood get warm?

I did not believe it until now. So you love the handsome husband,

do you? That, after all, is not a husband, see you, but a lover.

This is my house, _Mees!_ I This is _my_ room! Leave it, I

command you!"

She laughs long and loudly; but all my fury has died out.

"I do not believe one word of all your vile story," I declare,

doggedly, knowing I am lying as I speak; "it flavors too much of

the melodrama to be real. You are an impostor; but you calculate

foolishly when you think to gain money from me by your false

tale. You have been seen more than once about these grounds

before now.---"

"Ay"--interrupting me with a rapid shrug of her finely formed

shoulders--"I pined, I hungered for a sight of your English baby

face.--I the mistress of it all--skulked about these walls, and

was hunted through your shrubberies like a common thief. Twice

was I near detection; twice through my native cunning I evaded

your stupid bulldogs of men. And each time I hugged myself to

think I had the revenge _here_" laying both hands lightly on her

bosom where the fatal paper once more lies.

"I do not believe you," I reiterate, stupidly: "it is nothing but

a wicked invention of your own. I am silly to feel even

annoyance. My husband will soon be in then we shall hoar the

truth."

"We shall--the whole truth. His face will betray it. Then you

shall hear of the happy evenings spent in Florence, beneath the

eternal blue of the sky, when Carlotta Veschi lay with her dark

head reclined upon her English lover's breast; when words of love

fell hotly upon the twilight air; when vows were interchanged;

when _his_ lips were pressed, warmly, tenderly, to--_mine_."

"Be silent, woman!" I cry, passionately, breathing hard and

painfully. Oh, the anguish! the torture! I raise my head a little

higher, but my hand goes out and grasps unconsciously a friendly

chair, to steady my failing limbs.

"Does it distress you, Anima, all these loving details? From

_his_ lips they will possibly fall more sweetly. I am but an

interloper--only the despised worm that crawls into the rose's

heart. Mine is the hand (unhappy one that I am) to lay waste the

nest of the doves."

"Here he is!" I cry joyfully, as I hear my husband's footsteps

pass the window. The very crunching of the gravel beneath his

heel rouses me. Hope once again springs warm within my breast. It

is not, it cannot be true. He will send this horrible woman away,

and reduce all my ridiculous fears to ashes.

I run to him with unusual eagerness as he enters, and, smiling,

he holds out his arms. But even before I can throw myself into

them, what is it that comes across his face? What is this awful

whiteness, this deadly look of terror? Why does he stagger back

against the wall? Why do his hands fall lifeless to his sides?

Why do his eyes grow large with unearthly horror?

The woman stands where last she stood. She has not moved on his

entrance, or made the faintest advance. Though slightly paler,

the evil mockery still lingers is her eyes.

She rakes one finger slowly, tragically, and points it at him.

"I have found you," she says. "My--husband!"

No reply. Both his shaking hands go up to hide his face. I run to

him, and fling my arms around his neck.

"Marmaduke, speak!" I cry. "Tell her she lies. 'Duke, 'Duke,

raise your head and send her from this place. Why are you

silent? Why will you not look at me? It is only I--your own

Phyllis. Oh, Marmaduke, I am horribly frightened. Why don't you

tell her to begone?"

"Because he dare not," says my visitor, slowly. "Well, Marmaduke,

have you no welcome for your wife?"

He puts me roughly from him, and, going over to her, seizes her

by the wrists and drags her into the full light of the window.

"You fiend!" he hisses, beneath his breath. "It was all false,

then, the news of your death? You are alive? You are still left

to contaminate the earth? Who wrote the tidings that set me, as I

believed, free?"

"I did," replies the woman, quietly. "I was tired of you. Your

milk-and-watery affection, even at the very first, sickened me. I

wished to see you no more. I had begun to hate you, and so took

that means of ridding myself of you forever. But when I heard of

the rich uncle's death--of the money, the grandeur, all that had

come to you--I regretted my folly, and started to claim my

rights. I am here: repudiate me if you can."

I have crept closer; I am staring at Marmaduke. I cannot, I will

not, still believe.

"Marmaduke, say she is not your wife," I demand, imperiously.

"Ay, say it," says the woman, with a smile.

I go nearer, and attempt to take his hand.

"'Duke, say it, say it!" I cry, feverishly.

"Do not touch me!" exclaims he, hoarsely, shrinking away from me.

I feel turned to stone--not faint or sick; only numbed, and

unable to reason. The Italian bursts into a ringing laugh.

"What a situation!" cries she. "What a scene! It is a tragedy,

and the peasant is the heroine. I--Carlotta--am the wife, while

the white, delicate, proud miladi is only the mist---"

Before the vile word can leave her lips, Marmaduke's hand is on

her throat. His face is distorted with passion and madness: there

is upon it a settled expression of determination that terrifies

me more than all that has gone before. His thin nostrils are

dilated with rage. His very lips are gray. Already the woman's

features are growing discolored.

"Marmaduke!" I shriek, tearing at the hand that pinions her to

the shutter, "Marmaduke, for _my_ sake--remember--have pity. Oh,

what is it you would do?"

By a superhuman effort my weak fingers succeed in dragging his

hand away, He shivers, and falls back a step or two, while the

Italian slowly recovers.

"Would you murder me?" she gasps. "Ah! wretch--dog--`beast! But I

have a revenge!"

She stalks towards the door as she utters this threat, and

quickly vanishes.

I turn to my--to Marmaduke.

"It is true?" I ask.

"It is true," he replies, and as he speaks I can scarcely believe

the man who stands before me, crushed and aged and heart-broken,

is the same gay, handsome young man who entered the room all

smiles a few minutes ago.

"If _she_ is your wife, what am _I?_" I ask, with unnatural

calmness.

"Phyllis! Phyllis! my life! forgive me!" he cries, in an

anguished tone; and then the room grows suddenly dark; I fall

heavily forward into the blackness, and all is forgotten.

---

When I recover consciousness, I find myself in my own room, lying

upon my bed. The blinds are all drawn down, to cause a soothing

darkness. There is a general feel of dampness about my hair and

forehead; somebody is bending anxiously over me. Raising my eyes

in languid scrutiny, I discover it is my mother.

"Is that you, mamma?"

"Yes, my darling."

"I did not know you were coming to-day. How is it you are here

just now? and why am I lying on my bed?"

I uplift myself upon my elbow, and peer at her curiously. Her

eyelids are crimson; her voice is full of the thick and husky

sound that comes of much weeping.

"What has happened? Why am I here?" I repeat.

"You were not well, dearest. A mere faint--nothing more: but we

thought you would feel better if kept quiet quiet. I was driving

over to see you to day, and very fortunately arrived just as I

was wanted. Lie down again and try to sleep."

"No, I cannot. What has vexed you mother? You have been crying."

"Oh, no, darling," in trembling tones; "you only imagine it.

Perhaps it is the uncertain light."

"Nonsense," I insist angrily; "you know you have. I can see it in

your eye, I can hear it in your voice. Why do you try to deceive

me! Something has happened--I feel--it and you are keeping it

from me. Let me think---"

With a nervous gesture mother raises a cup from a table near, and

puts it to my lips.

"Drink this first, and think afterwards," she says; "it will do

you good."

"No, I shall think first. There is something weighing on my

brain, and--on my heart. Why don't you help me to remember?"

I put my hands to my head in deep perplexity. Slowly, slowly the

truth comes back to me; slowly all the past horrible scene

revives itself.

"Ah!" I gasp, affrightedly. "I remember! I know it all now. I can

see her again! She said--But," seizing mother's wrists fiercely,

"It is not true, mother? Oh mother! say it is not true! Oh!

mother! mother!"

"Phyllis, my child--my lamb! what shall I say to comfort you?"

"Deny it!" I cry, passionately flinging my arms around her waist,

and throwing back my head that I may watch her face. Poor face!

so filled with the bitterest of all griefs, the want of power to

solace those we love. "Why do you cry? Why don't you say at once

it was a lie? You are as bad as Marmaduke; _he_ stood there too,

deaf as a stick or a stone to my entreaties. Oh, will no one help

me? Oh, it is true then!--it is true!"

I push her from me, and, burying my head on my arms rock myself

to and fro, in a silent agony of despair. Not a sound breaks the

stillness, but mother's low suppressed sobbing; it maddens me.

"What are you crying for?" I ask, roughly, raising my tearless

face; "my eyes are dry. It is my sorrow, not yours not any one's.

What do _you_ mean by making moan?"

She makes no answer, and my head drops once more upon my arms. I

continue my ceaseless, miserable rocking. Again there is silence.

A door bangs somewhere in the distance.

"I will not see him!" I cry, starting up wildly "Nothing on earth

shall induce me. I cannot, mother. Tell him he must not come in

here."

"Darling, he is not coming. But even if he were, Phyllis, surely

you would be kind to him. If you could only see his despair! He

was quite innocent of it. Phyllis, I implore you, do not foster

bitter thoughts in your heart towards Marmaduke."

"It is not that. You mistake me. Only--it is all so horrible--I

fear to see him. Yesterday he was my husband--no, no--I mean I

thought he was my husband; to-day what is he?"

"Oh, darling! try to be calm."

"I am calm. See, my hand does not even tremble," holding it up

before her. "Oh, what have I done, that this should happen to me?

What odious crime have I committed, that I should be so punished?

Only six months married--_married_, did I say--I must learn to

forget that word!"

"Oh, Phyllis, hush! If you would but try to sleep, my poor love!"

"Shall I ever sleep again, I wonder, with that scene before me

always? It has withered me. Her eyes how they burned into mine!

Her very touch had venom in it! And yet why should I be so hard

on her, poor creature? Was she not in the right? He is _her_

husband, not mine. She has the prior claim. _She_ is the deserted

wife, while I am only---

"Phyllis! Phyllis!"

"And all my life before me!" I cry, with passionate self-pity,

clasping my hands. "How shall I bear it? What are those words,

mother? Do you recollect? Something beginning,---

'So young, so young,

I am not used to tears to-night,

Instead of slumber; nor to prayer

With sobbing breath, and hands out-wrung.'"

"Phyllis, do you want to kill me?" says mother, her sobs breaking

forth afresh.

"Poor mother! do I make you sad? Do your tears relieve you? I

suppose so, as I have none. I think my sorrow is too great for

that. It was like a dream, the whole thing. I could not realize

it then. It is only now I, fully understand how alone I am in the

world."

"My own girl, you still have me."

"And so I have, dear, dearest mother; but I will live alone, for

all that. Disgrace has fallen upon me, but I will not ask others

to bear my burden. Was it not well Dora's marriage took place

last month? My position cannot affect hers now."

"Oh Phyllis! do not talk of disgrace. What disgrace can attach to

you, my poor innocent child?"

"I cannot lie here any longer," I say, abruptly, getting off the

bed; "I shall go mad, if I stay still and think. And my

hair,"--fretfully--"it has all come down; it must be settled

again. Oh, no; I cannot have Martha; she would look doleful and

sympathetic, as if she knew everything, and I should feel

inclined to kill her."

"Let me do it, darling. Your arms are tired," says mother,

meekly, and proceeds to shake out and comb with softest touch the

heavy masses of hair that only yesterday I gloried in. Even this

morning, when it lay all about my shoulders, how happy I was!

"Do you know, mother," I say, drearily, "it seems to me now as

though between me and this morning a whole century had rolled?"

"Phyllis," says mamma, earnestly, "I don't like your manner. I

don't like the way you are taking all this. A little while ago

your grief was vehement, but natural; now there is an

indifference about you that frightens me. You will be ill,

darling, if you don't give way a little."

"Ill? with a chance of dying you mean? Why, that would be famous!

But don't fear, mother: no such good fortune is in store for me.

I shall probably outlive every one of you." I laugh a little.

"How nicely you use the brush! you do not drag a single hair. And

it is nearly seven months now since last you brushed my hair; and

I was then almost a child, was not I? And we have never thought,

you and I, such bad luck was in store for the poor little

scapegrace of the family. Yes, roll it back like that. Oh! did

you ever see so miserable a face? I hate it," making a faint,

grimace at my own image in the glass. "How white it is!"

"Too white!"

"Yes, but not so white as hers; and her eyes, so large and black.

I have read that Italian women are revengeful. I think if she had

had a knife then she would have killed me."

"Phyllis, you are overwrought. Darling, do let me put you into

bed again, and try to swallow some of this composing draught. Or

see, this comfortable couch--will you lie here?" coaxingly.

"Do you think she will come back again, mother? that would be

worse than anything. She muttered some bad words, or some threat,

as she was leaving the room: and yet do you know it was my hand

kept Marmaduke from murdering her? Murder; has not that an ugly

sound? Poor 'Duke! he was half mad, I think."

"Of course he was. Do not let your mind dwell on it. Look what

large soft cushions; only put your head on them, and you will

sleep. And I will tuck you up, and sing to you, and imagine you

my own little baby Phyllis again."

"But what an old, old baby! I feel as old as yourself to-day.

This morning I remember I laughed for nearly five minutes without

stopping over some absurd story of Martha's. I fear I offended

her at last; but I am punished now; much laughing, you know, goes

before crying. Shall I cry much, later on I wonder?"

"No, no, my love, I hope not. Come; if you will lie down here,

and drink this, I will lie with you, and then you will not be

lonely."

"No, I want to walk. I feel so restless. Where is my hat, mother?

Can you see it? Ah! you are not much better than Martha after

all; she never knows where anything is. How light my head feels!

Do not pity me, mother? is it not hard to bear? Ah---" I fling my

arms above my head, and fall senseless at her feet.

---

It is evening of the same day--a dark sullen December evening,

dark as the thoughts that throng my breast. I feel unsympathetic,

cold, almost dead. Much as I have tried during the past few

hours, I cannot quite reconcile myself to the idea that it is

I--I myself--who am principally concerned in all this horror that

has taken place.

I argue in my own mind. I represent the case a for a third

person. I cannot realize that the one most to be pitied is

I--Phyllis Phyllis _what?_

I have at length consented to see Marmaduke, and am lying upon a

sofa in a hopelessly dishevelled state, as he enters. I have not

shed a single tear; yet the black hollows beneath my eyes might

have come from ceaseless weeping.

I half rise as he comes across the room, yet cannot raise my head

to meet his gaze. I dread the havoc despair and self torture will

have wrought in his face. He moves slowly, lingeringly, until he

reaches the hearthrug, and there stands and regard me

imploringly. This I feel and know, though through some other

sense beside sight.

"Will you not even look at me?" he says, presently in a change,

almost agonized, tone.

I force my eyes to meet his, but drop them again almost

immediately.

"Is forgiveness quite out of the question?"

"No," I return; "of course I forgive you. It was not your fault.

There is nothing to forgive. But in the first instance you

deceive me; that I feel the hardest. Even to myself my voice

sounds cold and strange.

"I acknowledge it. But how was I to tell this would be the end of

it? It appeared impossible you should ever know the truth. It was

only known to myself and one other.---"

"And that was---"

"Mark Gore. The woman, as I believed, was dead, and who could

betray the secret? The whole miserable story was so hateful to me

that to repeat it to you--whom I so devotedly loved--was more

than I had courage for. How could I tell you such a sickening

tale! How could I watch the changes--the dislike, it might

be--that would cloud your face as I related it? By your own

confession, I knew you bore me none of that love that would have

helped me safely through even a worse revelation, and I dreaded

lest the bare liking you entertained for me should have an end,

and that you, a young girl, would shrink from a widower, and the

hero of such a story."

"Still, it would have been better if you had spoken; I can

forgive anything but deceit."

"Once or twice I tried to tell you the only secret I had from

you, but you would not listen, or else at the moment spoke such

words as made me doubt the expediency of ever mentioning the

affair at all. But now that it is too late, I regret my

duplicity, or cowardice, or whatever it was that swayed me."

"Too late, indeed!" I repeat almost mechanically.

After a minute or two, he says, in a low voice:---

"Have you no interest, no curiosity, that you do not ask? Will

you let me tell you now all the real circumstances of the case?"

"What need?" I answer wearily. "Of course it is the old story. I

seem to have heard it a hundred times. You were a boy, she was a

designing woman; she entrapped you: it is the whole thing."

"I was no boy; I was an over-honorable man. She was an Italian

woman, with some little learning, of rather respectable

parentage, and who (a wonderful thing among her class) could

speak a good deal of English. She was handsome, and for the time

I fancied I loved her. No thought of evil towards her entered my

heart; I asked her to marry me and the ceremony was performed,

privately but surely, in the little chapel near her home, her

brother being the principal witness. Hardly a month had passed

before I fully understood the horrible mistake I had made--before

I learned how detestable was the woman with whom I had linked my

fate. Her coarse, harsh manner, her vile, insolent tongue, her

habits of drunkenness, nay, more, her evident preference for a

low, illiterate cousin, were all too apparent. I left her, she

declaring herself as glad to see the last of me as I was to be

rid of her. Does the whole thing disgust you, Phyllis?"

He pauses, and draws his hand wearily across his forehead.

I shake my head, but make no further reply; and presently he goes

on again in a low tone:

"I was, comparatively speaking, poor then; yet, out of the

allowance my uncle had made me, I sent her regularly as much,

indeed, more, than I could afford; but dread of discovery forced

me to be generous. Then one day came the tidings of her death.

Even now, Phyllis--now, when I am utterly crushed and

heart-broken--I can feel again the wild passion of delight that

overcame me as I pictured myself once more free. Again I mixed

with the world I had for some time avoided, and was received with

open arms, my uncle's death having made me a rich man; and

then--then I met you. Oh, Phyllis, surely my story in a sad one,

and deserving of some pity."

"It is sad," I say, monotonously, "but not so sad as mine."

Coming over, he kneels down beside my sofa, and gently, almost

fearfully, he takes one of my hands in both his.

"Oh not so sad as yours, my poor love, my own darling," he

murmurs painfully, "but still unhappy enough. To think that I,

who would willingly have shielded you with my life, should be the

one to bring misery upon you I."

He hides his face upon the far edge of the cushion on which my

aching head is reclining. I can no longer see him, but can feel

his whole frame trembling with suppressed emotion. With some

far-off, indistinct sensation of pity, I press the hand that

still holds mine.

Presently I rouse myself, and, rising to a sitting posture, I fix

my dull eyes upon the opposite wall, and speak.

"I suppose it is to my old home I must go."

As though the words stung him, Marmaduke gets up impetuously, and

walks back to his former position upon the hearthrug. I noticed

that his face has grown, if possible, a shade paler than before.

A sudden look of fear has over-read it.

"Yes, yes; of course you shall go home for a little time if you

wish it," he says, nervously.

"Not for a little time; forever," I return. A horrible pain is

tugging at my heart.

"Phyllis," cries he almost fiercely, "what are you saying? You

cannot mean it. Forever? Do you know what that means? If you can

live without me, I tell you plainly I would rather ten thousand

times be dead than exist without you. Are you utterly heartless,

that you can torture me like this? Never to see you again; is

that what you would say?" Coming nearer, so close that he touches

me, while his eyes seek and read with desperate eagerness my

face, "Speak, speak, and tell me you were only trying to frighten

me."

"I cannot. I meant just what I said," I gasp, consumed by a

sudden dread of I scarcely know what. "Why do you disbelieve?

What other course is open to me?"

"Listen,"--trying to speak calmly, and seizing hold of my hands

again; "why should you make this wretched story public? As yet,

no one is the wiser; you and I alone hold the secret. This woman,

this fend, will go anywhere will do anything, for sufficient

money, and I can make it worth her while to be forever silent.

When she returns to Italy, who then will know the truth?"

"The truth--ah! yes---"

"Are you not my wife? Has not my love bound you to me by stronger

ties than any church laws? Why should this former detested bond

ruin both our lives?"

"A little while ago you spoke of yourself as an 'over-honorable'

man. Is what you now propose honorable or right? Marmaduke, it is

impossible. As our lives have shaped themselves, so must they be.

I cannot live with you."

"Think of what the world will say. Phyllis, can you bear their

cruel speeches? It is not altogether for my own sake I plead,

though the very thought of losing you is more than I can bear. It

is for you, yourself, I entreat. Remember what your position will

be. Have pity upon yourself."

"No, no! I will not listen to you. I will not, Marmaduke."

He flings himself on his knees before me.

"Darling, darling, do not forsake me," he whispers despairingly.

"Let me go," I cry wildly. "Is this your love for me? Oh, the

selfishness of it. Would you have me live with you as---"

"Be silent!" exclaims he, in a terrible voice. A spasm of pain

contracts his face. Slowly he regains his feet.

"You madden me," he goes on, in an altered tone. "I forget that

you, who have never loved, cannot feel as I do. Phyllis, tell me

the truth; have you no affection for me. Are you quite cold?"

"I am not!" I cry, suddenly waking from my unnatural apathy, and

bursting into bitter tears, the first I have shed to-day. As the

whole horrible truth comes home to me, I rise impulsively and

fling myself into my husband's arms--for my husband he has been

for six long months. "I do love you, 'Duke--'Duke; but, oh! what

can I do? What words can I use to tell you all I feel? I am

young, and silly, and ridiculous in many ways, I know; but yet

there is something within me I dare not disobey--something that

makes me know the life you propose would be a life of sin, one on

which no blessing could fall. Help me, therefore, to do the

right, and do not make my despair greater than it is."

He is silent, as he holds me clasped passionately to his breast.

"We must part," I go on, more steadily. "I must leave you: but,

oh, Duke, do not send me home. I could not go there."

I shudder violently in his embrace at the bare thought of such a

home-coming. How could I summon courage to meet all the whispers,

the suppressed looks, the very kindnesses, that day by day I

should see?

"And here I could not stay, either," I sob, mournfully: "memory

would kill me. 'Duke, where shall I go? Send me, you--somewhere."

I wait for his answer with my head pillowed on his chest. I wait

a long time. Whatever struggle is going on within him takes place

silently. He makes no sign of agony; he does not move; his very

heart, on which I lean, has almost ceased to beat. At length he

speaks, and as the words cross his lips I know that he has

conquered, but at the expense of youth and joy and hope.

"There is Hazelton," he says; "it is a pretty place. It was my

mother's. Will you go there? And---"

"Yes, I will go there," I answer, brokenly.

"What servants will you take with you?" he asks me, presently, in

a dull, subdued way; all impatience and passion have died within

him.

"I will take none," I reply, "not one from this place. You must

go to Hazelton and get me a few from the neighborhood round

it--just three or four, who will know nothing of me, and seek to

know nothing."

"Oh, my darling, at least take your own maid with you, who has

known you all your life. And Tynon, he is an old and valued

servant; he will watch over you, and take care of you."

"I will not be watched," I say, pettishly; "and I detest being

taken care of. I am not ill. Even when a heart is sick unto

death, there is no cure for it. And I would not have Tynon on any

account. Every time I met his eyes I would know what he was

thinking about. I would read pity in every glance and gesture,

and I will not be made more wretched than I am by sympathy."

"Then take Martha. You know how attached to you she is.---"

"No; I will have no one to remind me of the old life. Do not urge

me, 'Duke. Give me my own way in this. Believe me, if you do, I

shall have a far better chance of--peace."

"I wish, for your sake, I was dead," says 'Duke, hoarsely.

At this I begin to cry again, weakly. I am almost worn out.

"You will at least write to me, now and then, Phyllis?"

"It will be better not."

"Why? I have sworn not to see you again, but I must and will have

some means of knowing whether you are dead or alive. Promise me

that twice a year, once in every six months, you will let me have

a letter. It is only a little thing to ask, out of all the happy

past."

"I promise. But you--will you stay here?"

"Here?" he echoes, bitterly. "What do you take me for? In this

house, where every room and book and flower would remind me of

your sweet presence? No, we will leave it together: I shall look

my last on it with you I will not stay to see it desolate and

gray and cold without its mistress. You must let me be your

escort to your new home, that people may have less to wonder at."

"And where will you go?"

"Abroad--India, Australia, America--anywhere: what does it

matter? If I travelled to the ends of the earth, I could not fly

my thoughts."

"And"--timidly--"what of _her?_"

"Nothing," he answers, roughly: "I will not talk of her again to

_you_."

There is a low, apologetic knock at the door. Instantly I seat

myself on the sofa in as dignified an attitude as I can assume,

considering my hair is all awry and my eyelids crimson. 'Duke

lowers the lamp prudently, and falls back to the hearthrug,

standing with his hands clasped carelessly behind him, before he

says, in a clear, distinct tone:---

"Come in."

"Dinner is served," announces Tynon, softly, with the vaguest,

discreetest of coughs. How is it that servants always know

everything?

"Very good," returns Marmaduke, in his ordinary voice. "Let Mrs.

Vernon know." Then, as though acting on a second thought:---

"Tynon."

"Yes, sir."

"It may be as well to let you know now that Mrs. Carrington and I

are leaving home next week for some time.

"Indeed, sir? yes, sir." Tynon's face is perfectly impassive,

except at the extreme corners of the mouth: these being slightly

down-drawn indicate regret and some distress.

"We both feel much disappointed at being obliged to leave home at

this particular time the Christmas season being so close at hand;

but the business that takes us is important, and will admit of no

delay. I shall leave behind me the usual sum of money for the

poor, with an additional gift from Mrs. Carrington, which I will

trust you and Mrs. Benson" (the housekeeper) "to see properly

distributed."

"Thank you, sir: it shall be carefully attended to."

"I am quite sure of that," kindly. Then, with a return to the

rather forced and stilted manner that has distinguished his

foregoing speech, he goes on: "It is altogether uncertain when we

shall be able to come back to Strangemore, as the business of

which I speak will necessitate my going abroad; and as Mrs.

Carrington's health will not allow her to accompany me, and as

she has been ordered change of air, she will go to Hazelton,

which she has not seen, and await my return there. You quite

understand, Tynon?"

"Perfectly, sir," replies the old butler, with his eyes on the

ground. And as I watch him, I know how perfectly indeed he

understands, not only what is being said, but also what is not

being said.

'Duke weary of lying, draws his hand across his forehead. "You

will please let the other servants know of our movements.

Although my absence may be more prolonged than I think, I shall

wish them all to remain as they now are so that the house may be

in readiness to receive us at any moment. But," turning his gaze

for the first time fully upon Tynon and speaking very sternly, "I

will have no whispering or gossiping about things that don't

concern them: mind that. I leave you in charge, Tynon, and I

desire that all such conduct be punished with instant dismissal.

You hear?"

"Yes, sir; you may be sure there shall be no gossiping or

whispering going on in this house."

"I hope not." Then, having noticed the quavering voice and

depressed air of this old servitor, who has known him from his

youth up, he adds more gently, "you may go now. I know I can

trust you. I do not think I have any more directions to give you

at present."

Tynon bows in a shaky, dispirited way, and leaves the room.

Outside in the dusk of the corridor, I can see him put his hand

to his eyes. But he is staunch, and even now compels himself to

turn and say, with deference and with a praiseworthy show of

ignorance of what the preceding conversation may mean:---

"I hope you will excuse my mentioning it, sir, but if there is

one thing beyond another that raises Mrs. Cook's irritableness,

and makes her perverse towards the rest of the household, it is

to hear the soup was allowed to grow cold."

"All right, Tynon: Mrs. Harrison's nerves shall not be upset this

evening. We will go down now," says 'Duke, with a smile--a very

impoverished specimen of its kind, I must own, but still a smile.

I rush into the next room--my dressing-room is off my

boudoir--and having bathed my poor eyes and hastily brushed my

hair and given myself a general air of prosperity make for the

dining-room. On the stairs we encounter mother, looking so pale

and wan, and almost terrified, that I take my hand off

Marmaduke's arm and slip it round her waist. It will never do for

her to present such a woful countenance to the criticism of

servants.

"Try to look a little more cheerful, darling," I whisper,

eagerly; "it will not be for long: as it has to be gone through,

let us be brave in the doing of it."

She looks at me with a relieved astonishment; and truly the

strength of will that bears me through this interminable evening

amazes no one so much as myself.

---

Hazelton down by the sea, I have gained your shelter at last.

Only yesterday, Marmaduke and I finished our miserable journey

here, and took a long, a last, farewell of each other.

How can I write of it, how describe the anguish of those few

minutes, in which a whole year's keenest torture was compressed?

How paint word by word the mad but hopeless clinging, the

lingering touch of hands that never more should join, the

despair, the passion, of the final embrace.

It is over, and he is gone, and I have fallen into a settled

state of apathy, and indifference to what is going on around me,

that surely bears some resemblance to a melancholy madness.

Hazelton is a very pretty, old-fashioned house, about half the

size of Strangemore--with many straggling rooms well wainscoted

almost three parts up each wall. Some of the floors are of

gleaming polished oak, some richly, heavily carpeted. It is a

picturesque old place, that at any other time, and under any

other circumstances, would have filled me with admiration.

Afar off one can catch a glimpse of the sea. From the parlor

windows it is plainly visible; in the other rooms a rising hill,

and in summer the foliage, intercept the view, In reality, it is

only a mile and a half distant from the house, so that at night

when the wind is high, the sullen roar of it comes to the

listening ear.

The few servants who have had the house in charge have been

retained, and three more have been added. These have evidently

made up their minds to receive me with open arms; but as a week

passes, and I show no signs of interest in them, or their work,

or the gardens, or anything connected with my life, they are

clearly puzzled and disappointed. This I notice in a dull

wondering fashion. Why can they not be as indifferent to me as I

am to them?

All the visitors that should call do call; it is not a populous

neighborhood, but as I decline, seeing them, and do not return

their visits the would-be acquaintance drops. On Monday, the

vicar, a slight, intellectual-looking man, rides up to the door,

and, being refused admittance, leaves his card, and expresses his

intention of coming again some day soon. Which message, being

conveyed to me by the respectable person who reigns here as

butler, raises my ire, and induces me to give an order on the

spot that never, on any pretence whatever, is any one--vicar or

no vicar--to be admitted to my presence.

Sunday comes, but I feel no inclination to clothe myself and go

forth to confess my sins and pour out my griefs in the house of

prayer. All days are alike to me, and I shrink with a morbid

horror from presenting myself to the eyes of my fellows. In this

quiet retreat I can bury myself, and nurse my wrongs, and brood

over my troubles without interference from a cruel world.

I find some half-finished work among my things, and taking it to

my favorite room, bend over it hour by hour more often it falls

unheeded on my lap, while I let memory wander backward, and ask

myself, sadly, if such a being ever really lived as wild, merry

careless Phyllis Vernon.

The days go by, and I feel no wish for outdoor exercise, My color

slowly fades.

One morning, the woman who has taken Martha's place, and who

finds much apparent delight in the binding and twisting of my

hair into impossible fashions, takes courage` to address me.

"The gardens here, ma'am, are so pretty, the prettiest for miles

round."

"Are they? I must go and see them."

"'Deed, m'm, and it would do you good. A smart walk now once in a

way is better'n medicine, so I'm told. And the grounds round here

is rare and pretty to look at, though to be sure winter has a

dispiritin' effect on everything."

"It is cold," I say, with a shiver.

"It is, m'm surely"--leaving the mighty edifice she is erecting

on the top of my head to give the fire a vigorous poke--"but with

your fur cloak and hat you won't feel it. Shall I bring them to

you after breakfast, ma'am?"

"Very well; do," reply I, with a sigh of resignation.

Much pleased with her success, the damsel retreats, and

punctually to the moment, as I rise from my breakfast-table,

appears again, armed with cloak and gloves and hat. Thus

constrained, I sally forth, and make a tour round the gardens

that surround what must be for evermore my home.

And very delicious old gardens they are, as old-fashioned as the

house, and quite as picturesque. There is a total want of method,

of precision, in the arrangement of them, that instinctively

charms the eyes. I wander from orchard into flower-garden, and

from flower-garden on again to orchard, without a break of any

sort--no gates divide them: it is all one pretty happy medley.

The walks, though scrupulously neat, are ungravelled, and here

and there a dead leaf, crisp and dry, displays itself. The very

trees, though bereft of leaves, do not appear so foolish, so

melancholy, in this free land of theirs, as they always look

elsewhere.

I feel some animation creeping in my blood; my step is more

springy. At the garden gate the father of all this sweetness

steps up to me. He is a rosy-checked, good-humored-looking man, a

brilliant contrast to the unapproachable Cummins; he presents me

with a small bouquet of winter flowers.

"I am proud to see you ma'am," he says, with a touch of interest

in his tone. "I am sorry I have nothing better worth offering you

than these 'ere." He tenders the bouquet as he speaks--a very

marvel of a bouquet, considering the time of year.

"Thank you," I say, with a gracious smile, born of my brisk and

pleasant promenade: "it is lovely. It is far prettier in my eyes

than the summer one, because so unexpected."

"I pass on, leaving him, bowing and scraping and much gratified,

in the middle of the path, with the unwonted smile still upon my

lips."

But, as the evening draws on, this faintest, glimmer of renewed

hope dies, and I sink back once more into my accustomed gloom.

---

"What will you please to order for dinner to-day, mum?" asks cook

from the doorway. I have never yet given directions for that

meal, much to that worthy creatures despair, whose heart and

thoughts are in her stew-pans.

I glance up with languid surprise.

"Anything you please," I say; "you are always very satisfactory.

I told you I would leave everything to you. Why do you ask me

to-day in particular?"

"Law, mum, sure it's Christmas day, and I thought may be as

'ow---"

"Christmas-day, is it," I exclaim, curiously. "Then I have been a

whole fortnight in this place."

"Yes, mum. A whole fortnight and one day, by five o'clock this

hevening, precisely. I took the liberty of asking you to order

dinner for this one night, thinking as you might put a name to

something or other dainty that you fancies."

"Indeed I have no choice, cook, and I am not at all hungry."

"Likely enough, mum, considering it is now only twelve o'clock;

but for a lady like yourself, as eats no luncheon to speak of,

you will for certain be starved by seven."

"I thought a Christmas dinner never varied, cook. You can have

the usual thing, I suppose."

"In course, mum," says cook, undaunted. She is a fine, fat,

healthy-looking woman, with a large eye, and a slightly wheezy

intonation, as though she were constantly trying to swallow some

of her own good things that had inadvertently stuck in her

throat. It seems to me that I ought to love this comfortable

creature, who is so obstinately bent on flattering me against my

will. "But whatever folks may say, a plum pudding for a delicate

lady like you is uncommon 'eavy on the 'art and mind when

bed-hour comes. If you would just say anything that would please

you--something light that I might try my hand on--an ice-pudding,

now?"--this with as near an attempt at coaxing as respect will

permit.

But the word "ice-pudding" calls up old memories: I remember my

ancient weakness for that particular confection. My brows

contract; a sharp pain fills my breast.

"No, no! anything but ice-pudding," I say, hastily: "I--hate it."

"Dear me, mum! now do you? Most of the quality loves it. Then

what would you say? I'm a first-class hand in the pastry line---"

"Make me--a meringue," I murmur, in despair, seeing I shall have

to give in, or else go through a list from the cookery book, and

fortunately remembering how I once heard a clever housekeeper say

there were few sweets so difficult to bring to perfection. But

the difficulty, if there is any, only enchants my goddess of the

range.

"Very good, mum; you shall 'ave it," she says, rapturously; and

retires with flying colors, having beaten me ignominiously.

A month--two months--go by, and still my self-imposed seclusion

is unbroken.

Now and again I receive a letter from former friends, but these I

discourage. From mother I hear regularly once a week, whether I

answer her or not. Poor mother! She has begged and prayed for

permission to visit me, to see how time is using me, whether I am

well or ill; but all to no avail. I will not be dragged out of

the gloomy solitude in which I have chosen to bury myself.

From Dora, on her return from Rome, comes such a kindly, tender

letter as I had not believed it possible the chilly Dora could

pen. It is wound up by a postscript from Sir George, as

warm-hearted in tone as he is himself. It touches me, in a

far-off, curious manner; but I shrink from the invitation to join

them that it contains, and refuse it in such a way as must

prevent a repetition of it.

Monotonous as is my existence, I hardly note how time flies.

March winds rush by me, and I scarcely heed them. But for the

hurtful racking cough they leave me as a legacy, ere taking their

final departure, I would not have known they had been among us.

This cough grows and increases steadily, rendering more pallid my

already colorless cheeks, while the little flesh that still

cleaves to my bones becomes less and less as the hours go on. It

tears my slight frame with a cruel force, and leaves me sleepless

when all the rest of the world is wrapped in slumber.

Oh, the weary days; the more than weary nights, when oblivion

never comes to drown my thoughts, or, coming, only wraps me in

dreams from which I wake, damply cold, or sobbing with a horror

too deep for words!

There are times when I fight with Fate, with all that has brought

me to this pass; when I cry aloud and wring my hands and call on

death to rescue me, in the privacy of my own room, from the

misery that weighs me down and keeps me languishing in the dust.

But these times are rare, and come to me but seldom--at such weak

moments as when a feeling of deadly sickness or overpowering

regret gains mastery over me.

In very truth, my life is a sad one--a mistake--a blot, there is

no proper place for me in the universe that seems so great. There

is no happiness within me, no spring of hope. I appear to myself

a thing apart--innocent, yet marked with a disgraceful brand.

With an old writer--whom I now forget--I can truly say:---

"For the world, I count it not an inn, but an hospital; and a

place not to live, but to die in."

At last I wake to the fact that I am ill--dreadfully ill. There

can be no doubt of it; and yet my malady has no name. I have lost

all appetite; my strength has deserted me; great hollows have

grown in my cheeks, above which my eyes gleam large and feverish.

When I sit down I feel no desire to rise again.

Towards the middle of April I rally a little, and an intense

craving for air is ever on me. Down by the sea I wander daily,

getting as close to it as my strength will allow, the mile that

separates me from it being now looked upon as a journey by my

impoverished strength. Somewhat nearer to me than the shore is a

high, level plain of sand and earth and grass, that runs back

inland from a precipice that overlooks the ocean. On this I sit,

and drawing sometimes up to the edge, peer over, and amuse myself

counting the waves as they dash on to the beach far, far below.

This plain, forming part of the grounds belonging to Hazelton,

possesses the double charm of being easier of access than the

strand, and of being strictly private.

It is the 17th of April--a cold day, but fresh, with little

sunshine anywhere. I am sauntering along my usual path to my

sandy plain, thoughtless of anything in the present, innocent of

presentiments, when suddenly before me, as though arisen out of

the earth, stands Sir Mark Gore.

How long is it since last I saw him?--not months surely?--it

seems more like yesterday. Why do I feel no surprise, no emotion?

Is the mind within me indeed dead? I am more puzzled by my own

unnatural calmness at this moment than even by an event so

unexpected as his presence here.

We both stand still and gaze at each other. As far as I am

concerned, time dies; I forget these weary months at Hazelton. I

think of our parting at Strangemore. His eyes are reading,

examining with undisguised pain, the changes in my face and form.

At length he speaks.

"I hardly thought to meet you here, Mrs. Carrington," he says,

advancing slowly, and addressing me in the low, hushed tone one

adopts towards the sick or dying. He appears agitated.

I regard him with fixed coldness.

"You, who know all," I say, with quiet emphasis, "why do you call

me by that name? Call me Phyllis; that, at least still remains to

me."

He flushes crimson, and a pained look comes into hie eyes.

"I suppose," I go on, curiously, "that last warning you gave

Marmaduke at the library door at home--at Strangemore,"

correcting myself without haste, "had reference to--that woman?

Am I right?"

"Yes; I regret now having ever uttered it."

"Regrets are useless, and your words did no harm. Thinking of

things since, I knew they must have meant an allusion to her."

"How calmly you speak of it!" he says, amazed.

"I speak as I feel," I reply.

There is rather an awkward pause. Now that he is here, the

question naturally presents itself--for what reason has he come?

At length---

"Will you not say you are glad to see me?" ventures Sir Mark,

uneasily.

"I am neither glad nor sorry," is my unmoved return; "I have

forgotten to be emotional. I believe my real feeling just now is

indifference. Considering how unlooked-for is your presence here,

it astonishes even myself that I can call up so little surprise.

Curious, is it not? You look thin, I think, and older--not so

well as when last we met."

He grows a shade paler.

"Do I?" Then, drawing a hard, quick breath--"And you, child, what

have you been doing with yourself? Except for your eyes, it is

hardly you I see. So white, so worn, so changed; this place is

killing you."

"It is a very quiet place. It suits me better than any other

could."

"I tell you it is killing you," he repeats, angrily. "Better to

face and endure the world's talk at once, than linger here until

body and soul part."

"I shall never face the world," return I, quietly. "Here is my

convent; at least within its walls I find peace. I see no one,

therefore hear no evil talk. I have no wish to be disturbed."

"So you think now; but as time goes on you must--you cannot fail

to tire of it. Is it natural to one so young to lock herself

voluntarily away from people of her own age? Why, how old are

you, child?"

"Almost nineteen."

"Almost, nineteen!" cries he, with an unmirthful laugh, "and you

may live for fifty years! Are you going to immure yourself within

these same four walls for fifty years."

"I shall not live for fifty years."

"But you may; without excitement of any description I see no

reason why you should not live for a century."

"I shall not live for two years," returned I, impressively.

"Phyllis what are you saying?" cries he, with a shudder.

"The truth. I am dying slowly, and I know it. I am glad of it. I

have no energy, no hope, no wish for life. Do you wonder much? At

times I have a strange fancy that I am already dead; and then---"

I break off dreamily.

"What abominable morbid fancy! It is horrible!" exclaims Sir

Mark, excitedly. "You must see a doctor without delay; if you

were well no such mournful ideas would occur to you."

"Mournful!" I smile a little. "Yes, perhaps so--when I wake again

to--find I am alive."

"Nonsense," impatiently. "Why have your people left you so much

alone? It is shameful, unheard of! Phyllis, promise me you will

see a doctor if I send one."

"Who shall minister to a mind diseased?" say I, still smiling.

"No, I will not see your doctor. My ailment has no name; I do not

suffer; quiet is my best medicine."

We walk on a little way in silence.

"You do not ask after your friends," says he, abruptly.

"Have I still any left? Well, tell me. I should like to know how

is Marmaduke? and where?"

"Do you not hear from him, then?" turning to gaze suspiciously in

my face.

"No; why should I? We parted forever when he brought me here.

Oh," with a sudden, sharp uplifting of my voice--"how long ago it

seems! what years, and years, and years! Tell me you--where is

he?"

"Abroad somewhere; we none of us know where. You think of him

incessantly?" still with his eyes searching and reading my face;

"it is for him the color has left your cheeks, the light has died

from your eyes? Is it the old life, or is it merely him you

regret?"

"I think I regret nothing but my youth," return I, wearily.

"Had you never, at any time, any idea of the truth?" asks he, in

a low tone, presently.

"Never. How should I. He kept it from me, fearing it would cause

me pain."

"He deceived you grossly."

"Yes but, as he thought, for my good. Where was the use of

enlightening me? The story was told; the woman was dead--or so he

believed. He chose to hide it from me."

"Yes, he hid it from you."

"Well, what of that?" I cry, impatiently; "it was a mistake, I

think, but a kindly one. He was always thinking of my happiness.

It was perhaps a worse shock to him than it was to me. He had no

faintest thought of her being alive until she stood before him."

He is silent. Something in his manner, in the very way he keeps

his eyes bent resolutely upon the ground, chills me. Upon his

face a curiously determined expression has gathered and grown.

"No faintest thought," I repeat, sharply, watching him now as

keenly as he watched me before; "of course he had not. He had

heard of her death years before he ever met me. Had he even

doubted on the subject, his treachery would have been unequalled.

But you cannot think that: it is impossible you can think it:

therefore say so!"

Still he is silent--ominously so, as it seems to me. His eyes are

still downcast; the evil determination in his face is stronger;

his cane is digging deep furrows in the sandy loam.

"Why don't you speak," cried I, fiercely; "what do you mean by

standing there silent, with that hateful expression upon your

face? Do you mean to insinuate that there was a doubt in his

mind? Look at me, and answer truly. Do you believe Marmaduke knew

that woman to be living when he married me?"

I am half mad with suspense and fear. Placing both my hands upon

his arm, I put forth all my puny strength, and actually compel

him, strong man as he is, to meet my gaze.

For a moment he hesitates--a long moment--and then the right

triumphs. Though in his own mind he is firmly convinced that can

he but endue my mind with this doubt of Marmaduke's integrity he

will substantially aid his own cause, still, being a gentleman

born and bred, he finds a difficulty in bringing his lips to

utter the miserable falsehood.

"No: I don't believe he did know," he answers, doggedly.

"You are sure of this?" I ask, feverishly.

"I would give my oath of it," he replies, with increased

sullenness.

"Coward!" murmur I bitterly, taking my hands from his arm, and

turning away.

The excitement of the past few minutes has been terrible to my

weakened frame; I feel a vague dizziness, a coldness creeping

over me. I am a good half-mile from home: should I faint, there

will be nothing for it but for Sir Mark to carry me there, and to

have that man's arms round me for so long a time is more than I

could endure. The bare thought of it nerves me to action.

Hurriedly drawing a pin from some secret fold of my dress, I press

it deep into my arm, so deep that presently I feel a warm

sluggish drop ooze out and trickle slowly down my flesh, Until it

sinks into the lining of my sleeve. The little dull pain that

follows rouses me, and puts an end to all fear of my becoming

insensible.

I draw a long breath and gradually awaken to the fact that my

companion is again speaking.

"In spite of all that, he has wronged you horribly," he is saying

with much deliberation. "What has he made you? A woman without a

name--one whom the virtuous world would not recognize. He has

driven you to bury yourself in this remote corner of the earth,

cut off from all that makes life acceptable. He has destroyed

your youth, and ruined your health: this is all you have to thank

him for."

"The undeniable truth of your words renders them all the more

pleasing." I say, bitterly. "Have you come all the way down here

to tell me what I know so well already?"

"Yes, and for something more, to ask you to be my wife. Hush! let

me speak. I know the answer you would make me, but I do not think

you have fully weighed everything. Were you to endure this life

you are now leading but for a season, for a year, even for

several years, I would say nothing; but until this woman, this

Carlotta, dies, you can never be his wife. Remember that. And who

ever knew any one to die quickly whose death was longed for? Look

at annuitants, for instance; they live forever: therefore this

isolation of yours will know no end."

I am motionless, speechless, from rage and amazement.

"Then by your own words and actions," he goes on in the same

measured fashion, suppressing forcibly the fire and agitation

that lie beneath his cold exterior, "I have seen a hundred times

how little real affection you entertain for Carrington; therefore

you are not bound to him by the ties of love. Will you not

consider for your own sake? I offer you my name, my rank,

everything that I possess. Few men would be tempted to do as

much, perhaps."

"Sir," say I, feeling half choked, "believe me, I fully

appreciate all the sacrifices you would make for my sake. Pray

spare both me and yourself the recital of them."

"Sacrifices?" interrupts he, eagerly: "no, indeed! I never

thought of it in that light. I only meant to put the case clearly

before you exactly as it is, without any false lights. I tell you

that so far from my present proposition to you being a sacrifice

on my part, I would gladly go on my knees to you this moment, if

by doing so I could gain your consent to my plans. I will take

you to any part of the world you may choose to name, at home or

abroad. I shall be prouder, more blest than I can say, if you

will consent to be my wife."

"Have you quite done?" say I, in a tone treacherously calm. "Have

you anything more to say? No? Are you sure? Now listen to me.

Even if the circumstances were totally different--if I were free

as air--if you were the last man on earth I would not marry you.

Whether I do or do not love Marmaduke, is a question I decline to

answer to you. At all events, to my own way of thinking, I am

his wife now, and shall ever remain so--until death divides us.

But as to whether or not I love you, I feel no hesitation about

answering that. I look upon you as the lowest, the meanest of

men, to come here behind your friend's back to traduce him, and

insinuate lies about him, so as to do him injury in the eyes of

the woman he loves. I loathe and detest you, with all my heart."

I am staring him valiantly in the face as I utter these

denunciations. My cheeks are crimson with rage, my eyes are

flashing; for the moment all my old strength, and more than my

old spirit have returned to me. I have worked myself through the

force of my eloquence into such a passion that I literally

tremble from head to foot. I feel humbled and insulted in my own

eyes. All these months of lonely weariness have failed to bring

home to me the fact that I am not a married woman. This man's

complete acceptance of it has maddened me.

"Thank you," says he, slowly; "but pray do not stop yet. There

must be something more you wish to say. Don't mind me; don't take

my feelings into consideration."

"I don't," I reply, viciously stamping my foot. "But, as it

happens, I have said all I ever wish to say to you. You may take

from my lips now the very last words I shall condescend to utter

to you. Leave me; I hate and despise you!"

"I will," cries he, furiously, losing sight of all the

self-imposed restraint that has bound him daring the last fifteen

minutes. "But I shall take something else too. As you decree we

shall part here never to meet again, I shall at least kiss you in

farewell, for the insolence you have shown me."

His face is full of anger and settled purpose; he is white to the

lips; his eyes gleam steadily. There is no sign of wavering or

relenting about him.

Oh, how I regret my intemperate speech. An awful fear seizes hold

of me. I can almost fancy his committing murder with that look in

his eyes. I forget all but a wild desire to escape, and, breaking

from him, I rush madly towards the bare, unwalled cliff that

overhangs the sea.

But a very little space divides me from the edge, as his hand

catches and closes on my arm and drags me roughly backwards.

"Are you mad?" he pants hoarsely, all the passion gone from his

face, leaving only cold horror in its place. "Are you out of your

senses? Come home directly. What! would you prefer death to a

kiss from me? At last you have effectually put an end to my

absurd infatuation. I have no great fancy for any woman's

loathing."

So saying, he leads me homewards, tired, worn out with

conflicting emotions. His hand still clutches my arm, as though

he fears I will again break loose and try to accomplish my wicked

purpose.

Silent and obedient I go with him, until we reach the small gate

by which I generally leave and return.

Here he stops, and, putting me inside, shuts the wicket again

between us, he being on the outside.

"Now go home," he says, sternly, "and go to bed. You are as white

as death. Do you hear me?"

I answer, "Yes," very meekly, feeling somewhat frightened and

subdued.

"As I shall take very good care not to put myself in your way

again," he goes on, in the same tone, "I would wish to say,

before leaving, that in the future, when you stigmatize me as

mean and dishonorable, I would have you also remember that to-day

I came to do you the kindest turn any man could do you under the

circumstances."

After this remark, without further glance or gesture he turns and

leaves me.