Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 16) (1884 09 09)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
re TION. $2.50. a Year, ‘4 SPLENDID BOUQUET OF THE SECRET MARRIAGE A Duchess in Spite of Herself. BY SARA CLAXTON. CHAPTER I. 7, _ A WILLFUL YOUNG LADY. _ tun. ; time, Autumn—bright, beautiful Au- n, loveliest of seasons! The creeper which Or, September 9, 1S No. 16, Five Fis: MY DAVORITE FLOWERS,” half covers the old Hall is just beginning to mingle crimson and yellow among the wealth of green leaves, which in their luxuriant abun- dance, force their way into the breakfast: room through the open windows, which look over one of the fairest prospects in all Oakshire; and ours is a country famous for its..landscapes, as withess the hordes of artists who come down in their summer holidays to sketch its most promi- nent beauties, The morning air is perfumed with the scent’
Page 2
you?” 2 THE SECRET MARRIAGE, of the dying mignonette; the smooth lawn is alight with scarlet, yellow, and purple flowers, dotting the velvet grass, which soothes the vision, so apt to be dazzled with the glare of color and beams of the morning sunshine. _ The place is Creswycke Hall, the ancient baronial residence of the family; and all the territory on which I am gazing, so far as I ean see, belongs to my father, Baron Cres- wycke. Tbe hour is nine A. M., fast time at the Hall. My father, tall and portly, a white-baired, smooth-shaved gentle- man, is drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper. My mother, petite in stature, gen- tle, low-voiced and smiling, bearing still the traces of great loveliness, is dispensing the tea and coffee. I, Cecilia Creswycke, lazily stretched in a lounging chair, am drinking in with my whole soul the supreme loveliness of the early morn- ing hour, in which I am so earnestly absorbed that I do not heed my father’s glances at me from over his newspaper, nor my mother’s gen- tle entreaties that I should eat my breakfast, which, as we do not have servants in the room at breakfast time, she has just placed before me with her own gemmed and delicate hands. T am roused at last to the consciousness that I am absolutely hungry—famishing, I present- ly declare myself to be. My mother laughs—the most silvery peal out of fairyland is my dear mother’s laugh. ‘I wonder,” she says, ‘my dear Celia, if you can realize even what that word means.” “Starving, fainting, dying of inanition,” I doclare, “ And nothing to satisfy hunger with,” says my father, pointing to the dainties on the ta- ble, in the shape of pates, fish, eggs, fruit and potted meats—for our breakfast is always a Scotch one in its variety of edibles. “The poor,” says my mother, thoughtfully, “(the destitute poor, I mean, are the only ones who can define the word satisfactorily. Pray, my dear, meantime, satisfy the famine which 1 _ threatens ite and let us get on with our breakfast. There ensues a momentary silence, broken by a servant bringing in the letters, which are given to Lord Creswycke, who hands ev ery letter to its rightful owner. There are none for me this morning; so, for want of better occupation, my eyes return to | the landscape. I break the silence, ~“ Papa, I can just catch from here the cor- | ner of Craddon Vale. Does that belong to He looks up from the letter he is readjng. “No, my dear; it pélange to the Duke of Carruthers,” “That's a eee: I Pg listlessly; ‘‘or else the invariable break- | same Vale of Craddon, which you so much ad- all we see from this point of view would be your property, papa.” ‘“‘ And yours one day, Cecilia. ” I get up and kiss him fondly. “May that day bea very long way off!” I 8a, Then I sit down again, intending to finish | my breakfast, liltle anticipating the fruits my innocent observation would béar, before many seconds, “Tt was a curious remark, that of yours, my dear, just now,” says my father, presently. ‘“‘ Was it papa?’ [ reply, absently. ‘“‘ Why?” ‘“Because— Well, Cecilia, I may as well take this opportunity—in fact, I have just had a letter from the Duke of Carru- thers, and—and if you choose, my love, that mire, may one day be added to the Creswy lands, and the two estates united.” M face flushes up at this speech. do not understand what the Duke of Car- vite has to do with the matter,” ‘“¢Nonsense, Cecilia,” says my revered pa- rent, testily. “You know quite well what is meant,” : “If the Duke has made me an offer,” I say, demurely, ‘“‘his Grace is too old. Jam only eighteen, and he must be as old as you are, papa. ” “You know very well, Miss Creswycke, that the Duke has done nothing of the kind.” “Ho is a widower, papa,” is miy answer. ‘““With an only son, whose earnest wish, Cecilia, is to obtain your hand, I huve spoken bo you about this before,” “I know, my dear father, I thought I had given an answer—a positive negative— a—"” “ Pshaw! ‘What do girls of your age know about their own minds? You have seen no one else?” “ That I have not,” I reply, energetically, “The young man bears a high character,” pursues my father. “The -has renewed the proposals for the marriage, and—” , “Does me the honor to imagine t at Tam to be bought and sold like a horse, The Duke of . Carruthers, I have heard you say, is one of the old school, papa. Commend me to the new school of parents, then. I decline at once and ~ forever the honor of becoming Marchioness Tremaine in the present, or the Duchess of Carruthers in the future, I need never marry — at all to obtain a title. I shall be a baroness © in my own right.” Which was quite true, only that I need not — have reminded my father—my kind, indulgent, — loving father—that having no son, 'the title of his house descended to the female line, I see he is extremely angry, and an appeal- © ing look from my mother recalls me to myself ina moment.
Page 3
_, “I beg your pardon, dear father, I really _ “4ve no inclination for matrimony—at least, _ &t present. Surely you would never force me to an ungenial marriage?” “Ungenial be hanged!” thunders Lord Cres- Wycke, gathering up his letters, ‘‘ What is it you require, young lady? You are offered Tank, wealth, far beyond mine, and high char- acter; but that will not serve you. Depend °n it, you shall not be tried again!” And the ’ron dashes out of the room in a towering e. . “You have made papa angry,” says my Mother, gravely. ‘ “Oh, he will soon come to again. Surely, mamma, you will stand my friend? ‘You Fee noe have me give my hand without my Z x no means, my dear girl; but you have ‘Seen this young Lord Tremaine, Give elf a chance of liking him. Report Peaks well of him. He has passed a college Tdeal without the usual errors, and even sins, Which so often attach to college life. He is, nee hear, well disposed to use, not abuse, 'S Breat wealth.” (Lhate paragons,” is my ungracious reply. ie Rather,” says my smother, reprovingly— oa I feel sorry, because. she so seldom re- ae you love self-will too much, my dear ioe and refuse to become acquainted with up remaine simply because you have taken ag Silly prejudice against his very name, be Should live in France, my dear, where no ie egulated girl dreams of disputing the ny, b her parents on the subject of matrimo- ba, : Ut is ready and willing to accept the hus- Ud they point out as eligible.” any d to fall in love,” I say, giddily, “ with / a who ogles her after she is married.” digni ae my love!” says mamma, rising in a hae ed manner, ‘You speak in a flighty birth er, not to be tolerated in a young lady of a Blebeian > care you do not end by marrying ith these words, she lea t Yr ; y ves me to my own *flections, which are by no means so seamen Ose With which I opened this chapter. beliows % spoiled ehild—spoiled all the more, I Tent ny because my birth was a disappoint- fonal ned parents originally; and when the neg ve Oped-for son never made his appear- had y ®y took to idolizing the daughter who Hine red. age Tye to, from my birth to eighteen years of ang . 2@ve had my own way in most. things; tinge or comes this vexed question of mar- | do m2, ith one I have never yet seen, whom I @ppar Care to see, just.because ho is, an heir- heirg ®nt to a dukedom; and I—well, I am Ly fan arent to a barony. There vather’s title descends in the female line. a8, ages ago, in the time of that domi- neering, vindictive, vain old vixen, called Good Queen Bess, a certain Baroness Cres: wycke, who made her mark in the annals of our family. It was then, as now, fashionable to imitate royalty. She took Bess for her model; vowed she would never marry; hunted, flirted and maneuvered for power, all in the Elizabethan style. Ree | There is her portrait now in the gallery. It is said to be like me. | haired, with the large, soft black eyes (which they say I haye inherited from her); the bru- nette skin, set off by the rich, deep roses of the cheeks; the small, pearly teeth. Yes, I often gaze at Diana Creswycke’s pic- ture, and see my own form in that of my an- cestress. I trust I shall not make such a finish as she did. After coquetting with scores of noble suitors, like her illustrious model, Diana ended by fall- in love with one of “low degree ”—in fact, one of her own servitors—and, in her fortieth year, made herself a byword at court by mar- rying him. In vain did she beg her patroness, Elizabeth, -to raise the object of her misplaced affection by a patent of nobility. The Queen so mocked and jeered her former favorite that in dudgeon she left the Court, and ended her days in obscurity with her low- born husband. ; ms Fortunately they had no children, so that our blue blood remained untainted by this ig- noble interloper. The title at her death, with the lands, went to a cousin, in whose veins the Creswycke blood ran in its pristine purity. Diana’s memory remains to her female de- scendants as a caution and a warning. No; I shall never so degrade my race. No love could ever make me so lose my senses. Iam wearied at length with thinking. I rise and walk into the garden, and wander about till I come to my favorite tree, a large elm, beneath whose umbrageous shade a seat, as luxurious as wrought-iron can be made, ha been placed especially for my use, me About a yard before it flows a silve stream, large enough for a pleasure-boat. Su- perb swans float about the spot. Every morn- |ing they are accustomed to be fed by my | hands. : I have provided myself with bread from the breakfast table for those pretty creatures, They — | come to my call, and I amuse myself with sum -. | moning each by its pet name. | ripple of oars. | Looking up, I perceive my swans sailing in- dignantly away, and a pleasure-boat, almost as noiseless as the birds’ motion through the , Water, glides past me, a male form, clad in a rowing costume, propelling the tiny craft, She was tall, dark- . Then I hear, to my great amazement, the —
Page 4
4 I can not see the oarsman’s face, for a large, flapping hat, of the Spanish sombrero shape, hides his features effectually. As he passes he takes a rose from his breast —throws it lightly toward me. It falls exact- ly at my feet—a rich, glowing flower, with the dew of early morning still on its petals. Ere I can recover from my amazement, the boat has tacked round, and rower and vessel are as quickly out of sight as they had appear- ed, ‘The swans have gathered round me again, and the sun mounts high, before I recover my astonishment, This is, indeed, a romance! Ihave picked up the rose, Itis very lovely. It would be a pity to throw it away. I will wear it at dinner-time, and— By the way, is not the rose a declaration of love? I think of this incident a great deal more than it deserves, , At dinner-time Lord Creswycke appears to have forgotten my offense: of the morning. He is in high spirits, this dear old father of mine. Before he came to the title, he had been in the navy, first as midshipman, rising till he had become a post-captain; and then his two brothers died, and my grandfather insisted on my father’s giving up his profession, and re- siding with him at the Hall to look after the property till his, death. Papa did not marr™ during his father’s lifetime. The old “salt”? remains strong in Lord Cres- wycke, and whenever he hears of a great naval victory, his old professional zeal breaks forth. _ To-day, news has arrived of some sea-fight, in which Britannia has not only ruled tho | waves, but overruled the enemy, and papa is | in ecstasies of naval triumph. He is so good | as to fight the battle over again, at dessert, for the benefit of poor mamma and myself, till he | discovers that my mother is fast asleep, and | that my answers are slightly incoherent, when | he terminates tho battle by saying, ‘‘There, go along to your piano! It is no good talking to. women about these things! Sampson, bring. me another bottle of the ’20 port!”—by which command we know it will be late before he comes in to tea. CHAPTER, II. IN THE SULKS, THERE are now but few fine days on which { can rest on my favorite seat beneath the elm, and read, or watch my pet swans feed. I have not forgotten the rose-offering, thrown to me on that memorable August \ morning—never cease speculating on the well- knit, manly figure of the mysterious oarsman, whose individuality I have -vainly tried to discover. I was silly enough to put the rose away in a little silver casket, and there it will remain till the mystery be solved; so, there, possibly, it may remain forever, THE SECRET MARRIAGE. ' a good drilling, and tell him not to be forever “Time pusses so quickly, it is nearly three. months since this romantic affair happened, and I cannot even guess my knight’s name. __ By the way, a very disagreeable reality * about to threaten my comfort. I hate having new servants, and especially those who are persona) attendants. Richards, our footmat —a young man who has been in our family, first as helping-boy, then as page, and, whet he gre too tall and big to serve in that ca — pacity, «.s footman—is going to leave. MY father Las taken a fit of patronizing into his head, und has procured Richards an excellent situati. 1 at his club in London as under-stew~ | ard—a place in which it seems the young maa is sure to be advanced. : Well, I suppose it is selfish to wish to keeP him from a better position. ;r My mother has done nothing but talk; it, s: ‘““My dear Cecilia,” she said to me this mort’ ing, as Isat in her room, “your papa intend® to replace Richards by an attendant out of livery— not exactly a groomof the chambers, because, though that is well enough for 4 household like that of the Duke of Carruthers, we do not keep state sufficient for such a serv- ant, but an attendant in plain clothes, whe— who, in short, a—” ' P Here dear mamma stammered and hesitated till I looked up from my embroidered slippers, astonished, . “In: plain clothes, mamma,” I exelaim.— “Who, then, will go out with the carriage, if we have no livery servant?” ’ “Oh,” said my mother, ‘James, who is i? the stables, will be promoted to second foot- man, and will wear livery. He is getting to? tall, your papa says, for a groom.” 4 “It is very avnoying,”I reply, ‘changing servants in this way. And pray who is to re- place Richards? Some of papa’s paragons, suppose. How I detest new servants,” “ This new one, my dear,” said my mother, “is a relative of Mrs. Hessing.” : : Mrs. Hessing is our housekeeper, and haé formerly been in the family of the Duke of Carruthers. e. ‘Ob, then, I suppose,” I said, carelessly; “it will be all right. Hessing must give him in the way.” Iam not one of those young ladies who can- not walk out without a footman after her Even in London i: is a nuisaice; but in thé country it is simply an absurdity. So I wil” have none of this new servitor trotting about in my wake like a tame lapdog, only that i# would be impossible tounake a pet of him, lik® my dear little Rowley, my King Charles spat« iel, with his great dark eyes and his loving dog’s heart. By the by, Rowley came from the Duke’s, Papa, who is always trying 1
Page 5
SS SEES ete Se OE - Please his undutiful girl, begged him from the trainer at Carruthers Castle; and Rowley, who _ Was then about eighteen months old, fell in love with me directly; and I with him. Will the new man attend to him, I wonder ? —or, as the Yankees say , will he be “ too tall” or such work ? “Let him beware, my Rowley, of treading on your dear toes or your lovely, feathery tail; for if he does, my pet—” 7 Rowley jumps up, and snatches a kiss; that 4s, he licks my cheek—lucky it has no pearl Powder on it, “Down, Rowley! behave yourself! Here is rd Creswycke,” And my father, tall, portly, and important, .Comes toward us, bearing an immense bouquet Of flowers—so choice, that if Grinsell, our tdener, sees - them by chance, his scanty CkS will bristle up with sheer envy. Our &reen-houses are very fine, but no flowers can Compete with these. They are deposited in my lap, and I receive them with hesitation, or T have a disagreeable prescience of where | they come from; so I pretend to view’ the Ovely blossoms with great indifference. . “These are for you, my dear; an offer- Ing—” ; “Sweets to the sweet, of course,” I reply, Pertly, “Qh, spare me, dearest papa! I °w the whole vocabulary of ducal compli- _ _Ments by heart.” he my word, Miss Creswycke, you ‘‘Tmpervious to bribes, What am I to do return for this magnificent bouquet ?” th ou will have one twenty times choicer . day you become Lady Tremaine.” and y dearest father,” I exclaim, with a grave Severe air, ““how can you put me to so ‘paoretiael Surely that message was never Tes Cecilia, you do not deserve so much notice. ® position | am empowered to offer you is por which the highest in the land would hardly corn,”? in “This is a novel way of wooing, I must He I exclaim, in excited tones, “ A pro- Sam made to my father instead of myself! Turk, a: - : ‘ a brig Bog does his son deem this a way to win ike dash the flowers down as I speak; and who has become excited at seeing my | t, believing he has discovered the my anger in the poor flowers, pounces the by with a shrill bark, and in two minutes bing ssoms are scattered about, and only a dle of stalks seen, Nes were a rat. : the ns Creswycke is so angry that he threatens to the ‘Ng Charles with his cane; but, rushing Poor little spaniel, I inclose him in my Cause of which Rowley is shaking | "growl. should be a_ mediator, _ satisfaction, at least perfectly to her own. | oner, THE SECRET MARRIAGE. ‘ 6. arms—a shield between him and my enraged parent. The scene is becoming serious, so f take to my heels with Rowley, and never stop till [am safe in my own room, - They may lock me up, and keep me on bread and water, but I will never accept Lord Tre- maine; nor will I ever now be introduced to him. If he comes, I will be a voluntary pris- I will keep my room. 2 A rap at the door, and Rowley begins to It is my mother! If there be one thing above another in which Lady Creswycke takes an innocent pride, it is” her talent for diplomacy. re Now, it is quite right that in families there Mammia fulfills that blessed office, if not to every one else’s entire It is in that character, I perceive, directly she _ enters the room, that she now appears.. Dearly | | t the Duke of Carruthers become a Grand — | as we love each other, there has always beena tendency to contention between myself and my father ever since I had a will of my own, and candor compels me to acknowledge I had that at a very early period of existence. But Lady Creswycke is here to persuade me to ask forgiveness for my recent rudeness, and to coax me into yielding. To the first I will say, ‘“Yes—it will be my duty!” To the latter ‘“ No! emphatically no! Never!” : ‘Cecilia, my dear—what! not dressed for dinner, my child? eyelids are! You have been crying. Some words with papa? Well, well, you know his hot temper. If you would only fall into his views—” ; “You know I cannot,”—suppressing an hysterical sob, j : “ Will not, my love, I fear! What else but obstinacy makes you determine not even to be introduced to Lord Tremaine? It has such a very peculiar look, you know, and places papa in such an awkward position,” ‘(My dear mother, you know the particular | attributes of the Creswyckes?” ‘© Well, yes—obstinacy.” ‘¢Firmness,” I suggest. ‘“Well, in my opinion, the words are fre- quently synonymous. I thank goodness I never was obstinate. I assure you, Cecilia, when your papa first proposed to me, I refused him twice, But, then, my father and mother reasoned with me, and I allowed myself to be persuaded; and I am sure, my dear, I have - never repented.” “ Never, mamma—never ?” “No, my love, never. When my lord used to fall into one of his rages, I just quietly got out of the way, and it was all over in ten minutes, and he never scolded me, so that I could not complain,” : «My father is unjust and persecuting.” How terribly red your. pry CA Tet Cree
Page 6
: a a7, + ee a) el C. -will make remarks; and, after all, it was, I - agement.” » ' “that there are too many young men in the ..“but I do know that there are too many y 6 ; ; THE SECRET MARRIAGE. ‘He means all for your advancement and happiness, my dear!” - ‘*He had better let me be happy in my own way,” I reply. . \ “But, at any rate, you are too young to contend with him: I fear, indeed, my love, you have been spoilt with too much indulgence. Come, dress yourself, and look your best, You know papa cannot bear to see young girls badly dressed; and the servants, besides, hear, the fault of that snarling little beast.” So she designates my poor dog, who, still on my knee, looks at me from time to time with his gazelle-like eyes, licking my cheek and my hands, as if for consolation. ‘Come, my darling, dress, and come down with me to dinner, I will take your arm into the drawing-room. You will go and kiss papa, and all will be well; it only needs a little man- And the end is, that my maid is summoned; I dress; and, though T had intended to remain in my own room, and not go down to dinner, I do just what [am bid, enter the drawing- room—fortunately there are no guests—fling myself into papa’s arms, sob a little, then two or three kisses are exchanged, and, as. my mother phrases it, all is well—for a time, Papa! pets me all dinner-time, makes me drink a glass of his own particular Madeira with himr, and we converse amicably about noth- ings. '“By the by,” says Lord Creswycke, pres- ently, “our new domestic comes to-day. Iam sure, Cecilia, you will be pleased with him— quite a gentleman-like young man. I believe, my dear”—addressing himself particularly to my mother, who, always of uncertain appetite, is coquetting with some surreme on her plate, which I notice she sends away almost untasted —‘‘a superior class of young men are now quite reconciled to the idea of acting as servants to the nobility and gentlemen, Lowly born, most of them, but well educated—men, in short, who might, among the chances of mundane things, lift themselves in the scale of society; but there are too many—too many young fellows in the world ”—drinking off his Madeira, with great gusto—‘‘so they are glad to accept ser- ‘vice-” Of course, I must remark upon this. “T was always of the opinion,” I observe, world.”~ ° “T don’t know,” says taamma, pathetically, women in the world—forlorn creatures! How- ever, my dear ”—to papa—‘ I hope Richards will do well when he leaves us.” The servants were out of the room at this ; dently. moment, during an interval of the courses, “Decidedly he will,” says my lord, confi- | “Richards is a young fellow who would make his way anywhere. If ho minds what he is about, his berth will be very soov worth four or five hundred a year.” “ And then,” said I, laughing, “he can marry Jennings, my maid. I think it is a pity wue lovers should be parted. However, at first, Jennings turned a deaf ear to him.” “But she changed her mind,” says papa& — “Women always do that; they are privileged to do so; and a young fellow who takes no for an answer, the first, or even the second time, it is said, does not deserve a wife at all.” As I can very well see which way the con- versation is tending, I hasten to ae, i it, and, as soon as I can finish my dessert, I run into the hall; and, though it is very cold, I take & wrap from off the pegs, tie on my hat, and hasten to my favorite spot—the tree bending over the stream. I have not sat there many minutes, when F hear footsteps, and, looking up, there is Richards, bare-headed and humble, standing before me. “T am going this evening, Miss Creswycke,” he says, ‘and am taking this opportunity of returning thanks for all your kindness” (What kindness, I wonder, except that I have never been harsh to the poor fellow?) ‘‘ these many years—ever since you were quite little, miss!” (Richards himself is only seven-and-twenty.) “T hope you will enjoy your health, miss, and all kinds of happiness!” ‘‘Good-by, Richards!” I reply, and hold out | | my hand, for I have none.of that base sort of pride which disdains to shake bands with ® poor man because he is a servant, ‘Since you .must go, I wish you prosperity, Mind you don’t forget old friends,” T allude to Mary Jennings. If Richards had been a chivalrous retainer, — he would have bent his knee, and kissed the — tips of my fingers. But he does not know any- thing about chivalry; and when I hold out my hand, his eyes sparkle with gratification, and he shakes it heartily. } ‘‘ Go to Jennings,” I say; ‘‘she has a little — present to give you that may serve you $014 remember me by.” ' The young man has nothing more, to say, and is evidently embarrassed how to get him- — self out of this leave-taking creditably. I take pity on him, “Go now, Richards, and find out Jennings. Saying good-by to her will take a long time, you know.” He grins, bows very low, and—exit Rich- J ards, ~ | I resume my thoughts. Insensibly they fall | on our new domestic. What will the young man be like? Not awkward, I trust. Idos0 — dislike a heavy, lumping person moving about — one. I begin to think I should prefer @
Page 7
——e SS ~~ -— \ THE SECRET MARRIAGE. ae cottage, with just enough rooms to live in, and not to be worried with all the appendages of rank and fortune. I smile at myself. I, who would fain wed in the highest rank, if only my heart could be given with my hand! After all, what does it signify? Just at this moment all things seem to me as they ap- peared to the wisest of men (who, by the way, in his old age, turned out both foolish and wicked), the preacher, whom men have quoted through countless generations. Vanity! Of what use am I? What good doIdo? A selfish atom—a—a—I am nodding. Some dreamy influence seizes me which I cannot resist. In less than another minute I have ceased to speculate—to philosophize. I am fast asleep! It was evening when I departed for the “land of dreams”. -not that I had any; my ' slumbers, whatever induced them, were per- fectly free from visions of any kind. I awoke as suddenly as I had fallen asleep, and my waking eyes fell on an object before Mme not at all unpleasant. It was a young man, seemingly about five-and-twenty years of age, tall, and of a slender, soldierly figure. @ wore neither beard nor mustache. His complexion was of that Saxon type of fairness which to brunettes is peculiarly attractive, from, I suppose, the force of contrast to them- Selves. His eyes, of a deep, dark, brilliant blue, were fixed on me as I awoke with a Start—for I naturally imagined I had been Surprised by a visitor. Yet his costume puzzled me. He was attired in a suit of black cloth—coat, vest, and trowsers all alike; and with a white cravat. He did not wear these clothes in the fashion of a gentleman’s even- Ing costume, for the coat was of the shape Called frock, : _ There was something so irresistibly attrac- tive in the appearance of this stranger that I awaited with much curiosity the announce- ment of his name. The Unknown bowed reverently. “T have been sent in every direction, Miss Creswycke,” he said, “to look for you. and Lady Creswycke are waiting for their coffee,” “And who is it I am speaking to? I in- | quired, rising from the garden-chair on which had fallen into such untimely slumbers. “I beg pardon, madam—may I assist you? I am Spenser, the new ”—he hesitated—“ serv- ant.” My cheek flushed. , Could this be possible? And I took this man ora gentleman! <, pocovered myself quickly, ~~ sic ¥o back; say I am coming directly. You r For he stood gazing as if he had not really | abated, w= heard my command—somewhat, I own, haughtily spoken. He made no answer, but bowed again, and went away, while I followed him, speculating, as I went into the house, on the strange sur- prise I had received, and which I*could not forget. -It was the new domestic’s duty to wait at table, and I was curious to observe how he fulfilled this portion of it. That he was prompted continually by our old and some- what pompous butler, I could very plainly perceive. Once, when he was handing mea cup of coffee, Sampson being busy at the side- board, he trembled so obviously that the. cof- fee fell on my dress, I only smiled. “Poor fellow!” I said to myself; “he is | nervous. He has never been used to waiting at table, that is very clear. However, that is” papa’s affair, not mine.” What he wanted in skill he made up in zeal, however. He is quick, too, in perception, for he knew what I wanted before I could frame a request in words. Papa, however, seemed especially delighted with him; and my mother looked admiringly on, as he handed round the different cups. While we were at the table, my little dog— who had, I suppose, missed me—began seratch- ing at the door. ‘Let the dog in,” I said to the new servant; and he hastened to obey me. Instead of Rowley’s running to me and de- vouring me with caresses, to my great surprise the little creature—who, as becomes his breed, is surly with strangers—stopped short for a minute; then, with a cry of joy, rushed to Spenser, as our new man is called, and strove by every means in his power to show his sat- isfaction. He licked the attendant’s feet, he crouched down, he jumped round him—in short, J was forgotten. “Come here, Rowley!” said L this? “What is Rowley seems to know you!”—turning , to the man, who strove in vain to quiet the Lord dog, whose joyful excitement was not to be “‘Papa,” said I, ““is not this curious? Rowley growls at every stranger he sees! It is very remarkable, for he cannot have known Spenser before. Be quiet, sir, or you shall ' have no sugar!” And I caught the little animal in my arms, ‘put even then he strained to get to the object of his delighted surprise. . ef Saale said my mother, ‘‘ Spenser pute him in mind of some one he has seen be fore.” ; great discernment,” “He is an animal of id my father. om pia 4 and thought Lord Creswycke did _ not display much discretion,
Page 8
8 ’ THE SECRET MARRIAGE, “well,” said I, ay am very glad he tikes | not. so very surprising for a groom to reat you, Spenser; for you will have to wash and attend to him.. Richards always did.” Spenser bowed. ‘‘T shall be too happy, madam.” Madam! How intensely polite! I am always miss” to these kind of people; but Spenser is evidently of a different class to the generality of servant-men, And Rowiey was washed the very next day, and his glossy black coat. was glossier than: ever. Not a hair of his pendulous ears was left uncombed; every bit of the flue of his delicate on paws was dressed till it looked like floss He was scented with choice perfume, and his throat was decorated with a dark blue ribbon; ~ and any owner of pets, who knows the extreme vanity of these spoiled canine creatures, can imagine Rowley’s intense gratification when, borne in Spenser’s arms, he was presented to me by the new domestic. “Upon my word, Spenser,” I say, ‘ your at- tention to Rowley does you credit.” “Your praise, madam, more than repays me. I did take some pains with the little fellow. P “For my part, I am surprised he did not bite you. He is very ready with:his teeth.” I took out my purse, and placed a tiny bit of gold’ in Spenser’s hand. Looking up, I saw his face was flushed, but without guessing the cause, having had little experience of gifts refysed. I proceeded—‘‘ You must take that, Spenser, for the expense you have been put. to—for perfumes and ribbon, I.mean,” He laid the coin down, ‘Forgive me, madam; I srocpaisie nothing of the sort. I have gone to no expense,” “Nay; I am not used to refusal. You must take this, Spenser. I insist—I command!” “Any command of yours, madam, must ke obeyed,” —taking up the half-sovereign and | pressing it to his lips. ‘‘I will keep it.” It was my turn to color now, and to put an end to this apaandity, which I ‘did, haughtily enough, “That will do, ea I do not require yout attendance just now. Youmay go.” Spenser quitted the room, leaving me wit an odd kind of feeling—half anger, half wonder; and through it all, an odd sort of respect’ for the courtly * manners of a gentle- man displayed in the person of a servant. When I drive out with my motber, I relate this strange scene to her, expecting she will display some resentment; ‘but on the contrary, she laughs at it, and says ’ something about the world being turned upside down, and that many gentleman nowadays possess the man- ners of a groom; so. that, says mamma, “it is the feelings of a gentleman.” Why it is that I feel annoyed at this apedels, for. my life I cannot tell; only I am compelled to answer, ‘ But Spenser is not a groom, mam- ma,’ He is a~—a superior servant; and if edu- cated beyond his class, cannot, I suppose, help showing it.” “Take no notice of it, my dear,” says mam- ma. ‘He will not forget himself again, I dare say.” “But that sort of homage from one’s ser- vants,” I reply, ‘“‘is so ridiculous in these days. I really think papa has engaged a personage too good for the common wear and tear of daily life. I shall tell him so.” — ** Don’t do anything of the kind,” says my mother, quite in a fright, apparently. “ What are you going to wear, my love, for Lady Merideth’s ball?? And then we began to converse about satins and laces, of jewels and colors, : “My brunette skin requires a strong con- trast. Blue or pink I summarily reject.” “Why not wear amber?’ my mother sug- gests, ‘No; it is a cold color.” * Mauve?” “My dear mother—detestable! I have it— I shall wear carnation, You are going to lend me your diamonds. Carnation with trimmings . of silver tulle! Oh, dearest mamma! let us drive into Rillton, and call at the dressma- ker’s.” 2 ‘Nonsense, my love! Write to Worth, and order the dress. There will be plenty of time. 3 We drive home, and I write my orders, in- closing my measure. Jennings is to send Spenser off with the letter at once to Rillton—the nearest. post town, > This ball is to be a very grandaffair, Lady Merideth’s son and heir will come of age on | that date; and there is to be the feasting and speech-making usual when a young man of wealth arrives at years of discretion; and . methinks Tom Merideth is specially marked | out for that. His doting parents, however, see no fault in him, and this ball is to assemble all the beauty and rank of Oakshire. It has been talked of for a twelvemonth, and yet my dress has been left to the last min- ute. No matter, I have inclosed my photo to Worth, and have the utmost confidence in the costume he will supply, having simply indicated the colors and materials, The ball is uppermost in my thoughts now, and I chatter about it during dinner-time, feel- ing rather glad, by the way, that our gentle- man-like servant is not in waiting to hear my
Page 9
* THE SECRET MARRIAGE. se, fy frivolous remarks, which I think would some- what diminish his chivalric respect. Rather strange, Miss Creswycke, that you should deign to care about what the man thinks, Of course papa inquires where Spenser is, not seeing him behind his chair as usual, and I have to avow he is gone to Rillton on my errand. “‘ Six miles there, and six miles back,” says my father, gravely. ‘‘ My dear,”—to mamma, —“ could not one of the grooms have been sent?” : “ Not with a letter of so much consequence,” say. ‘Women’s nonsense! I thought, Cecilia, you were above such frivolities!” “TJ like pretty things, papa, as well as other girls. Besides, you don’t want me to look a fright. I desire to look particularly well at this ball!” ‘Want to catch young Tom Merideth, eh?” said my father, his face expanding into broad smiles, and perfectly regardless of mamma’s warning. ‘Hush, my dear! the servants!” “ All right, my love! I know all about it. Young Tom is a pickle, Miss Creswycke. Allow ‘your father to direct your choice; you will never repent. Lord—”. ~ earest of mothers, your exquisite manage- ment steps in here. She rings the bell—enter the servants; and 88 I keep silence except to ask for loads of things I do not want, and cannot eat when they are served, peace is preserved. And din- Ner over, I escape to my apartments—my tiny &8m of a boudoir, opening into my bed and ssing-rooms—my den, where I can sit alone, and read, work or think. Will the Knight of the Rose be at the ball, | wonder for the twentieth time. I cannot but hope so, and that he will claim an introduc- tion. Although I do not know his features, I | race certain I shall recognize his air, his tour- ure, y” who threw that rose at my feet. It was a gentleman, not noble, perhaps, but a Man of distinguished birth and breeding. No ©ne can mistake those attributes even in the ise of a laborer. ! at that minute Spenser comes into my head to contradict my assertion. In the Position of a menial, he, too, possesses that nameless air of refinement, that indescribable SOMmething, which alone pertains to blood. If Thad met Spenser in my own rank of society, or, indeed, on that equivocal ground called Professional, I should have been sure, what- ver his status, that he had been born a gen- tleman. If Spenser now had been a secretary, & land agent, even! But aservant! Where yea my thoughts? It was no common “Bill,” “Tom,” or | much given to self-examination. A good thing, one’s clergyman tells one; but I am not quite sure it is on all points. Once admit an ‘idea, and how the mind will harp upon it! ~~ °— « I—I have a great mind to gladdensmy fa- ther’s heart, and ask to be introduced to» Lord Tremaine, But no; I have vowed I would not, and Creswyckes never go from their word; but I will keep out of the way as much as I can, and will persuade papa to look out for promotion for Spenser.: We do not, I am sure, require such very superior servants, Spenser posted my letter, and in a@ week’s time my costume arrived from Paris faultiess- ly perfect. Silk of the brightest carnation, with trimmings of silver lama, and bouquets. of lilies of the valley. It harmonizes well with my dark hair and pale complexion, to which it lends a glow that is usually wanting to my skin, As the time approaches for this ‘ball, _ my spirits are in quite a flutter. How silly of me! If I made others blush for me as often as I blush for myself, Heaven help me! I should have few friends; and, indeed, at this present time, I have not any—not one real, downrigh intimate friend of my own sex. da As for friendship in the other, I do not be- lieve in it. xan If a man begins by being merely a woman’s friend, he ends by falling in love with her, be she ugly or handsome, and then, adieu to friendship. No; a man’s friendship is impossi- ble, except in the case of a brother. Ah! if I had such a relative I would make him my friend and confidant in all things. I can fancy him, if genial—such a personage as Spenser, for instance—what an inestimabl brother he would make! Hs 4 What am I thinking of? Were any of the Creswyckes I wonder, afflicted by insanity? If so, can I be in the incipient stage of that terri- What are you thinkiug | sembled in the drawing-room. Tho f out, Cecilia Creswycke? Surely I am too! have been held at Merideth Hall the ble disease? CHAPTER TIL THE NEW UPPER SERVANT...) “Time and the hour run through the rough- est day,” and they ran through my sthooth ones also, till that of the Merideths’ ball came, No disasters had happened; no colds ‘had been caught; the carriage horses, which have a hap- py knack of falling sick on these occasions, were in high health and spirits; there was a full moon and no appearance of rain. T have to forsake my usual occupations on this day, and to save myself for the eventful night. x. At seven o’clock we are all dressed ‘§ ;
Page 10
~ 10 THE SECRET MARRIAGE. day; but we declined the dinner on the lawn “You look a very lovely old woman,” I ro in the midst of the tenants, and thus escaped very great fatigue, as Lady Merideth could testify. There are three girls at the Hall, from twen- ‘ty years old to sweet seventeen; the eldest son, Tom, and a juvenile horror, who, till very lately, rejoiced in the name of Baby, but-who now, being at the interesting age of twelve, is nominated as Master Harold—a young gentle- man who is renowned for being the most out- rageously spoiled and mischievously-inclined _ boy in the county. ~~<It- is to be hoped that he will be safe in bed long before our advent at the Hall. I flatter myself we look very nice, mamma and myself. Point late of great value trims her robe, and mamma wears rubies with her myrtle-green velvet. She looks charming; and, as for myself—well, I see in my pier-glass a slight figure, a very little above the common hight of woman, clad in a bright, shiny silk of a Saha carnation color. dress has a graceful train, and is looped < . with silvery gauze draperies, dotted with small bouquets’ of lilies of the valley. My dark and silky hair taken off my face, has, above its clusters and coils of plaits, a lily of the valley wreath; and I amanxiously waiting to see if the gardener has procured a bouquet of the same flowers to match. Diamonds flash amidst my hair, on my bosom, round my . throat and in my ears. To my great annoyance, the butler, Samp- son, comes to tell me that the man cannot pro- cure any lilies of the valley. He brings in his _hand a bouquet. of snowy camelias. “How vexatious!” I exclaim. will be spoiled! Iso depended on Smith’s get- ting them! What am I to doe” A slight noise causes me to turn my head, -andI perceive Spenser, who stands at my side with—oh, delight!—a splendid bouquet of my favorite flowers, arranged in an exquisite bou- quet-holder of dead silver. I utter an excla- mation of joy. “Where did you get these lovely flowers, Spenser? Oh, how much: I am obliged to you! What trouble you must have taken!” “They were left for you, Miss Creswycke,” he replied, ‘‘ five minutes ago. There was no messag ‘““My dress e. ” “‘No message! Who brought them?” “A—a man in the dress of a groom, I think,” Spenser answered, stammering. »-“* Good heavens! can it be the Knight of the Rose, and shall I see him to-night? Can I wear his flowers?” is my thought. ‘Shall I take the bouquet, mamma?” (aloud), “ Certainly, my love. It has really arrived quite apropos. I suppose I must put up with these despised camelias. Well, I am only ax! old woman, so her will do very well for me,’ | ply, fondly kissing her; for we are all alone, Spenser having left the room as soon as he sat’. me appropriate the flowers. ‘“ Papa ought t feel very proud of you. Here he is,” And presently, the carriage waiting, and ow) papa, like all other elderly gentlemen, being absurdly particular about his horses, wé started. On this occasion the head groom wears liv- ery, and stands behind. Spenser rides on the box with the coachman, having attended mam- ma and myself into the carriage. I can not avoid remarking his appearance. © “People,” I say, ‘‘ will certainly take our man, Spenser, for one of the family.” “People,” says Lord Creswycke, “may mind their own business. If I choose to bring a ser- vant out in plain clothes with me, what has that to do with any one?” “Nothing, of course, papa; only I think Spenser dresses too much for his station. He looks like an invited guest rather than a ser- vant,” “He looks,” said my irate parent, “like what he is—a—an upper servant—a respecta- ble person. What do you mean? Has he a dress coat on?” “T do not know much about coats,” I reply; “but I should define his present costume as semi-full dress. He has gloves on} wears an exotic flawer in his coat, and—” What thought is it that darts into my brain, and on this night of all — Good heavens! I must be foolish. It is this—is Spenser a servant, after all? His look, his dress, his appearance this evening are entirely those of ry own class. What can I surmise? I become lost in thought, But then Hessing owns ‘the relationship between them, and— Oh, Cecilia Creswycke, I thought you prided yourself on not being romantic! Of what are you dreaming? I look at my parents: Mamma is genily dozing. My father is immersed ina magazine, and I resume my speculation to the end of the journey. Not a very long one. We arrive in the midst of a very general confusions The day fete is evidently not long ended; the evening one commencing. The house is oné blaze of light. Tents are scattered all over the very extensive grounds of Merideth Hall, carriages are setting down guests, and the eounty fami- lies are fast arriving. Our carriage draws up before the door, and Spenser is there offering his arm for Lady Creswycke to descend by. He comes directly afterward to do the same office for myself. Another time I should have accepted this as- sistance as a mere part of his duty. Now I motion his extended arm away, alight by my- ' self, and seize hold of Lord Creswycke’s arm — Le,
Page 11
‘THE SECRET MARRIAGE. SS — 11 just as he is making ‘an elaborate how to the host of the night, who receives his guests down- stairs, his son by his side, while Lady Meri- deth, surrounded by her daughters, is at the top of the grand staircase performing the same ceremony in a very elaborate and graceful manner. Tom Merideth has made me put him down for the third dance in my list. He opens the ball with Lady St. Jennyns, the great lady of eur county. See My list is soon filled, though we know very few of the young men who are among the most eligible of partners. Harold Merideth, who is running about wild, attired in a light blue velvet suit, and knicker- bockers with point lace collar, etc., persecutes -™e to give him a dance; and at last I promise the urchin that, if there is a country dance in the course of the evening, I will have him for & partner. As, at best, a country dance is but a romp, I do not mind giving Master Pickle this grati- fication; for I love to be good-natured to chil- dren, and, for that matter, would sooner dance with Harold than Tom. My partners are first- rate, and I enjoy myself thoroughly. Iam fond of dancing, and they say I dance well, so Ido hot find my card empty, or myself among the “ wallflowers.” Just as I am whirling away with Tom Meri- deth to one of Waldteufel’s most inspiring Waltzes, looking up by chance to the orchestra, which is a small gallery perched aloft in the ball-room, I perceive Spenser, who is. appar- ently intently watching our gyrations with great interest. Nothing very astonishing, after all, in this discovery of mine, The man must go some- where, suppose, and somehow I can never Imagine our stately servitor in a tavern, or among the gentry of the servants’ hall. dismiss the matter from my thoughts, for ere comes young Harold to claim my promise for a country dance, We are flying through t, up the middle and down again, and then Test for a minute, when Harold takes the op- Portunity of whispering, ‘Miss Creswycke, do you like larks?” “Birds?” I reply, vaguely; for, though I hear the boy’s words, I scarcely heed them. i menial the preserver of my life! my life! suddenly a crash rings through the ball-room— the loud, unmistakable crash ofan explosion. The center glass chandelier has fallen, and flames start up before my affrighted vision, while shrieking figures dart about in all direc- tions, ; = In the excitement I can not keep still; but I, too, begin darting about, and my dress, with its light draperies, is in a blaze, which my wild | running about increases. Tam in flames from head to foot. Thelast thing I behold is a tall figure, which leaps from the musiciaus’ gallery, and which crushes me into darkness and oblivion with heavy woolle clothes and wraps. : I awake, to find myself in tortures of pain. But I am safe indeed and, to my great aston- ishment, the pain is in, my feet and lower limbs; my hands, arms and face are without a scratch or blemish. I am. assured my parents are safe; that I am, indeed, the only person among the birthday revelers who has seriously injured; that I am still in the ) of the Merideths, and that in the panic [ should have inevitably perished, but for the presence of mind of one of my father’s own servants. “Spenser?” I inquired, feebly; and the an- swer of the nurse is in the affirmative, My burns are again dressed, and I am left to repose; but memory has resumed her sway, — and repose will not come, I have a distinct recollection that directly after I was enveloped in all that mass of woolly material, against which in my madness I struggled hard, I had heard a well-known voice utter words which that voice had no business, to utter under any circumstances to me, Cecilia Creswycke. ; ‘“*My love!” it said—‘‘my own dear love! Oh, Heaven, if I should lose you!” I am loved. by my father’s menial—that I might. be _grieved by such a sad revealing—not, perhaps, angered; for who can help loving? ‘Servants are human beings, are they not? But the rev- — elation is worse, thousands of times worse, more wretched. I.am loved by my inferior; and I-—oh, shame! oh, terror!—but this bed of pain and sickness has no disguises—I love my inferior in return! The revelation comes to me—it permeates the innermost recesses of my “Birds!” he answers, with a grin. “No; but there will be a jolly lark presently. Don’t you frightened.” mind, my soul. re |. IT have met my fate—my other half—oh, ‘agony! oh, dire, humiliation|!—in my father’s _ I reply that I am not very easily frightened; nd then it is our turn to set off again, and the “ncing waxes into a romp, becoming by de- Brees fast and furious. 2 I find I have suddenly lost my oo Pa part- ee ae am rushing about by myself. Think- 8 there has been enough of this mad revel, I °P out of the throng, and rest fora few min- ~°S against the back of a stray chair, when = : “ +! hired servant—‘‘ a serf, a slave ]” No, not that. ‘A man’s a man for a’ that.” I cannot raise him to my level. I must sink . perforce to his! ; All that is dear to me—my pride, my self- respect—must be renounced if this man’s love be recognized; and (the knowledge is forced on me somehow) if I do not recognize it, I must crush my own heart. Can | do either? What
Page 12
12 —what will become of me? At noon my pa- rents are to visit me; but at noon my misery has so pressed on my nervous system that I am delirious; and my parents, who almost worship Spenser as their child’s preserver, are Over- whelmed with fears that his efforts have been unavailing, and that the fiat has gone forth which is to leave them childless. Yet youth and an untainted constitution triumph at last. When I am considered strong enough to be talked to, mamma tells me the news. I have been laid up for three weeks, and am not considered yet able to be taken home, Harold Merideth, the scapegrace schoolboy who has ed all this mischief, whose pranks, alas! rev to me the state of my own heart —weuld I had ever remained in ignorance— has been sent off to school in the direst dis- grace, his pocket-money cut off, and himself the object of universal execration. Tom has obtained a commission, and has arted to join his corps. One of the Miss rideths received an offer at the ball just before the explosion of Master “‘ Pickle’s ” fire- works, and is now an ‘‘engaged” young lady —engaged to a neighboring squire of good pat- rimony. All this Lady Creswycke relates with much satisfaction, sitting at my bedside. She has not yet mentioned the subject which I long, yet tremble, to hear. But when her budget of news is exhausted she begins, ‘‘ And Spenser, my dear— Are you cold, my dear Cecilia?’— for I shiver at that name. ‘Surely that is impossible. This room is so snug, so warm, I am sure you will miss none of your home com- forts here, What a mercy the Hall was not burnt down! But what was I saying? Are you not longing, my love, to thank the preser- ver of your life? though the burns were not the worst you had to contend against. They were superficial, and the doctor says will not leave a mark; but the shock to your system was the material point. However, please Heaven, that danger is over.” Shortsighted parent! how little she surmises the real shock, from which I shall never re- cover! She continues: “Spenser, my love, burnt himself seriously in saving you. He can scarcely yet use his hands, bui Hessing has nursed him nicely. He is getting all right now. Of course we have dispensed with his services ~ during his illness, without supplying his place, We are so grateful, my love, so pleased you should owe your safety to him.” “Why?” I naturally inquire. Lady Creswycke’s color rises, “One of our own people,” she stammers; ‘so much better than a stranger. We can reward bim, you know.” : “Do not attempt it,” I exclaim, in a voice wh = Paes f oe ae ee ee TS » Ps THE SECRET MARRIAGE. so stern that mamma looks all amazement. “Do not insult the man to whose courage and presence of mind I owe my life!” At this minute my mother is summoned from the room, and I am left again to think, to won- der, to tremble. If they but dreamed even of the reward their servitor has already received —the heart of their petted, idolized heiress! CHAPTER IV. LOVE AND PRIDE, I HAVE to submit to the tortures of hearing my father’s raptures on the subject of Spens ser’s bravery; of his gratitude for my preser- vation, thinking all the while how much hap- pier for myself it would have been had that ill- timed accident at the ball indeed proved fatal. ‘For how,” said I to myself—my sole confi- dante—“‘how is it to end?—in the life-long agonies of a suppressed passion, or in finally giving way to it, and by so doing, mar my future existence when the brief day of passion is over, and breaking the hearts of parents whom [I so dearly love? Ah, me! was ever fate like mine?” Then recurs the thought of my ancestress, Diana. Am I bound to perpetuate her way- wardness and her misdeeds? i » How I execrate that imp of mischief, Master Harold Merideth! But for his tricks I might have escaped the knowledge of my own heart; have never heard words that revealed to me a passion which from that hour, I knew was re- ciprocated. Some one else might have appeared on the scene—some one of my owr rank—who would have wooed, and very likely have won me; and thus I might have escaped from knowing the passion, which now I could never ignore, A servant! Oh, if he bad only been but a little higher in the social scale—a very little— a clerk, a poor curate, a steward. But aman who has waited behind my chair! I flush with burning indignation at myself. “TI will crush his insolent pretensions at once when we meet again.” Meet again, and he is an invalid, like myself —maimed in his efforts to save my useless, idle life. Is it his fault that I am a mere butterfly in this world of woe and struggle? His fault that he is a toiler, earning the livelihood that comes to me without an effort? Is he not rather the nobler being, who, but for the mere accident of birth, would be as much-my superior as I now affect to be his? — Can I not raise him socially to my hight? | Alas! alas! never! | I wish I was well enough to be taken home, and helieve lam. Let me seeif I cannot com- — pass the matter, So I feign the most joyous spirits, and talk ee
Page 13
about home and its surroundings, till I make the doctor believe that I am homesick, and that my return thence would perfect my cure, I foster this idea, and after a week’s suc- cessful machinations have. the delight of hear- ing that the day is fixed for my removal. ‘But you never ask after poor Spenser, my dear,” says mamma, reproachfully. ‘I could grateful.” ‘Had she but known how little I thought of any other being! “ How is he getting on?” I ask, in a tone of pretended indifference. ‘‘ He, like yourself, my love, is convalescent. Dr. Johnson attends him likewise. He will come here to fetch us when we return,” ‘Tn our carriage?’—with a start. “No, my love,” says my mother, who imagines my question to result from pride. “In the first place, there would be no room; in the second, you would not like it. He will return in the coach with my maid, and your Jennings.” 3 “Thank Heaven!” I murmur, sinking back in my chair; for I am now sitting up. “Cecilia,” says my mother, gravely, and with that hesitation and stammering which always affects her speech whenever she men- tions Spenser, ‘‘I hope you do not dislike that poor young man?” “Not I, my dear mother,” I reply, with 6am What would I give honestly to say did! ‘Because, my love, think what we should be suffering now, but for his heroic action!” I pretend to laugh; but the tears come into my eyes. ‘ ‘Remember how every one else took flight, and left you to your fate. Be grateful a little, Cecilia—be grateful a little, my dear, to this young man.” “T am grateful, dear mamma,” sadly. * Grateful enough, I am sure, even to satisfy you.” She does not dream of the hidden meaning in my words; but takes both my hands into her own, and presses my brow with her moth- stly, tender lips. My return home was fixed for the very next day after this conversation. I had made my adieux, and returned my thanks to our host and hostess, who descended with us through the hall to see us into our carriage, I was on my father’s arm, but when about to step in, my mother having preceded me, there was a aAnnili face; but, oh, how pale and how Hoble! and a familiar arm was extended to ssist me, It was an awkward moment—my Parents were looking at me. The Merideth mily were gaping, servants and all, with ‘Open eyes, on the convalescent heiress, Every Soul there was aware of the deep debt of grati- THE SECRET MARRIAGE. seer oe hades EN ar Se dl TNE al si tees ae os a tude IT owed this man; but no creature knew > 2G) that already I had repaid it with the gift of my whole heart. The face of my preserver flushed up as I leaned for a moment on his arm, and spoke a | few words low in his ear, “T cannot thank you now at this moment _for—for my life; but let me see you at a con- not have believed, Cecilia, you were so un- | venient opportunity. I have more to say.” He started, and I verily thought was about to kiss the hand which rested on hisarm, If 80, he recollected himself in time, and bowed himself to his mistress lowly, though scarcely in menial fashion. I had never before seen him do that, this Paladin among attendants, and as quickly as [ could, entered the carriage. Mamma nodded her head at me approvingly. AT bees re “You could not say more now, child,” was . her remark, ‘‘ but you let the poor fellow per- ceive you had a fitting sense of your obliga- tions.” , And then I closed my eyes all the way home, where the servants were all assembled to wel- come me back, and to overwhelm me with their congratulations, He assisted me out, and hastily saying, “* Thanks all, and Heaven bless youl” I flew up-stairs, and reaching my own room, lovked myself in, and gave free vent to my overwrought feelings by that unfailing feminine resouree—‘“‘ a good ery.” CHAPTER V. THE DOCTOR’S PRESCRIPTION, T HAD a relapse of illness after that, and paid dearly enough for returning home too hastily — before, indeed, I was able to brave the fatigue and the emotions consequent on that effort. So that it was many days—a fortnight, at least —before I was again able to come down-stairs, I had, however, the satisfaction of hearing that_ Spenser had not suffered for his exertions in coming to Merideth Hall.and accompanying us home, and that he was rapidly recovering un- der the experienced treatment of our house- keeper, his relative. He had insisted on riding to Rillton—five miles there and five miles back—I was told, to bring Dr. Jephson to me, though a groom could have very well undertaken the task. At a previous period of my life I should have laughed at such Quixotic devotion in one of his’ station, I did not laugh now by any means, I understood the motive but too well, I was hardly sorry for my illness. It had saved me for a time from that solitary interview which I knew must come, and which I dreaded so greatly. Often, when my nurses had believed me to be dozing, had I. been thinking of that time to come, planning what to say, how to look, to demean myself, that no encourage- ment might be taken, no irrevocable words ut- tered, by which I might be compromised,
Page 14
come back, ne the pallor of the lily, and if you do not take 14 Oh, youth !—heedless, ill-judging. How easi- ly you believe that you can stem the tide of passion with a barrier of pride and reserve! Vain idea! I rehearsed my sayings and do- ings, and all the time my inmost heart knew _ that, should the man presume, that very heart would be displayed to him in all its weakness, its intensity and trembling devotion. No wonder that my agitation, interfering as it did with my rest, appetite, and every func- tion of life, kept me an invalid so long that Doctor Jephson became dismayed. ““My dear Miss Creswycke,” he said, at last, “you are unnerving your own mind, and thus prolonging an illness which now ought to suc- cumb, You must take tonics now, and exer- cise in the fresh air, and your roses will soon There is at present too much of care it will turn to the hue of a yellow lily, which is not becoming to brunettes as hand- some as you are.” And with that compliment, the good doctor thought he had conquered my aversion to arouse myself ; and so, in truth, he had. No woman wishes to appear ugly in the eyes of even a presumptuous Jover, and brunettes rarely can bear to display the colors of ill- health; so I determined to make the effort, which, perhaps, might determine my fate. “Yet no,” Largued; ‘had I not confidence in myself ? I must try now to effect the re-. ‘moval of my preserver.” Iam ordered by my doctor to come down at luncheon time every day; and it chances on one occasion that when I descend, my father and mother, who had driven to Rillton, had not returned; so that Isat alone waiting their arrival, A slight noise aroused me from a reverie, and I perceived the object of my too-frequent thoughts enter, I mean Spenser. I could not avoid a start and a flush; but, doubtless, he remembered my words, and sought my pres- ence to have them realized. Well, it must come. I rise from my chair, and glance towardhim, I know instinctively that the young man rushes toward me. It is for me to speak. He waits for it. “-You—you are quite well now, I trust?” I can think of nothing else to say. ‘I wished to tell you how grieved I am that you should “have suffered so much on my account,” The answer comes in low, rich tones, “Oh, it was sweet to suffer for you; but my | atguish lest you should succumb to the shock | was far worse to bear than my trifling wounds,” , “You call them trifling !—we do not think them so, But Lord and Lady Creswycke will | see you requited for the great, great service | you rendered, For myself, I would offer re-— THE SECRET MARRIAGE. ward, enily I feel sure you would not accept it from me.” My embarrassment hightens as I proceed. “And you are right, madam—quite right. There is but one reward I could accept from ‘you, and I dare not hope for that.” My confusion is at its hight. What can he mean? He surely would not dare! He proceeds: * Still, madam, I am a man. If Isay to you that I am not what I seem— that Iam here only’for your dear sake—you will infer my rank may be akin to your own. You must not think so, Though no menial, regard me as a poor man—a lowly one; but I would ask you, Cecilia Creswycke, to remem- ber a rose which, months ago, was the only messenger I dared send to whisper of my love, my devotion.” I am so amazed at this revelation that I for- get all, except that he tells me—oh, welcome, welcome words!—that he is no menial. “What!” Iexclaim. ‘‘ Were you that mys- terious visitor who, on that summer’s morning, threw me a rose? I have it still) I~ I stop, What am I saying? “Sir, you must not go on. I do not know who you are, I only know that this is very, very wrong. I must not deceive my parents. Hark! I hear the carriage wheels. Leave me, Spenser! Nay, ITeommand you! I must think. Oh, Heaven help me! Leave me! Go now!—I insist!” And looking up, T see, to my intense relief, that he is gone. Fortunately, luncheon is served directly, and my father and mother are so engrossed with some incidents of their visit, and are so eagerly discussing some local scandal they have heard, that my agitation and total inability to eat are unnoticed. After a weary, weary time, during which my struggles to appear celm end in nearly choking me, my mother rises, and too thank- ful to escape my father’s eye, I follow her. Lady Creswycke invariably retires to her room for an hour, while my father takes’ a forty minutes’ nod; so that I can escape to my own apartments. Oh, bliss!—Spenser is not a servant. There is no sleep for me. I have thoughts too bitter for rest, anguish too great for Na- ture’s sweet restorer, I feel, indeed, as if’ I should never sleep again; and when Lady Creswycke glides into my room to whisper ‘ Good-night,” and kiss her ‘ darling,” I feign excessive sleepiness and scarcely respond. Already Tam become an adept in lteatfivue tion. a oa we When I was next day visited by the doctor, my hollow eyes and stricken looks een? him,
Page 15
THE SECRET MARRIAGE. j % i **You must have air and horse exercise,” he said. “This will never do. This young lady must go out, my lady,” turning to my mother. “You must use your authority. A ride every morning, from twelve till two. No; it is of no use,” seeing me about to remonstrate. “You must, in a great measure, be your own doctor; and when I call again, if you follow my prescription, I shall find you better,” With this peremptory mandate the good doctor departed, and a look in his eyes threat- ens plainer speech if I refuse to do his bidding. Idread too much that he will tell my father and mother that my mind, and not my body, is affected. But now I suffer a new terror. If I ride, Spenser will be the companion of these excur- sions. My father may accompany me some- times; but, like most sailors, Lord Creswycke is not partial to horse exercise, and, indeed, a very indifferent rider. How can I permit this audacious—no, that is not the word—presuming lover to gain opportunities of furthering his suit? I have a great mind at once to declare all to my father, but turn faint at the very thought. Iam too great a coward. My parent has a violent temper; there might be murder. Unfortunate girl that lam! What will be- Come of me? I must use these opportunities to urge Spenser to leave the Hall. I make a great stand against this daily med- icine of air and exercise, but in vain. My fa- ther is delighted with the prescription. He vows my mare, Clarissa, is eating her head off in her stable; and further, that she is being ruined for a lady’s horse by being ridden only by grooms. : “Besides, my dear, there is Spenser to ride with you. A first-rate horseman is Spenser; he has nothing else to do. You begin to-mor- row.” “Oh, no, my dear father, not without you!” “My dear love, impossible! Do you want to kill me? I have no horse in my stable fit for my weight. If I ride, it will bring on the pe I feel twinges at the bare thought of What more can I say? I have resisted. I must submit to fate and circumstances. After » perhaps, it is as well to have this means of explaining fairly that be must retire, or else I shall appeal to my father. Yes, that must my plan. He isa gentleman, and when he Sees my firm resolution, will not persecute me With addresses which are as useless as they Sught to be unbearable. CHAPTER VI. TWICE SAVED. ., L Can-read in the eyes of my attendant, on (7,2 Occasion uf my first ride, that he is as de- - lighted at the opportunity fate has placed in 15 his way, as I am vexed and annoyed at being — thrown into his society, That is, I know, I ought to be vexed about it; but is there not, oh, ‘Spirit of Truth,’ residing in my inmost heart, a sense of joy that Iam alone in his presence, without other eyes to take note of my looks and agitation? , ; Ht is a delicious morning when we set out together. The dew scarcely yet off the soft turf, the skies serenely blue, the sun gilding the hedges and the tree-tops. All nature seems lovely and peaceful. We rideon in silence for some time, though already Spenser, I perceive, is nearly at my side, instead of at the respect- able distance which, as my personal attendant, he had kept between us so long as we were in sight of the Hall. I could plainly perceive he was awaiting an opportunity to speak. What will he say,.I wonder? But I perceive he is watching my mare Clarissa somewhat closely. She has almost forgotten her mistress, I do believe, for she is somewhat skittish beneath the rein, and I have to hold her tightly in hand. This con- duct of the mare gives him his opportunity. “Be careful with Clarissa, Miss Creswycke; there is a look of defiance in her eye this morn- ing that I do not like. She has not been well exercised of late, I fear.” “Thank you; I will take care. She knows how to obey.” Then, with a sudden determi- nation, for something must be said, and I am desperate, ‘‘I trust others will also know how to obey, when necessity commands!” 2 He comprehends my meaning in a moment. “T can obey in most things; but if you are Necessity, I have but to trust you will be a merciful one!” I bite my lips. insee He continues, “‘We were interrupted the other day before I could explain myself fully. Miss Creswycke, you must have heard words which, in the agitation of a terrible crisis, escaped me. I cannot deny those words—nay, presuming as you may deem me, I do not wish to deny them. My life is bound up in yours, and as I know what you must feel at the idea of being addressed by a menial, it is at least a duty toward you as well as myself to let you know that I have accepted such duties, only in the hope of winning you.” “Are youof my own rank? Answer. You cannot! Oh, sir, whoever you may be, was it ' the action of a gentleman so to involve me in the appearance of wrong, and to engage my _ affections clandestinely, when—” “Cecilia,” with a joyful cry, “do you, then, own I have engaged them? Nay, hear me out. However appearances may be against me, I am, if poor, a gentleman—one whose dearest hope was to win your love, whose utmost ambition was to experience that so
Page 16
16 : ad THE SECRET MARRIAGE. rich a treasure could be bestowed on me irre- | “Save yourself!” I cried; and my breath- spective of rank or wealth.” “Do you know that were [ to marry so far beneath the social station of my parents, I should have but my hand to give? I should inherit neither money nor land from Lord Creswycke if I were weak enough to yield to persuasion, Be warned in time, sir, and oh, leave this place—make any excuse—but go! Nay ”—for he was eager to speak, and his hand was on the rein of my mare, as if then and there he was ready to take possession of me, and bear us both away, “you must hear me. I rejoice that you are no servant. I know I am proud; but I could not have borne to think that I had yielded to— Oh, Heaven! whai—what am I saying? Go, sir; this is _delirium, Yet you saved my life; but for yqu I had not been here breathing the air of this lovely day. Only I cannot disobey my parents, nor break their hearts. You must go, and that speedily, or my father must inter- fere between us. You do not know him yet. His love of rank is too great to permit him for one moment .to forget it. Even if you were not noble, wealth might prevail with him; but without that—” P ‘One word more, Cecilia Creswycke. If by toil, by energy, I could win that wealth, and with it your father’s consent, would you be mine?” “ Ah, why put an impossible case?” “JT must be answered.” But I could not—dared not—speak such words, Yet what need had he of them? The blood that rushed into my pale face; the eyes that fell beneath his ardent gaze; the tremb- ling of my weak frame, all spoke a language that most men can interpret but too plainly. All this time I had had great trouble in holding the mare in. Clarissa wanted sorely to rush into a gallop. Just then my nerves were terribly tried, and I felt faint. My hand relaxed from’ my hold on the rein, and I felt | all at once my danger. f cried out, *‘ Oh, save me!” But the mischief wasdone. Her ears thrown back, her tail lashing the wind, in one moment Clarissa was off; and I, helpless, weak, and thoroughly unnerved, was clinging to her neck, my hat off, my long hair, escaped from its net, flowing down my back, yet conscious still that Spenser’s hand was yet on the bridle- rein, and conscious too that we were both tearing toward the river as swiftly as the wind itself. _ “We were equals in that moment of terror; only a helpless girl and a brave man, who pro- tected her at the peril of his own life, were present. Who thought then of rank, or wealth, or station? We should die together. That was my only thought, 5 ae Tee less words reached him. “‘Tf Tcannot save you, my beloved, may I, too, perish!’ was the answer, ‘‘ But hold on -—only hold on!” And I did. The end came swiftly enough. The horses—for Spenser’s horse was as much beyond control now as the mare—had neared the banks of the river. Clarissa took the stream. My last look showed me Spenser throwing himself off his steed; while, my senses failing, my grip on the mare’s neck loos- ened, and I felt the waters close over me, and then I knew no more, When. I awoke to consciousness, I was lying on the grass beside the river, and Spenser, drenched as I was myself, was bending over me, pale as death. Several other persons were near us. We were pitiable objects, truly. Presently a carriage was brought, and I was assisted into it. An inn was not far off. It was thither I was to be conveyed; and in a few minutes the landlady had seen me placed im a warm bed. “How was I saved?” I asked, as soon as my lips could frame a question. “The gentleman with you, miss,” was the landlady’s reply, ‘‘ jumped into the river, and, though he nearly lost his own life, swam with you ashore,” “ And the mare?’ “The gentleman, miss” (even she took him for a gentleman), “‘begged me not to tell you; but I see no good in hiding it. The mare is drowned.” Poor Clarissa!—poor pet! Never more shall I pat your glossy neck!—-never more feed you with bread and apples! I gave a great sob. ; “* And the—I mean Spenser—is he hurt?’ “Not in the least, miss.. He has mounted his own horse, which was not a bit the worse, and, after sending a doctor to you, will go on to the Hall to tell my lord and lady. Now, miss, try to sleep 4 little, please,” Bruised and shaken, I could not even reflect; but one thing came into my mind, and would hot go out of it--twice saved by him! Iam no more my own My life belongs to him only now—now, and forevermore! CHAPTER VIL. FAIRLY SUBDUED, ANOTHER long, tedious illness; for though, strange to.say, I took no cold, the fright and agitation of my adventure brought on a ner- vous fever, from which my recovery was tedious, and the inevitable confivemeat te my room irksome beyond belief, for 1 wapted to
Page 17
THE SECRET MARRIAGE. ‘ 17 nd him, my preserver—my Fate, I fondly “4alled him, 1iglY Pride was humbled now, quenched, I be- ” “is, in the stream from whose waters his | ie Ong nerve and vigorous arms had snatched hibj All conversation was for a long time pro- af ited, or my mother would have poured forth Tesh, Spenser’s praises into my willing ears. § hen I was permitted to hear and converse, rl and Spenser alone, was the theme on . ch both my parents loved to ¢<'.. Se hag were they, indeed, on the st.cject, that nce I began to speculate on the chance of my ®ar, warm-hearted, and hot-tempered fathei 8lving consent to the union of his heiress with Y preserver, * f such a thought dwelt with me for a mo- | €nt, however, I was doomed pretty quickly * | undeceived. to a few weeks I was sufficiently recovered | permitted to come down to breakfast, | — unreproved, gave my hand, in the pres- | alg both Lord and Lady Creswycke, to my I called him so now to myself. he uring the meal, Spenser remained, as usual, yt? apartment, but his attentions seemed de- (ed to me only. rl Cecilia,” said my father, “I am greatly - ©ased you are so much better, You are look- E quite yourself again.” I Yes, papa,” I said; ‘‘I am getting on now, fotink. I ought to be; I have been an invalid (ae unconscionable time.” on se Duké of Carruthers and the Marquis leva ®maine are coming here next week, my Log to visit us for two or three days,” says Views Creswycke, looking at me pointedly, engl I hope you will be at your best by oa color be needful to beauty, I must at that a moment have satisfied the most ex € of parents. ra cheeks were burning. ran glared at Spenser, but he was calmly ar- plat, = some flowers in a bouquet-glass by my “ So keep up your spirits, my darling,” pur- ‘i nie oP as he rose, twirling his gold glasses meas hand. “‘-You will have plenty of amuse- otaee His Grace is the beau ideal of a stately o ler, and his son is— Oh, by the by, Spen- 7 = you know Lord Tremaine?” ar have seen him, my lord, frequently,” an- ers Spenser, gravely. - fine fellow—very!” said my lord. “You father. oy opinion of him, Cecilia,” says m alters 3 and remember, my dear, I have m ic my mind. A word to the wise,” adds eswycke, and then leaves the room. “ae, mother rose, ilia, my darling, come to my room | presently. I want to arrange some little mat- ters. Are you able to walk to-day?” “TJ will attempt a ‘little stroll in the shrub- beries about twelve,” I reply. ‘‘ Spenser,” — turning to him—‘‘ you will please attend me at that time. Mamma, I will go with you now.” Then Lady Creswycke gave me her arm, and —my cheeks still burning, but my mind re- solved and steadfast—I ascended with her to her dressing-room. I was breathless with fatigue and agitation by the time I got to a mother’s dressing- room, I had not been there for some time, but every article in it was imprinted indelibly on my mind . ee Much of the important business of my not very long life had been transacted here. I wonder what I am to hear on the present | oceasion?—for Lady Creswycke’s sanctum is the place where dear mamma advises, lectures, or delivers my father’s ultimatum—unalter- able as those of the Medes and Persians. I have a presentiment, which presently is fulfilled. Lady Creswycke first makes me what she terms comfortable, and by her extreme anxiety in this process I feel certain she is about to make me the very reverse. I am not deceived, “So, my love,” she commences, “‘ we are to have visitors next week.” “How extremely tiresome!” I answer. ‘¢ What can bring these people here now?” ““My dear child, that is easily answered. You!” I stare. * “Dear mamma! how can that possibly be?” ‘Cecilia, you know all about it as well as do, We have but waited till you were well enough to have the matter discussed. Your papa has desired me to break it to you.” ‘“‘ Break—break what?’ ; “This marriage with Lord Tremaine. Both my lord and the Duke have decided that such an alliance is the wisest thing for both parties, You will break papa’s heart if you refuse. The Duke desires Lord Tremaine to marry, and being himself in failing health, it is now doubly desirable that he should do so. Only some foolish crotchet about being loved for himself, and not for his title and estates, has hitherto prevented his visiting here; but now—” z “He will return,” said I, ‘‘as wise as he came. Mother, I will never marry Lord Tre- maine. Ihave said so before. I repeat it. T will marry to please myself, or I can remain single.” : “J must reiterate it, mamma. I have not been in society. I have seen no one, but have kept here in the country, waiting, it would seem, Lord Tremaine’s pleasure to come and = fee eee ee
Page 18
ad tg 18 THE SECRET MARRIAGE. look at me. His pleasure has been to be in- sultingly tardy. It is too late now.” “Your illness has interfered. I am ‘sure the Duke has been unceasing in his inquiries.” “T do not doubt the Duke's attentions; those of his son are very questionable. I am weary, mamma, of this discussion. My. mind» is “Not to accept the Marquis, Cecilia?—for I kuow the object of this visit—it is to pro- “On two or three days’ acquaintance?—~ Preposteroys! I will not even see the man!” “I do not see how you are to avoid a meet+ ing, Lad dear,” é evertheless, you. may tell my father m mind is made up. I am ruled his sess of spirit. I always detested the Marquis of Tremaine; now I despise him. . Imagine Ce- cilia Creswycke marrying a man whom she despises!” ) And with that I rise and leave the room, going to my own, where I encounter my maid 2 mings. I surprise her by falling into. a pas- sion of tears, and apostrophizing myself as the most unfortunate girl in the universe. Jen- nings is tender-hearted, and loves me. “My dear, dear young lady,” she says, ‘‘oh, what is the matter?” “ Jennings, would you like to see me married against my inclination?” Jennings opens her rather light blue eyes with horror, “Never, miss; you don’t say so?” “But I do; and [I will never be foreed— never! Besides— Dare I trust you?” “With your life, Miss Creswycke; you know it.” _. “I believe you, Well, I will put you to the proof by and by; not now.. Dress:me quickly, I am going to walk.” “Shall I go with you, miss?” ‘‘No; I have Spenser to attend me, I shall not be long, for I have to dress for dinner, though I do not believe that I shall go down to-day.” “There is company, miss. I heard Mrs, Hessing say so,” “Then I shall not go down, decidedly. Now, quick! My hat—a parasol! The sun is hot, and my eyes ache.” I lean on my maid’s arm; descend the where heis waiting. A glance between us is enough. He follows me out from the, hall door, through the shrubberies. A path, called the Long Walk, leads into the park, close to the thickets which shelter a herd of deer. : ‘ It is but little frequented. Here I stop. 1 have walked rapidly, and am weary and ex- hausted. My attendant stops also, “T did not,” I say, “‘intend going further than this; but Ihave much tosay. ‘There will. . found it without, at least, exposing you to be no ‘interruption near the deer-thickets; fol low me there!” "9 He mutely acquiesces, and we proceed. We are alone—alone!—and I know the grea' turning point of my life is reached. I am here for a purpose, liable certainly to be pre- vented by circumstances; but a purpose which decides me to throw away ambition, rank, station, all Iso believed in and valued from childhood till now, into the scale of gratitude and—love! love! Ah, if I did not love, should I be so grateful? I believe not. I wavered till my father’s cruel message determined tho waverer. Now I am firm. 7 He commenced the conversation, 4 “¢ How shall I sufficiently thank you for con-— triving this opportunity? I should never have censure, perhaps reproof.” ; “JT am little used to that, as you must havo- seen since your sojourn here, They say our— — forgive the word—servants know us better than we do ourselves. Well, in your assumed — menial capacity, undertaken, as you have told — me for my sake—” — *¢ And told you truly!” “You must have arrived at a tolerable esti- mate of my character ”—trifling with a heath- bell I had gathered from the turf. ‘Tell me now, do you think I am worth so much pains and trouble as you have taken for me?” “Worth a thousand times more than’ my poor efforts have cost!” “You are a poor man, you say. Have you thought what kind of poor man’s wife I should make? I scarcely know how people who are poor live,” ' “When I said that,” He replied, “TIT spoke relatively. Although I have no rank, and, therefore, can live in no state, my resources will at least enable me to maintain my: wife in comfort. I am educated; can obtain employ-— ment. Yet giving me your love would entail on you a sacrifice, I have no deer-parks to offer, no servants, no equipage; plain dress, plain living, a plain home gilded only with affection, guided only from day to day by hope and trust! I do not ask you to share deep poverty and privation. I offer simply no superfluities, unless abundance of devotion and love come under that category.” I looked up at him. 4 “Tt was not to discuss such points I came here. My ‘life belongs to you! Twice you have saved that life. I—I came to say thatit you. so care for me, so love me, you—you have won me! I am yours!” He seized both my hands, and pressed them first to his lips, then to his heart. “*Can I, indeed, be so blessed?” he said. “T have had a struggle,” I say, presently, ‘but that struggle is over. The thought of my parents would have deterred me from res si
Page 19
r§ aes ; ea would drive me into marriage with as n I detest. And that is—you heard your- ! HE SECRET MARRIAGE. | io Der adacnen< Kory tnppdaterkcams| bono eacjalioe Minehead | have to learn how to make my own bonnets’ and gowns? Some women have an inborn taste that way, but I never had. From a baby announcement this very morning—Lord | I submitted myself to be dressed by other peo- Tremaine! A man I have not even ‘seen, and bee has not even tried to see me—a pretty mo that his aversion is equal to my “But how, my Cecilia (forgive me, you are ®© now)—how do you know he has not tried = to See you?” me Es he not delayed a meeting by every fans in his power?” 3 If I have understood rightly, sohave you.” I Thad cause; I have been so worried about name Tremaine that I hate and detest his very “Poor fellow!” falls from Spenser’s lips. qn OU pity him?’ ’ or remaine is not a bad-meaning fellow. ne 48 at Oxford with him. But you must not, ~y Own love, be persecuted! Things are now yoda Will you let me arrange events?” tie ae we parted he had gained my promise Y With him, and by an immediate marriage ‘a but Lord Tremaine’s pretensions to flight. _tiend of Spenser’s, whose living was a few ae from the Hall, would unite us, From ta a. we were to proceed to London. I was wa a Jennings into our confidence, and she ane acompany us in our journey. shales to me, dearest,” said Spenser; ‘it tes all be easily arranged. You will have in wot rise early, enter the carriage I will have oe at Thornhill; James Cullenford will © US at the earliest possible hour. The rail then convey us to London, where we shall = fore your flight is discovered. @ easier,” “tripe I was troubled. Pay t Petes understand each other,” : can bring you no money, and m Jewels I shall make a point of loantlaeg behind. BE rr bride you could not well have. Ido t believe I have twenty pounds left of my Quarter’s allowance,” ~® did but smile. a i as I would have it,” he replied. “ My Were rap you are treating me as if I really tis © footman I have pretended to be. I - ety with funds.” ressed. is li me back t. mes co to his lips, and followed “ir Nearly luncheon-time; but my father * srs had driven out to pay visits, and ti one ‘a to discuss my abominable behavior; €caped ing a tray to be sent up to my room, I era thither, and, over my luncheon, delib- and on the best way of gaining over Jen- 88 to my cause. Sein veges dressing-room, engaged in neo- hot Tose me ell, in my new condition, she will uch to do, I wonder if I shall Nothing: ple, and never interfered much with my milli- ners and dressmakers. Jennings makes most of my. dresses; and very well the girl does it, too. I watch her while I discuss my chicken, and think I should like to learn, But, after all, am I going really to be so poor?’ I fancy not. He said relatively poor, What may that mean?—and, oh! why can not I help him? But I have not, like some girls, an independent tor- tune. Would that I had, if only a hundred a year. Papa’s allowance to me is two hundred, out of which I find my dresses and gloves. A very liberal one I considered it; but, of course, that will be stopped, unless he should forgive me, and take my husband into favor. But I have not the least hope of this, I believe rather in his going to the grave, without for giving me at all, and disinheriting me en- tirely. “8 These thoughts are by no means agreeable. I turn to Jennings. ‘‘T gaid I would speak to you on my return, What are you doing there?” “Your dress for this evening, Miss Cres- wycke.” ‘You need not go on with it. I shall not go down-stairs to-night. Presently you can take, a message.” “J have nothing particular to do, miss; I can go on with the dress.” ‘it does not matter; I shall not wear such dresses much longer, Jennings. ig 5 The girl opens her eyes widely but makes no remark. “ Jennings!” “Yes, miss.” «When are you going to marry Richards?” *¢ Goodness knows, miss! At least, we are in no hurry. When we have saved a little money; not before, I know.” : “But J am going to marry,” I say; ‘and, that very quickly. Hush, girl! do not holloa. out; walls have ears sometimes!” “You surprise me so, miss, I am all of a tremble!” ‘Will you follow my fortunes, Jennings? But listen! I am going to wed with a poor man. Now let me tell you.” S She listens in silence, and, at the end of my narrative, declares that she will do all I wish, and that she will retain her situation with me,” “Always supposing,” I say, “that I can af- Yord to keep you. I have no more idea than yourself in what way lam going to live. All I know is that I have given my word, and that ‘my heart goes with my hand, Give me my | } desk now.” Then I write a little note, which Jennings is
Page 20
THE SECRET MARRIAGE. to deliver to Spenser, who, T add, will give her further instructions. This off my mind, f fall to musing. Sucha step as the one I am about to take is no light matter; but it is now irrevocable. I begin to read; Jennings brings my tea; and, after that, Lady Creswycke comes up in &@ great fuss, because she hears I am not going down to dinner, “ But, as we have some people coming, my love,” she says, “perhaps it will be as well. Spenser has desired leave to go out, and your papa has given it. What, indeed, could we re- fuse that inestimable young man? Keep your self quiet, my pet; and remember, Cecilia—oh! always remember—your happiness, my darling girl, is the sole wish of our hearts! You must forgive your parents if they take the most de- sirable way to secure your felicity.” Her words go straight to my heart. I have a great mind to fall on my knees and confess all, But I know the consequences, and I know I owe a duty to him who holds my future in his hands. I kiss her fondly. “Mamma, I have a favor to ask. Give me that photo of yours I like so much. I want it for my album. I have papa’s. I want yours to match.” oe ‘My love, of course”—the tears rising in her still handsome eyes. ‘I will send my maid with it when I go to my room, There! you dear, foolish child, good-night!” And presently it is brought. I place it in my album. This little picture will soon be the only mother I shall have. All that night I lie awake, thinking, hoping, fearing, planning, but never once faltering in the fealty I owe to the man whom now, I own, I love beyond everything in life, CHAPTER VIII. PREPARING TO ELOPE. aT was Tuesday evening which I have last recorded. On the following morning of Wed- nesday Jemings brings me a letter containing full directions how to proceed in what our grandmothers would have deemed a very pro- saic method of eloping. , My departure, which could not possibly, as we had agreed, be delayed, on’ account of the visit of the Duke of Carruthers. and his son, was fixed for the next day (Thursday morn- ing), at daybreak: : cked a few necessaries e letter—‘‘and take as ou to a carriage, Which will be in e di ig ys focyort Se little below the park. e shalt proceed to village of Thornhill. At the church there, m . The tailway-station being close at hand, James Cullenford, the incuinbeut will | ted to make yours happy. One line in reply, which we shall book through to London. ‘All this may Dé achieved without haste, fear, or any anxiety but thé natural one, which, I know will possess your gentle heart at leaving home for one comparatively a stranger, but whose life henceforward will be dev? your maid, who will It convey é faithful to us, - to me. “Yours, in all faith and sincerity, Ta “ HERBERT SPENSER.” The first time I ever knew the baptismal name of this man, who, by this time to-mor- row, would be my husband! q Well, it is no common or vulgar name, and I rejoice that it is not; for, though Juliet may ask, ‘‘What’s in a name?’ to youthful love it is a very great deal, Still, the suddenness of my departure causes the blood to rush to my face, and my whole frame to tremble. I had then, perhaps, given my last kiss to my mother! I had a great mind to go down-stairs; and, under the pretense of saying something, to hug my dear, hot-headed, darling old father to my heart; but, as I had previously signified I should breakfast in my own room, I could not well do this without exciting surmises, which — would be inconvenient, I also determined not to descend until din- ner-time, for I felt I could but ill keep up the — pretense of my usual demeanor for many — hours, and knew that I could easily retire altogether after dessert. Sending down a mes- sage to Lady Creswycke to that effect, I found myself at liberty to attend to my packing. I had a very handsome traveling ulster, beneath which I determined to wear a rich gray silk dress, trimmed with Brussels lace. Besides this, Jennings was directed to pack, in asmal] portmanteau, a plain dark dress for every-day wear, anda velvet jacket for out of doors. ‘These, with some linen, was all I would take, except my dressing-case and al- bum. I left my jewels and the rest of my ward- robe in my drawers. Nor did I even take a favorite book, My faithful maid was not long in making these arrangements; and before I descended for the last time to dinner, all was in readi- ness, I was late, however, in entering the dining- room; for, there being no company, my par- ents were already seated before I entered. Spenser was in his usual place, My extreme paleness struck my father, I suppose, for I felt as if I was indeed a traitress thus to join my family on the eve of my de- serting them forever. “Cecilia,” papa says kindly—and, at the very sound of that dear voice, tears rise in my eyes—‘if you did not feel equal to the dining down-stairs, why did you make the effort?” : “T am not ill, dear papa; only a little ner- vous, that is all,”
Page 21
THE SECRET MARRIAGE. Sg ke is ) a1 “Well, now you are come, let me have the Pleasure of seeing you eat a good dinner.” But this is a sheer impossibility, though nser (Herbert I am learning to call him) de- Votes himself to the sole business of tempting me to eat. . 1am 50 ill at ease, that conversatian seems Impossible; and, if Lady Creswycke had not Come to the rescue, a deep silence would cer- Inly have reigned throughout dinner-time. When the dessert was placed on the table, penser, as usual, left the room, not without a Slance at me, which lit up my wan face with ‘rimson, and made my observant father ex- Claim, “ Cecilia, my love, you are feverish. | Xou must have no wine, and mamma and I Will excuse you. Come here, my darling; kiss “Oh, papa!” “And oh, Cecilia! Bless you, my darling! I should not be kissing this hot cheek and feverish lips,”—kissing me again and again as he spoke—‘‘but for the noblest fellow in the World, though he is but a servant! You must + be very good to poor Spenser, pet.” Faster and faster came the blood into my roat and face. “Papa, how?” “No queenly airs, my darling! When you are Lady Tremaine, you must advance him; but we will manage all that,” “Papa, you know that can never be.” “Tut, tut! Go to bed, now, like a darling! ‘ere, mamma, send this naughty girl to her ©wn room!” “But, papa, forgive me. Bless your poor Cecilia!” “Yes, yes. Bless my darling—now, always, forever, under any circumstances!” And, with a joyous cry, I throw myself on his broad chest, and hug him, till Lord Cres- Wycke looks as if he thought me delirious. mama folds me in her arms. I kiss her over ‘nd over again. It is my last good-by. As I enter the hall, he is waiting, ready to Place a light in my hand. As I take it, that hand is pressed significantly. It reminds me °f my plighted promise. th, incline my bead slightly; and, ascending the Staircase, the last Isee of my betrothed is at he returns to the dining-room, where I have left my parents: CHAPTER IX. MARRIED. Ir may be supposed I do not sleep—though, After ascertaining that Jennings has left noth- ‘ng to be done, I retire to bed. As the long ie are ticked off by the great clock on the ease (a piece of mechanism popularly sup- Posed to be coeval with the rise of the family, nd costing scores of pounds to repair when it pet 5), country church. is out of order), the house sinks into a silence unbroken, except now and then by a single footstep, velvet-shod, of some servant, who has been kept up, going off to bed. I count every hour, and sink to sleep at last as the ghostly clock strikes four. At five Iam ' aroused by Jennings; who is fully dressed, and who, while I am taking my bath, makes coffee over a spirit-stove, which was in use during my illness. When I am entirely dressed, my ulster is thrown on, my furs are wrapped about me, my hat arranged, and I prepare to quit the house of my childhood and youth: The little luggage of myself and my maid have been conveyed the previous night to Her- | bert’s room. We are uninecumbered. A few ‘tog tyrannical old father, and then go to) » minutes only remain, and I place on my table a note, addressed to Lord Creswycke. It con- tains a prayer for pity, love, forgiveness. It is extremely incoherent, and would do little to exculpate me, even in the eyes of the tenderest of parents; but I cannot mend it, and there would be no time to write another, if even I were inclined. Then we creep down-stairs, the old hereditary clock croaking, rather than clicking, as its pendulum records the wane of time. I feel asi_adream. The rays of the rising sun are ing the lawn and the tree-tops when we issue through the glass door of the dining-room, where, on the previous night, I bade my last adieu to home and parents, rank and social station. : My hand is seized by Spenser, who is wait- ing impatiently. It is placed under his arm, and Jennings follows. Through a wicket gate we reach the avenue which leads to the lodge, where all is still in silence; but I notice that the gates are unlocked, and that egress is quiet- ly achieved. How, I cannot guess; bribery, I suppose. A plain brougham is waiting a littke distance off. Into this Herbert places me, Jennings follows, and I see my lover ascend the box by the driver. , At this moment a whining is heard. It is my pet dog; quite forgotten in the agitation of | the moment, Rowley has followed me.’ He has to be taken in; and then we are off, unrecog- nized, unopposed. Will it continue? A two hour’ sdrive, and the carriage stopped before the Norman porch of a small, graystone It is now eight o’clock. Leaving Rowley in the carriage, we descend, and, followed by Jennings, Herbert, taking my arm, leads me into the vestry, where’ a gentleman, attended by, I suppose, the clerk, is already waiting for us. Jennings is. by my side, and while Herbert introduces me to the Rev. James Cullenford, a tall, clerical, kind-looking person, she takes off
Page 22
2) THE SECRET MARRIAGE. . my ulster and hat, and throws over me a large lace vail, which envelops me from head to foot, and with my gray silk I look not so un- like a bride as I had feared I should. _. Herbert’s great coat off, he also is in light . clothes. The church doors are closed. The _clerk and the old woman who is pew-owner act as witnesses; Jennings, as bridemaid, in a neat, dark sik and white ribbons; and in ten minutes more I am Herbert’s wife. My husband’s kiss—the first he has taken from my lips—the clergyman’s congratula- _ tions, Jennings’s tears, tell me this fact, or else I should deem it a dream. Then comes the signing. Herbert signs first, and I follow him. He places a piece of paper above the line where I write my name—to guide my hand, he explains, When all is done, I see him fee the clerk and clergyman; and judging from the multitude of _ eurtseys which she drops, the old pew-opener is settled for life in regard fo money matters. Jennings is about fo envelop me in my traveling wraps, when the vestry door opens, and an old gentleman enters. Not that ho is ptitired as a gentleman; his dress is little better than that of a butler in every-day attire, but his air and manner would convince the veriest tyro that he is a gentleman. He is gray- sarily not very tall, but thin, and his face eams with bunevolence. My husband—how strange that word seems! —darts forward, seemingly amazed. “My—” Ho stops and wrings the hands of the old man, who comes up to me. “Your oldest friend, Bertie, you would say,” he replies, “come to look on your fair young oride, and give her an old man’s blessing, since she has no father here to doso. From a nook behind the pillar there I saw you wedded, my dear boy. Aud you, fair girl, will not disdain to bestow a kiss on one who has known your husband from his cradle; is it not so, Bertie?” husband bowed assent reverently. @ approached, and kissed me on the tem- ple. “T may never see you again,” he said. “TI have, therefore, brought you this small keep- sake, to remind you that I have beheld you once and blessed you. Good-by, Bertie! Adieu, dear Bertie’s wife!” As he said these words, he placed a small parcel in my hand, and bowing to the clergy- man, left the vestry, my husband flying after him. | I He was not absent many minutes, though. I was all ready for traveling when he re- _ turned, and taking his.place beside me im the brougham, Jennings sitting beside the driver, we were carried rapidly to the small country | station of Thornhill, and in another quarter of | an hour were traveling to London as fast as the genii of steam could conyey us, > |London for Paris, there to pass our honey~ -moon.. I knew so little of London localities — | that I heard with pleasure we were less likely “ How much better is this, my dearest,” sale my husband, as we glided slowly into the Pad: dington station, “than a ladder of r Gretna Green, and a blacksmith! Besides, saves time and a scandal!” CHAPTER X. HAPPY. We were driven to a small private hotel the neighborhood of Russell Square, Her proposing that the next day we should leavé to be discovered in this middle-class Belgravia than if we had sojourned at a hotel of higher pretensions. “But there is no fear of pursuit, my dar ling,” said Herbert. “Your father is too proud to bring back a runaway daughter.” * His words gave me a keener pang than he could have surmised, or he would not have spoken, I thought, so lightly. To pass the mattor off, I reverted to the episode of the old . gentleman who in so courtly and strange @ manner gave me his blessing. bt “How came he to know about our marriage,” — I asked, “‘and what was his name?” My husband seemed slightly embarrassed. “His name?’ he said. “Oh, the same as mine; in fact, he is a distant relative, and, as he truly said, the oldest friend T have.” I was not ill-pleased to hear that this grand- mannered old man was connected with Her- bert by blood, for he was so undeniably what we understand by the word gentleman that I needed no other assurance to convince me that I had wedded a man of gentle birth. “By the by,” said Herbert, suddenly, “he gave you a wedding present, did he not, my Cecilia? What was it, pray?’ “Good heavens!” I replied. “In my sur- prise and agitation I know not what I did with it. Iwas so terrified that I expected to see Lord and Lady Creswycke enter the church.” ‘‘ Perhaps,” said my husband, “you gave it to your maid.” “Jennings?” L replied. ‘‘ No, certainly not. I was about to examine the parcel when you hurried us away. Oh, now I remember; it is in the pocket of my ulster. Ring, Herbert, for Jennings, and inquire.” And, fortunately, I proved not to be mis- taken; the parcel, wrapped up in satin cream- laid paper, tied with a silken ribbon, was re- posing snugly enough in one of those recepta- cles called pockets on modern garments. And doubtless nothing short of the care which sur- rounded me could have prevented my pocket from being picked, in which case the thief — would have been well rewarded for his pains, for, on opening the parcel, a morocco casket, ‘ containing a brooch, earrings and necklet of es *,
Page 23
5 1ough my mother’s were esteemed something + 4 €Xtraordinary in tho way of jewels. I was _ Perfectly petrified. - _ “You little know how delighted I am, my love,” he said, “at my relative’s liberality. [ _ think it a good omen that you should have re- Ceived this really handsome gift.” “But he looked so poor,” said I. Could he afford it?’ -. “Some people, you know, dearest, are _ hoarders. Mr. Spenser—that is his name— Must not be judged by his coat.” : ' _ “YT would not do so for the world,” I said, fearing I had touched: my husband’s feelings in _ sensitive point. ‘But how camie he to find Us ont?” a oe fear Cullenford must have been talk- Ing. I was indignant. _.. “How very ungentlemantike! However, Herbert, perhaps this relative may assist you ™M some unlooked-for manner. I will put his _ diamonds carefully away, and if you need Money you can use them; they must be worth » 8 good deal, By the way, let me tell you I 8m richer than I had supposed. I have full five-and-thirty pounds in my purse. I assure you I was always taught to be careful ‘of _ ™oney. Therefore, I shall need none for Clothes from you.” . He kissed me fondly. : “Leave all to me, dearest. You will ‘want ~ for nothing, if you but continue to trust me.” We arrived in Paris on the third day after Sur union in the little church of Thornhill; and _ before I-had even time to think of my wants MM the way of dress, stores of wearing apparel Were sent in, which I declared would last me Ihy life. Existerice in Paris is so perfectly de- lightful that I should have been supremely lappy had it not been for two things which Steatly troubled me. . One was, that though I ‘ad written again to my parents; giving my iddress, no notice whatever had been taken by them of my letters. I was treated with dis- Ainful silence and contempt. The other was that I dreaded Herbert, in his devotion to me, Was spending far more money than his means Warranted. From his residence at Creswycke Hall he _ New my tastes and habits perfectly, and left XO means untried to supply them as liberally we had found them at home. It was in vain hat T remonstrated. “We are here for our bridal holiday,” he : “and we will have it out. Then hard Pie and economy must be the order of the v2” } bet could only murmur that the latter should ‘eft to my care, and proposed as a first step ‘0 send Jennings home. He would not hear of it, ** How Par. es THE SECRET MARRIAGE, ‘23 _ “J shall be from home a great deal, my darling,” he said. “That my Cecilia must learn to bear; and you must have some one with you whom you can trust. Besides, Jennings would hardly thank you. She has her intended residing in London—my prede- cessor you know”—archly—‘‘and no doubt cherishes the idea of seeing him uently. I hear Richards is thriving in the elub establish- ment where your father placed him. By-and- by they will be able to set up a hotel, or something of that sort.” : ves I had married in haste, certainly, at the last; but I had not, according to the adage, repented at leisure. Every day I found new reason to justify my choice. Eyery hour of social intercourse showed me that I had wedded a man of high education, taste, and great natural talent. What a pride it was to me to discover that he had taken high honors at Oxford, and that those magic letters after his name, representan tive of his degrees in that University, would—~ nay, had—already given him literary employ. ment. # It was on this I learned our future resources were to depend. He wrote, I found, on great public and political questions—was an essa of already no mean reputation, but known in the world of authorship only by initials. He contributed to quarterlies and scientific re- views; and yet Herbert Spenser, in that close domestic life we now led together was as simple and as unpretending as when he stood _ behind my chair at Creswycke Hall, © Sek Our gay Paris life came to its end, and was not sorry, for T had had enough of it, and was longing for a simple English, middle-class home. Such a one was found for me by Herbert in avery unpretending neighborhood, pe A Belgravian lady would have been shocked at the sound, and would: no doubt have shud- dered at the locality. It was in Doughty street, W. : We had three furnished rooms in this street _ a drawing-room, a large chamber (opening out of the drawing-room), and a room up-stairs for Jennings, and which occasionally served me for a dressing-room and work-room; for I had no dresses but those my waiting-maid made for me, and I developed an unknown talent for making and trimming my own hats and bonnets, quite unsuspected hitherto. Our apartments were but peinly furnished ; but Jennings and I, with t ‘and some plaster busts picked up cheaply enough in the neighborhood of Holborn, a few ste engravings procured in a similar way, with some wire-stands filled with flowers, made such a paradise of these commonplace rooms, te e help of a few yards of bright-colored chintz, and'two or three = pair of lace curtains, with a china jar or two, , core. ~»
Page 24
24 THE SECRET MARRIAGE. that when, after taking possession of them in the morning, Herbert returned to dinner in the eveuving, his surprise and delight were un- bounded. Next day, a handsome pianoforte wassent in, a rocking-chair, and a writing-table; and, lo! | we had made a home of love and peace which no castle could have supplied. Herbert declared he had found work; and when we had settled how much would weekly supply our needs, including the luxuries of books, flowers, and music, I am certain there was no household more flourishing than ours. My husband left home at ten or eleven in _the morning, and returned at six to dine. Sometimes—but rarely, though—we visited the opera, for which Mr. Spenser said he could often procure a private box through bis literary friends, so that my pleasure was unalloyed by the fear of expense. Sometimes a good play varied the amusements. Sometimes—and that mostly—home music, reading, or chess, in which my husband was a great adept, afforded us all we required for recreation. Often, if pressed for time, Herbert wrote, and I copied for him, Happy days!—the elysium of youth, love, and bope! unclouded save by one sad memory —my parents. : _ But even here I was saved from suspense. Mrs. Hessing, our housekeeper at Creswycke, kept Herbert well informed as to the health and well-being of the dear, unforgotten inhabi- tants of my former home. My parents were well, and in excellent spirits; the Duke of Carruthers a constant visitor, and Lord and Lady Creswycke as frequently his guests at Carruthers Castle. Of the Marquis of Tre- maine not a word was said. But my mind was relieved of all fear that I had broken my parents’ hearts; and the thought that I had been so readily forgotten at home knit my heart still more closely to him whom alone now I had to love and cherish. I was not, however, without some curiosity regarding the noble suitor, whose tardy pre- sentation I had evaded by giving up my home, and trusting myself to entirely new experi- ences, And soon I found that a very Liberal journal | was full of the sayings and doings of the Mar- quis of Tremaine. Now he was chairman at a philanthropic meeting; then was heralded as the promoter of some valuable charity, for which he got subscriptions and laid the foun- he ag He was the friend of reforms, the ruthless sweeper-away of abuses, from those sanctioned and upheld by his own order down to the mediocracy of money and vested interests, He was the friend of the poor man, whose right to live and enjoy himself he so on I mused greatly over this discovery of min®; and at last, overwhelmed by these proofs of his popularity among not merely his politi friends, but by the constrained and inyolud tary homage of his political adversaries, own! ; I must have been prejudiced against him it a most absurd manner. I acknowledged this one evening, when my husband—-whose time was now so much take up by parliamentary debating (for he owned that he held an appointment of some valué to his income in parliamentary reporting) that he was but seldom at home till very late ‘—was busily employed in correcting som? proof-sheets, He half laughed when I made this confes sion. “Do you repent, Cecy?”’ he said. ‘It was a sacrifice, I know, my dear love, to give up the prospect of being a marchioness and queen of the fashionable and philanthropic world, in- stead of humdrumming here in Doughty street with a fellow like myself—a ‘hewer of wood and a drawer of water’ compared to the bril- liant Tremaine; but I told you that, in the slang of the day, Tremaine is not half a bad fellow.” “I do not repent at all,” I answered. “I am much happier as a poor man’s wife than I could have been with that cold-hearted philan- thropist, who was certainly in no hurry to come and claim me for a bride. I am always under the impression that he quarreled with the Duke of Carruthers on my account, and that at last expediency alone forced him to find his way to Creswycke Hall.” My husband looked up from his papers. “You forget, my love, how you resolutely declared you would not see him, nor accept him if he offered.” “‘How do you know that?” said I, sharply. ““It was before your charming performance in masquerade, that I said those things. I said it from pique, I believe. No woman likes to bé slighted. Besides, I wished to choose for my self. If I repent of anything, my dear Her- bert, it is for not boxing your ears for suppos- ing me such a whimsical, fickle personage. But now I have a question that I have long desired to ask. How and where did you first see me, that you dared enter into such a mad scheme as that by which you saved my life and — won my heart?’ He laid down his pen. “This, Cecy, is scarcely the time for my confession; but, come, I am weary of work, and, after all, you have aright to ask. Do you recollect, my love, when you were about § sixteen, a certain picnic got up by Lord Cres- strenuously maintained, that a stranger would , wycke for your special behoof, to which all your young girl friends were invited?”
Page 25
ic a THH SECRET MARRIAGE. 25 ‘ “That I do,” I replied. “Mamma invited the young Marquis, I remember, but he sent y excuse, ”? 2 : band, sitting down beside me, and stealing his “tM around my waist, ‘‘an artist, who was - Sketching with a young friend or pupil, for he Was both, met with an accident. A branch of ‘de © tree beneath which he sat fell on him, and, 4 ing his forehead, rendered him for a time Shselegs,”” _ _ “T perfectly remember, We thought the : man was dead,” “A group of lovely girls surrounded the Wounded artist and his boyish friend, but none } offered the slightest aid, unless staring helpless- ly at the hurt stranger was such, except one, he loveliest of all those fair, helpless, fine Young ladies, She flew for water; she Stanched the blood from the bruised temples, _ 40d then brought wine to revive him. The : boy who supported his friend’s head, and who _ Shafed the hands which seemed to him still in death, asked some one near who the young dy was, who seemed to him a ministering Mhgel of goodness. The answer was, ‘ Miss | cilia Creswycke.’? When his poor wounded Tend revived, and Miss Creswycke had pre- Vailed on her mother to place their carriage at .'S disposal to convey him to his inn, the boy, ‘nfatuated and charmed no less with the kind _ “cart and energy of Cecilia Creswycke than With her beauty, had registered a silent vow. at, in the years to come, she, and no other Woman, should be his wife.” “How intensely romantic! I remember the artist quite well. Of you, if you were his Youthful frieud, I have not the slightest recol- &ction,” “Yet the boy, who, by the way, even then thought himself, I believe, a man, fulfilled his Vow, and” (pressing my lips fondly) “is now Your husband.” “So that was the motive! But how did Hessing get you into our house?’ “She had at one time been my nurse.” : “How? I always understood from mamma | hat she had originally been in the service of , ® late Duchess of Carruthers.” “ Before she served the Duchess she had been " the employment of my mother.” Ps lea,” never hear you speak of your parents, my Herbert. Is it painful to ask you about them o i Much, My father was the younger son of a “Not very; but I would rather not say , ‘Just after dinner was over,” said my hus- | z Sos Pa He : a tutor became also hers. He did more, this had everknown. T have not altered that opiniop now. I mean my mother, who had a power ful incentive, formed her mind by reading and intense study. My father aided her.. His clergyman. He connived at their secret at- tachment, married them, and lost thereby his _ patronage, which lay in the hands of my fa- _ ther’s father; lost also his curacy, and became 'a@ ruined man. My father was cast off, and for years resided with his father-in-law, the farmer, aiding and helping the latter in the management of his farm. - My father, who, as 'I have said, was a younger son, ultimately, through the death of his three brothers, sue- ‘ceeded to his father’s estate, and my mother ea family; but he was thrown in the society | tae farmner’s daughter while reading with a the Y who was in orders in the neighborhood of % ne girl. She was not educated then. | /and he lived happily enough for some years; then she died, just when I was at an age to know and estimate her value. It was possibly because at the precise time I met you, Cecilia, having then not long lost her, I traced in you a likeness to that dear dead mother, believing that in her youth she must have exactly re- sembled you, that I was attracted so strongly as to register a rash vow I thank Heaven I have been permitted to fulfill?” He paused a few moments, and then said, “Of subsequent family misfortunes do you wish me, my dear, to speak? I own I would rather not.” I threw myself into his arms. ‘‘T know one thing—I am not, never was, worthy of you. Ian angel! My dear Herbert, I was proud and ambitious, disdainful and—” But I was not allowed to proceed. My lips were closed with kisses from the husband who had not yet ceased to be my lover. CHAPTER XI. THE MISSES SCHWEITZER, I HAVE said nothing as yet about the owners of our Doughty street lodgings, for, paradoxi-’ cally speaking, they were two persons, and yet only one, Sisters, and single ladies of uncertain age (except the certainty that they were no longer very youthful), the Misses Schweitzer were supposed to rule the house; whereas, in reality, it was only the elder sister who was the pre- siding genius, It was a day or two after our arrival there’ that I first made her acquaintance, just at the- very moment when Jennings and myself were measuring out chintz and sewing rings on our lace curtains, which were to go inside~ the heavy scarlet damask ones which adorned the four windows of our drawing-room (for, being a corner house we encroached into the next street). . The maid-servant, who, with a young man {ter years, when I was old enough to form | ditto that slept out of the house, and seemed « jidgment, I thought, as I still think, that she | to be a general factotum and jack-of-all-trades, © most thoroughly educated woman 1 | comprised the entire establishment, came in to - we es a
Page 26
with a smile. 26 THE SECRET MARRIAGE. Scant say that Miss Ethelinda would be glad to wait on me it I was at leisuré; and, as I was never likely to be more so, when I fully understood that the lady with so high-flown a name was my landlady, or one of them, at least, J an- swered that I should be very glad to. have little chat with her. ae Accordingly, five minutes afterward, a rustle of silk, and a knock at the door heralded her approach. Miss Schweitzer was in appearance by no means unworthy her romantic name. She might have been nearly forty, but without the least approach to making up, or pretension of any kind, except that she was handsomely dressed—-and I never saw her anything else— she looked young for that age. Her complex. jon was dark, her features strongly marked, and, till you knew her well, prim, the lips being firmly set. » Direetly she opened those lips to speak, I knew she was @ woman both kind-hearted and cultivated. ; “The rooms suit you, I hope, Mrs. Spenser? she said. “Perfectly,” I replied, ‘thank you; but I am in want of amusement, and, to make these strange chairs and tables look a little more re- sembling. the home I have left, gives me that. Besides, I want to surprise Mr. Spenser. J hope you will forgive me the liberty I am taking. Everything - here is convenient; only—” “More useful than ornamental,” she said, “Only Rosalberta said to me, ‘Perhaps they don’t like the rooms, and the parlors might suit them better;’ but, as I said, there was the street-door, and more noise and draught than up here; but no doubt the rooms will look twice as well.” “Rosalberta!” I said, bewildered by this second romantic name. “My youngest sister,” she replied. ‘She never interferes with the house, only advises; and she has so much common sense, which is a very rare thing, that I almost always take her advice, Pray, however, do what you like with the rooms. The thing ¢f importance, now, is what will you have for dinner?’ Now, this was a difficult question, and a mat- ter about which I was quite inexperienced, and Jennings was very little better. I knew how much money I had to spend, but: did not know if I was expected to take a basket, and go to market, or what to’provide. I looked em- _ barrassed. ’ Miss Ethelinda soon relieved me. * Just give me an idea of the style in which you mean to live,” she said, ‘‘and I will save you all the trouble, and spare you all the ex- pense I can, I am a landlady, it is true, but, for all that, not an ogre.” . ‘*We must live plainly,” I said, “but well. ‘ ‘laughing. Beef and mutton, I suppose, dnd that kind & thing; that was what Mr. Spenser said. But?) I were to go to the shops, I should not knoW | what to buy.” . “ A baron of beef, perhaps,” Miss Schweitzel | said, smiling. ‘Will a joint and pudding, with a salad now and then, be the thing?” } “That will just do!” I said, clapping MY) hands. ‘Don’t you think so, Jennings?” . Jennings said, ‘Remarkably well, sh@ thought.” “ And next day,” said Miss Bthelinda, “‘th?) joint can be warmed up, and cutlets will maké out the dinner.” =, “How nice! You seem to know all about ” ' “Tt would be droll if I did not; Many of my lodgers ask me to board them; and, as do not want to live on them,I cater as cheaply asIcan., I shall enter each day’s money ex pended on food in a little book, and you cal pay me every week. Your groceries your maid can purchase for you. In a week yot will be able to estimate the average sum your expenses, and I recommend you to keep a book of your outlay in housekeeping. I sha not cheat you; but it is possible that, seeing your inexperience, the tradespeople will not be able to resist that temptation.” 4 “You are a:gem of a landlady!” I said, “Does your sister approve thes? philanthropic dealings of yours with the lodg- ers?” ““Who—Rosalberta?” said she. “ Poor child! She lets me do exactly as I please, She has — such an opinion of me that I cannot do wrong — in her eyes. Well, it is pleasant to know there is some one who believes in you. Good-_ morning, Mrs. Spenser! I shall begin to-day with roast. beef, and a nice little pudding of my own invention.” | T took such a liking to Ethelinda Schweitzer —her sister was but an echo of her, though well-meaning-enough—that when Herbert was — late, I used to descend to the basement of the house, where they had quite a roomy suite of apartments, and listen to the histories 0 former lodgers; and, indeed, some of theif present ones. I often thought if the sisters had known my history, what a nine days’ wonder it would have been for them! There wasan elder sister, is seemed, who also kept a boarding-house att the West End. ; These three sisters, I heard—for Rosalbert@ was just as communicative as her sister, and did nothing but work at her needle and gossip—were the children of a lady, wh being the sole child of a wealthy pawnbrokely at his death inherited his money, and who when her own mistress, married a young” Swiss, then a promising tenor at the Italiad opera, \ j
Page 27
*. on THE SECRET MARRIAGE. She had had sense enough to get her money _ Settled on herself; but his influence over her, and his extravagance, by degrees reduced her income. Then the tenor’s voice broke, and instead of being able to repay his wife’s ad- Vances, he had to study the cornet, on which trument he was sufficiently proficient to get Pretty well employed in the orchestras of the ndon theaters. Indolent, however, by temperament, Mr. Schweitzer worked only by fits and starts till his wife’s death, by which he succeeded toa _ Small anruity, and on that retired to his native Wwitzerland, The three girls were left each a small inde- Pendence, and thus Ethelinda had decided to Purchase a house, and increase her income by letting lodgings. My husband was well pleased that in his absence I had these ladies to converse with, for adies they were, in_mind and accomplish- Ments, though they did let lodgings. It was Ethelinda who often accompanied me to the opera, when Herbert could not spare time to go with me, or who took me to see the latest new play. ‘She knew, in virtue of her father, many artists and literary men, and could generally Set a box or an opera stall when so minded. “More estimable and respectable,” said my husband, one day, ‘‘than very many of the fashionable London women.” We were dis- Cussing the Misses Schweitzer. ‘‘ With most of them, what can you converse upon unless it * Ritualism, or Worth’s last new costume? Give me the women who earn their own living ®arnestly and reputably. It is they who de- Serve rights ”—which I declared to be a reflec- lon on my helplessness, and an undeserved Satire, “But then,” said I, slyly, ‘‘ you are an out Tageous Radical.” CHAPTER XII. A BIRTH AND A DEATH. I Time passed quickly in these haleyon days. had but one grief—the estrangement of my Parents, and that I could not but acknowledge had merited. " y sorrow, it is true, was soothed by the Nderness and devotion of my husband; and the? as the months glided away, 1 awoke to ® knowledge that I, too, should one day be- Come a mother, and this discovery made my reflections against myself more bitter. b had now, like Desdemona, a divided duty; ut I sighed for reconciliation, and could only fica my baby might prevail where I had ed, ‘yolcanwhile, when Herbert had leisure, we ent for a few days into the country; and, “King lodgings at some primitive farm-house, *Pent days in wandering about the lanes and ~ ) 8 meadows or hills and valleys, and enjoyed our holidays like two children escaped from school—I sketching, and my husband reading by my side, ever and anon criticising my art- pretensions. “Not bad that, my little wifie. On my word, Cecilia, I don’t see why you should not goin for highart. Youmight become famous, and here is your humble servant ready to_ write’ any number of critiques on your pic- tures, No mean advantage, allow me to ob- serve.” . “Do mind your ‘Horace,’ or your ‘Tenny- son,’ or whatever you are making a pretense to read. I fear my existence is too idie and luxurious, Herbert. I wish I could, indeed, be useful enough to earn money.” “You are eminently useful, my dearest, in being so powerful an incentive to my earning money. I believe that naturally I am a very idle fellow; and, if I had not you to look after, might become a perfect Bohemian. But I fear, my darling, this prosaic kind of life of ours is boring you. Shall I bring home some friends for change? How would = like to be introduced to the Marquis of maine, for example?” “ Are you so intimate?” “T could be if I chose. I often see him; and, without vanity, he is very well disposed toward me. We need but little to become very intimate.” “ All things considered, I decline,” is my re- ply. ‘But do tell me,” I continue, “ what is the man like?” “Like? Like a man.” “ A good-looking one?” “ Humph! I can not quite say. He has two legs, and arms, and eyes, a nose, and a mouth —the last does him credit, I have seen him occasionally eating his dinner, or his lunch, whichever it is men get to eat, at the Westmin- ster Government Manufactory.” t “Trreverent being!” I exclaim; “do not scoff at your betters. Lord Tremaine helps to make the laws of his country. You only re- rt them.” ‘Cecilia, I have an uncomfortable kind of feeling that if you really knew this Tremaine, you would fall over head and ears in love with him.” “Your flattering opinion of me, my dear Herbert, must have greatly increased since our marriage. How quickly the enthusiastic lover merges into the suspicious husband; but even your jests would be a barrier to such an intro- duction, supposing it were feasible.” I was slightly piqued, and henceforth deter- mined to introduce Lord Tremaine’s name no more. ‘ About this time my health began to be af- fected, and there were no more pleasant walks |
Page 28
2 HE SECRET MARRIAGE, | or play-going for me. Country excursions, too, were quite-put aside. But Ethelinda was as good a doctor as if she had taken a degree. Ill as I was at times, I should have been worse but for her ever-ready prescriptions, though certainly she had her crotchets. f Herbalism was one of them, homceopathy was another; and her last, but not least, pre- dilection was for spiritualism. Nothing would prevent her from attending lectures and seamces innumerable. She hada fine faith in spirit-rapping; which always occurred to her at a certain hour of the night. This belief she had adopted, Rosalberta de- clared, ever since a medium had resided in their house; The medium had since married, from which time, it appeared, her spiritualism had deserted her. Said “medium was now in America, but Ethelinda declared that it was impossible to doubt her sincerity or the the réality. of her powers. When we used to discuss these things by my landlady’s fireside corner, and I ex- pressed my wonder that a person of her good - common sense could believe in what I called useless nonsense and positive profanity, she would put an end to it by saying, ‘‘ There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy,” and so silence, but certainly not convince, me, This seeming to me Miss Schweitzer’s only weak point, I for- bore teasing her about it. I respected her so much that I could respect even her prejudices, Once, when I asked her to tell me of what. good Spiritualism could be, even if it made.a stand- ing in the world, she replied ‘that it would alter and totally revolutionize the world; that society and human nature would be on a differ- ent footing altogether.” { might not credit the reality of the mani- festations she was so fond. of visiting, but of her own sincerity and conviction I never for a moment entertained a doubt. Acting on her advice, | maintained my cheerfulness in the best way I could till the period arrived when my baby was born. After his birth my strength of endurance had wholly collapsed, | and for weeks I lay between life and death. It | was then that Miss Schweitzer’s admirable | T had, | of course, a regular nurse, but Ethelinda su- talent for nursing came into full play. - pervised her, and saw that she did her duty. My life hung so entirely on the perfect quiet | in which I was kept that even Herbert was al- | ‘most excluded from my room, and dared only look at me from a distance lest I should see and recognize him. Good nursing, my doctor said, at last had, under Heaven, alone preserved my life. Yet, when I was able to see, hear, and» _ understand, I thought when I saw my darling ' baby, he was clieaply purchased even at the expense of such an illness. When I was able to converse with his father, my first thought was to- inquire about my parents, « “Had he written?” — ‘He had,” ; : ; ‘What was their answer.” “None; but at the time he had written they — had gone to the south of France. Lady Cres- wycke was not quite well, Mrs. Hessing had’ written him word. I was not to fret; some- — thing assured him all would be right if I would — put have patience.” “Do you forget, love,” I said to my hus- band, “that you are father to a young baron- presumptive? It may possibly be but an empty — title, but a title it will be.” : “T must first lose you, my Cecilia!” was my husband’s answer; “and that I would sot do to be the father of all the barons in Christen- dom.” Then came my convalescence, and my son’s — christening; and at last I was fairly well, and able, to my great delight, to nurse him; when, one morning, when Herbert’s letters came to him, one with a deep black border claimed my notice, “Good heavens, Herbert!” I exclaim; ‘tell me what has occufred! My father—my mo- ther—it is one of them, I know! Oh, to die and not forgive me! I must die, too!” But he had opened his letter, and I was reine g with the look of deep, stern grief on his — ace. He stood reading it, and then looking far re as if the past or the future were facing’ im. My sobs and wailing aroused him at last, “Hush, hush, my love—my wife! It is not — your parents, rest satisfied. It is—” 4 “Oh, Heaven!—whom?”’ i ‘He who told you he was my oldest friend — —he might have said my best!’ I have none — left now but you, Cecilia!” “ And our boy!” I said, throwing myself into — his arms. “ Ay! When we ourselves are parents we _ feel and know! But I must leave you, my love. I must go dewn into the country. — Possibly I shall be absent a week—I will not — be longer. You can write, my darling.” He penciled an address T saw it was to the care‘of the Rev. James Cullenford, Thornhill, the clergyman who had married us. In an hour Herbert had departed. ey CHAPTER XIII. THE SPIRITS WERE RIGHT, Waen Thad time, after Herbert was gone, to sit down and reflect, I felt more than ever that my husband had held back some facta from me in his domestic history. a .
Page 29
Se That he was grieved exceedingly and heart- | Stricken by the death of this old gentleman, whom he had represented, or at least inferred, | to be a distant relative, was so plain that common sense told me Mr. Spenser, as he | designated him, was closely allied to Herbert. I felt positive that he was the surviving parent of my husband. Yet a man who could give costly diamonds as a wedding gift could hardly be a poor man. How, then, was it that his son had to work so hard for a living? As I could not settle the question at all to Iny satisfaction, and baby being asleep, I be- took myself down-stairs to Ethelinda Schweit- Zer’s sanctum. “You need not send up any more six o’clock | dinners,” I said, ‘‘till Mr. Spenser’s return. Lunch will do very well at two o’clock for Jennings and myself.” “For how long?” said Miss Schweitzer. ‘6 A week, I suppose,” I replied. ‘My hus- band has ‘been summoned into the country by the death of a relative.” “Ah!” said Ethelinda, laying down her work, and digging her needle into the pin- cushion as if she were sharpening that little tool; “ and when he comes back, my dear Mrs. Spenser, you will not eat many more dinners | in Doughty street, I fear.” _In the course of my intimacy with Ethe- linda I had told her my own history, partly because I liked and trusted her, and partly be- Cause I desired to ascertain if Jennings had | been silent, which 1 found, to my great pleas- ure, she had. “What put our leaving into your head?’ I now asked, “THE SECRET MARRIAGE. | ever. | home! 293 il be sent for as I, the prodigal daughter of my father’s house,” I burst into tears as I spoke, for, by this time, I had deemed my exile was to be per- petual. I soon overcame this weakness, how- ““T cannot miss this opportunity,” said I, “of saying how much I thank you, and how much I owe to your society. My mind was_ rusting, and you aroused it. I have to thank. you that I can now speak French and German without being ashamed of myself; that I am a musician, whereas before I was only an amateur, and but a poor one; to say nothing of domestic economy, at which I have been, I hope, an apt scholar.” “Certainly, my dear,” from Ethelinda, “T would trust you with my own housekeeping.” » Which is no mean praise from you,” I _ answered, ‘In short, I have gained nothing but good from you; and, beyond my sincere esteem and friendship, what have I had to re- _ | turn if with?’ “My dear, your youthful presence and — gayety, which has peen as if a heap of birds and flowers were all over this dull old house; your darling baby, which has been an endless source of delight to me and Rosalberta—hasn’t it, Rose?” Rose gives an emphatic affirmative; and presently, the handy young man coming in to say that cutlets are required for the parlors directly, Ethelinda has to leave her work and. our conversation to see that they are properly prepared. My kind hostess! how sorry I should be to leave her, yet how glad tosee the dear faces at However, sho need not fear, for if 1. ~ “The spirits!” said Ethelinda, in her grand, | Serious manner, “The spirits!” said I, laughing. ‘‘ When?’ “Last night,” said Miss Schweitzer. ‘Thad | & manifestation, while Rosalberta was out | lying groceries, which, you know, we always 8et in on Fridays, and it was revealed to me that Ishould soon lose the presence of friends I prized. ou will forgive me calling you friends,” she Said, “for I have never had any one in our house for whom I entertained such a real friendship,” . Never,” echoed Rosalberta, kindly. T got up, and shook hands heartily with th of them. “T*am only too glad to tell you both,” said T, “that I found prized friends here, where ! ad looked only for strangers. Besides,” to Mthelinda ‘are you not my boy’s godmother? nd even if I were received at home again, Ow could I forget that you must both come to -Peswycke Hall for a holiday, when your own wants painting, or the lodgings are | empty. But how I talk! Yow areas likely'to sf, went for a visit, [ must return to London. We must preserve our independence. No; dear Doughty street will not be deserted, in spite of the spirits. ‘ Meanwhile, I receive daily letters from Her- 4 bert, the merit of which appears to me to con- sist in saying a great deal, and revealing noth- ing. “My relative’s funeral is fixed for the end of the week. His affairs need urgent attention. is only myself to do this. Lawyers are tiresome toa degree, etc. I have heard all the news of Cree Hall. Your parents are in the best of health, Rest of satisfied with that. When I conte home it.will be Give several kisses to our and accept thousands for Your devoted ‘ HERBERT.” And with such missives I am forced to be content, till the week has lengthen d into a fortnight, at the end of which a cab drives up _ to the door. : The whole house is in a commotion, and [ | am, at length, clasped once more in my hus- band’s arms. He looks worn and tig ers fhen time enough for details. darling for his father, youself, from ‘haggard; certainly much thinner than : | we parted, ‘
Page 30
~* a ee We A Cd a A “a7 _— —— > © .. * oe ee oo Coe. 30 “How ill you look!” is my uncomplimentary commentary, ‘I never saw you look so bad!” ‘“So would you look, possibly,” he replies, ‘‘had you gone through as much business as I have had to achieve.” “But on whose account?” I ask, bewildered. “My love, would it worry you much to learn that my—amy friend’s death has brought us an addition to our income?” “For your sake I should be glad. I am very well contentedasIam, ‘Youdon’t mean, I hope, to quit Doughty street? Ethelinda Schweitzer has predicted the fact. She has had especial information from the spirits. She will break her heart, Now tell me all about it.” But Herbert seems embarrassed. He has had a handsome legacy left him—in fact, left sole executor, and— So he stammers and makes such a mess of his explanation that I rise, and- placing my hand on his lips, effectu- ally shut them. “Tell me. no more, my love,” I say, gravely. ‘‘ I want to know nothing that you desire to hide from me when it suits you. Doubtless I shall know all these secrets. At present, do eat your dinner; and if you must talk, talk to baby.” He affects to laugh, but evidently looks on my words as a relief, and says no more. Next day, he is out—engaged, he says, on urgent business. And thus two or three more days pass over, , H had dressed myself in black, out of compli- ment to my husband; but on his return, after giving a glance at my black dress, he expressed so decided a wish that I should assume the deepest mourning possible, that, in acceding to “his desire, I was more than ever confirmed in my belief that he had lost a father. “T suppose,” I said to him, one day, at breakfast, ‘‘ you have seen the papers during your absence.” : ““Scarcely,” was the reply. ‘Why? What is the news?” “Do you not know, then, the Duke of Car- ruthers is dead?’ See; 1 kept the announce- ment for you. It is here. ‘On the 27th May, the Duke of Carrutheas, at Carruthers Castle.’ So that the Marquis of Tremaine is iow Duke of Carruthers.” “He is indeed!” said my husband, with something like a moan, “Are you grieved, _ Cecy, that you lost the chance of being a Duchess?” “You silly fellow! I would not be one on any account!” ; “But suppose you could not help it?” “T can suppose nothing so absurd.” Ethelinda’s handy young man here knocked at the door, and brought in the letters. One—_ two for Mr. Spenser; one, in the broadest of mourning, for Mrs. Spenser, bringing, as the THE SECRET MARRIAGE, phrase goes, the heart of that person right into — her mouth, \ Another minute, and it was opened and read, . ; “Herbert! oh, Herbert!—help me!—sup port me!” He rushed tome, ‘‘Oh, my love © —my love, read that! I am forgiven—and you! Nay, I can hardly see! Read it out! — Oh, Heaven, have mercy on me!” It ran thus: “My Dartine Cecita— “Tam not much of ascribe at any time, It will — be enough, therefore, if I say, as soon as you receive — this, come al d mother and myself. All is for- gotten and be forgiven. Do not delay. ‘**Your loving father, 6 CRESWYCKEE. “ Bring your husband’ and your baby.” ‘* What can it mean!” I ask, hysterically. “Tt means exactly what it says, I presume,” said my husband, smiling. ‘‘So rally, my dear Cecilia, and let us obey the command with as little delay as may be. Let me see! . The train leaves at two. You see, Ethelinda’s ‘spirits’ were right, afterall! We are leaving Doughty street.” “ But to return, I suppose?” I say. “Doubtful, my love—at least, for some time, I suspect. I trust the spirits will pro- vide Miss Schweitzer with other lodgers. We cannot expect her to keep these.” And at one o’clock we are all ready to de-, part, Jennings and myself with tears in our eyes, and Ethelinda and Rosalberta in the deepest gloom. , I cry “ Farewell!” as I get into a cab. I add, ‘Only for a time;” but Ethelinda shake her head, and says: “Who was right? You won’t laugh any more at the spirits.” The express which whirls us to Oakshire does not go, I verily believe, so fast as my heart beats. Its vibrations come so thick and fast, as we drive up to the door of Creswycke Hall, that, to this day, I have little recollection of how I got into that well-remembered home of my girlish days. I only know that on the threshold of the breakfast-room I was enfolded in the arms of my father; that my mother wept over me, and kissed me a thousand times; and that my boy was nearly crushed altogether, so great were the raptures of his grandparents concerning him, In the midst of our confusion, I renfember, too, that I was not a little confounded by see- ing my father and my husband shake hands cordially, like very old and intimate friends, | and that Herbert kissed mamma familiarly on her brow and cheek. I had expected, of course, that he would have been received kindly, but with a certain degree of stiffness. Here, however, was noth- ing but the heartiest cordiality, Jennings and
Page 31
SS eo the baby having departed for the housekeeper’s Toom, I looked on so utterly amazed that at St my father, sinking into his arm-chair by Xe fire, burst into such a torrent of laughter (in which my mother eventually joined almost _ Joy had seized them both, . felt grave enough, but grew still graver, as | T found my husband could not at last forbear Joining in this mirth, though far more quietly. t last my father checked his merriment, with _ 80 obvious effort, wiping his eyes, which had _Aterally overflowed with his glee. “On my word,” he said, with a sudden | 8ravity almost as absurd as his laughter, ‘‘ we ght ‘to be ashamed of ourselves—my dear Old friend Carruthers so recently in his. grave; Sut at times he laughed almost as much as I ave just done. And, Celia, you will laugh, _ 00, one of these days, when you tell this jest. _ © your own children.” ___ “Perhaps,” said Herbert, “ Cecilia may not, er all, think there is any jest in the mat- . ter!’ ; “But she must—she must!” reiterated my father, “Come here, my dear girl! So you Tan away from father and mother, did you, _ With a stranger, on whom you looked as a ser- Yant, but who—the graceless dog!—persuaded ou that he was a gentleman?” “He is a gentleman,” I said, indignantly; nd, at that moment, devoutly wishing I had ever returned to Creswycke Hall to be thus Uniliated. “So he is, my dear—no thanks to you,” said Lora Creswycke. “How easy it was, too, to “Un away— the doors left open, all the inmates *€ the Hall asleep, deaf, dumb, till you, my lear, had got clear off! ient clergyman you found, my pet! And hat a splendid present tumbled into your lap Tom the skies, as it were, on your wedding -Norning! But, oh, Celia! what a pity you! - he k all that trouble! Why couldn’t you have ©n comfortably married, with eight bride- aids, wedding cake, and bouquets, and your ather's and mother’s blessing and consent?” I burst into tears. “Nay, my dear lord,” from Herbert, who hy, Me and took me into his arms; “you are too ard on her.” Seeing,” said my parent, unheeding his Houstrance, “that you took the trouble, af; “s Tall, to marry after this strange fashion, the }Y Man whom your parents—nay, friends on th sides—desired you above all earthly Megs to—” , THE 88 boisterously), that, I, feared, alr nity of jy nz a % - ) And what a conve- | 5 / \ THE SECRET. MARRIAGE. 31 “What!” I said, starting to my feet—“ what! Father! mother! my husband! are you ?” turning to Herbert. “Why, my little runaway,” almost shrieked Lord Creswycke, in his rness lest my hus- band should forestall him, “if, like a properly- | educated young lady, as I fondly believed, Ce- ‘cilia, you had been well versed in your ‘ Peer- agé,’ you would not need to ask such a ques- tion, but might have outwitted the best-laid plot ever invented. Who was he? Why, Her- bert Spenser, when you married him, my dear, known usually as the Marquis of Tremaine; but, at the present time, by the recent and much-regretted death of my old friend, his fa- ther, Duke cf Carruthers, Well, as you would not listen to reason, and. refused even to see the. poor fellow, and give yourself a chance of _ liking him, we just laid a trap for you, my _ dear, romantic daughter, and you fell into it , nicely. We made all things smooth for you; even your maid, Jennings, was commanded do any thing you asked of her.” I am bound to acknowledge my color rose tened to all this. . - ““Can it be possible you could act such a part?”—to my husband, said, holding me still in his arms. “ TI half fear story was true. I first saw you in the manner I related. I registered a vow—a rash one, perhaps; but f have fulfilled it. I Had the fall concurrence of your parents and my own fa- ther. . Hessing, though no relative, had been my nurse. My poor father witnessed our stolen wedding. Besides the housekeeper, only old Sampson knew who I was, and he was a faithful and trusted servant. I gained the dearest wish of my life, to be loved as a man, not wedded as a duke in perspective.” 5 “Oh, you abominable traitor!” I replied. “Asif I would have so married you if you. had been the heir to fifty dukedoms!” Need Isay more? I think not, _ { | I pretended to be very angry for some time, ‘but secretly, perhaps, was not quite so a as I affected to be. & _ I knew how dearly I was. beloved. Iwasa | happy wife and mother—a grateful and loving , daughter. : ‘ | I could listen at last with tolerable equanim- ity when my father, who loved to tease me, | Spite of Herself.” . . , x END. Ps Who—who. terribly high in my burning cheeks as I lis- | “Can you forgive my deception, Cecilia?” he ~ not; but\our boy will plead for me. Yet my oe ee? Oe ee eek ee Pee ae ee a ees SS ee ae | would now and then bail me as ‘A Duchess in ‘ Ce ee i ee ee a) a: Sst ae "9?
Page 32
ar. S <e g RI APPA AAI IAA AA AAAI RP - ia ~ . . ? « : Romance, by an author of established reputation—perfectly pure in tone, spirited and captivating in story, as the title ** Waverley ” implies. Everything to please and nothing to avoid— ~ 1 ee. EPS SSP rayr » ¥ No inferior or exceptionable productions; no tedious narrative of weak sentimentalism ; nothing sins? strong stories of to-day ! ; LIDS PL A AS POCKET EDITION. THIRTY-TWO OCTA VO PAGES. PUBLISHED “EVERY TUESDAY, A FIPTY GENT NOVEL FOR FIVE CENTS! Raeh issue a complete and unabridged novel, covering the field of Love and Society WHOLESOME, VIGOROUS AND FRESH. ee a Write ar a Day; ; or, The Magsery of Winifred Leigh. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crow Whe Girl Wife; or, The True and the False. By Bartley T. Campbell, Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweethearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, M, D. | Married in Haste 3 or, A’ Young Girl's Temptation. By Rett “Winwood. Will She Marry Him? or, The Masked Bride. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, I I I enna I eer a SS Ee i i NS Mis tawtul Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption, By Mrs. Ann S, Stephens Ls 4 A, Fair Face}; or, Out in the,World, By Bartley T. Campbell. A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By Mary A. Denison, A. Daughter of Eve; or, Blinded by Loye. By Mrs, Mary Reed, crowell, The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. ‘Phe Bride of an Actor; or, Driven from Home. | By the Author of “ Alone im the World,” ete., etc. . A Pair ot Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald Necklace. By Rose Kennedy. Without n ag pi or, Walking on the Brink. By, Gol. ‘Prentiss Ingraham. Alone iu the W orld; or, The Young Man’s Ward. [Ty the Author of ‘The ‘Bride of an Actor,” ete , ete. otherless 3 or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. The Secret Marriage; or, A Duchess in Spite of Herself. By Sara Claxton. ‘Sister against s ber tan or, The Rivalry of Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, — Read y September 16t Wleart to Heart; or, Fair Phyllis’s Love, By ‘Arabella Southworth.. Ready September 23d. Sold for Gold} or, Almost Lost... By Mrs. M. V. Victor. Ready September 80th. Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. J y Henrietta Thackeray. Ready October 7th. Khe Waverley Library, is for sale by all nerpereniory; five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt Of six cents each. . Beadle and Adams, Publishers, No. 28 William street, New York. PLD A LAL APD LD PD PL BOLD PALL LLL LP ALA LL A ALP LLP PLL PP DP LPL PLL PLL LM oe ———— i ey