Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 80) (1881 05 24)
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ass Copyright $2.50 a year. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class M Price, but 5 cents each. Novels Published! ETT TPT ‘| AA EAA IGA A ee at aunt Ml Bate sUORNGNG Le ail Rates, No. 80, VoL. IV. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS. Te lord and Master. BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. CHAPTER I. IN LORD CLEVEDON’S CHAMBER. Ir was past midnight—and_ at the close of the London season. Half the weary world was sleeping, while the other half (the true laboring class) was toil- ing to procure the amusement of itselfand friends. At, a house in Park Lane, the numerous Mets. sounds of music, and gay figures that flitted across the open. windows showed that some festivity was taking place; while the Jong train of carriages in waiting, with patient servants slumbering at their Spon was no proof that the assembly was likely to break up soon. A few night-wanderers, attracted’ by the: glare, and curious perhaps to gain some insight to a world of which they had only heard, was hangin about the palings on that side of the house which looked into the park, and grumbling to éach other that heaven’s gifts were so unequally divided, and that some had all the riches and the pleasure, while others, homeless like themselves, looked ‘on from afar, with empty stomachs and ec hearts. But all was not.so bright as it appeared in the house in Park Lane. The reception-chamber might be brilliantly illuminated, but there were other rooms beneath the same roof where the light burned dim and! low,’and pain and sick- ness were causing a very different scene to be enacted. In an apartment richly hung with maroon velvet and furnished in the style of Louis Quatorze—an apartment sufficiently excluded to enable its occupant to remain undisturbed by any noise which may go on beneath him-~a man was sleeping in an arm-chair, Notan old man, by any means, and yet soaged from the effects of frequent and acute suffering that his hair and beard were nearly white, and the long thin hands, which lay passively upon his knees, were shrunk and wrinkled. Ata first glance he seem- ed to be alone, for the shaded iamp upon the table threw its mild beams upon no other living creature. But his attendants had only left him when he appeared disposed to sleep, and were in the ante-chamber nap: ping themseélyes, but ready to start up at the least summons’ of their master, For this was the owner of the house himself; the man whose purse- strings must undraw to pay for all the merriment going on below Robert, Earl of Olevedon; and his sickness was not a thing of yester- day. For months he had been rest- ing in that arm-chair, unable, from the painful nature of his disease,:to sleep in a recumbent posture, until even those nearest to him had begun to fancy that so lingering «a com- plaint must end in convalescence, And yet ‘the death-like appearance ot his handsome face, and the list- less’ heavy. manner in which his wasted body pressed the pillows, might have forewarned them that Nature was almost tired of the war- fare and ready toJay down her arms. Presently the door of the bed- chamber was: pressed. noiselessly open, and, stepping in the cautious manner with which we approach slecpers, a girl, apparently of about nineteen years old, passed over the threshold and dreW near-the arm- chair of the slumbering man. Robed it white satin, with her fair arms and neck discovered, and pearig twisted in her, hair, she; seemed a strange apparition to; visit.a sick- room at midnight; but unconscious. . or snotions of the fact, oe dropped quietly into an adjacent: sea’ with clasped hands and parte Tips; which betrayed a it sorro a anxiety, gazed earnestly upon features of the sleeping earl. And at this juncture, a stranger, with ' permission to observe her undis- urbed, would have been less struck rhaps with her beauty, than with e ids { Botricinn order of its merit, r. as she pot almost to a fault, (for the slight bloom which mantled on her cheeks had been called forth by excitement So aid fl Ste “prHEL!l—MyY FATHER!” and would vanish with the morning,) the Saxon hair, blue eyes, and delicately- moulded features, s0 common to our English aristocracy, attracted less notice than the high brow, oval face, and curled upper lip, which last, though obviously formed by nature for that peor had been materially assisted in its heavenward direction by the excellent opinion entertained by Lady Ethel Carr of herself, her accident of birth, and everything belonging to her. The stately way in which she carried her aristocratic little head showed that she considered herself as something superior to the rest of the world; and a glance at her pretty a tegen mouth was sufficient to prove that the sorest point on which she could be wounded was her pride. And yet there was nothing cold about the expression of her face; on the contrary, proudly as she could repel the advances of strangers or check the familiarity of inferiors, there was at times a passion in her glance not often found in eyes of that color; and at the moment when we are first introduced to her she seemed to have forgotten every feeling but that of filial love. Ina few minutes Lord Clevedon stirred uneasily, and then, with a slight sigh, opened his eyes and fixed them on his daughter, “ Bthel, is that you?” “Yes, dear papa, I hope I hayée not disturbed you.” ‘* What are you doing here, my dear?” “YTonly ran up to see how you were going on, T feel Lage when we are separated forso many hours. Go to sleep again, dear father, I shall he quite’ satisfied, now I have had a look at you.” ‘‘How, goes the night, child?’ ‘‘Ttis past two o'clock,” ‘ “ Not later? Thad hoped it was almost dawn;”and with a look of resignation the sick man slightly changed his position, _‘‘I suppose your party is over} then, Ethel?” ‘“Not yet; but I dare say it soon will be.” ‘You had better go Dedre aaet my dear; our mother may miss you.” “No fear of that, papa; of sf dy, Clevedon is better engaged,’ _ There was a half-hidden bitterness in this reply which. did not escape her father's notice, “You have not been enjoying yourself, T fear, Ethel?” The tears rushed to his daughter's es. She rose ‘hastily from’ the hair on which she was seated, and flung herself on her knees beside him. “Enjoying myself! while you lie here, how could I? It is a shame there should be any joy in the house, any merrymaking, éven the sem- blance of it, while.you—oh, father!” and here Lady ithel’s utterance was impeded by: her sobs. ‘“Hush, hush!’ “said Lord »Oleve- don, soothingly, as he placed his ‘hand upon her bowed head; “ a long ilnéss like mine, child, cannot: be rmitted to interfere with all the uties we owe. to society.’ My wife occupies a high station in the world and greater sacrifices: are expected from her than would be from a wo- man of a lowerrank, ‘She does not belong entirely tome} Icould not Hill y e ‘ul ri expect it.” “You expect far too little,” mur- mured Lady Ethel; “ you think of everyone before yourself,’’ “Not so!” replied the earl, with a faint smile. “‘ Are we not all to be packed off to Nice next week form special ‘benefit; and is it not: suffi- h lent to see'a whole houséhold travel- N ‘ing at this time of a for the sake of one old man?’ Meanwhile, Lady Clevedon owes something in return = the ig oe Z her friends and mine, w she ve rl H trying to pe off. I pred oA Taare had ‘put off her reunions:this season for any: consideration, .How many guests ‘have. you: to-night—on. an average?” he continued, with a view =a airy) her attention from him- “About two ‘hundred: I should think—perhaps more,’ said) Lady thel, ca mph rm asshe rose from er kneeling position, amd»stood be- fore the glass drying her eyes: “The Marquis de Laearras is among them, T suppose?” gps Ske A quick observer might have seen the flush which mounted to the face of Ethel as she i peel are question; it would have a still
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HER LORD AND MASTER. quicker one to notice the look, made half of pain and half of patience, with which the earl received the an- swer. “ And your friend, Ethel; the gallant colonel of artil- lery—is. he there also?” “ My friend!” returned the girl, recovering from her; slight confusion; ‘who dares’to call Colone) Bainbridge by that name ?” “T understand you like him.” “ From Lady Clevedon, father: she was your infor- mant, I presume ?” and Ethel’s lip curled to its highes extent. : “Or that he likes you—which is it, Ethel ?” Voila une- autre chose,’’ rejoined his daughter, haughtily,as she coaxed a stray loye-lock to lie smoothly on hérforehead. .“‘ Colonel Bainbridge may admire me; Lknow nothing about that, and ¢are less; your footman may do the same, sir, and the admiration of one man is likely to bring forth as much fruit as the other. It is impossible even for me to ayoid the admiration of the herd; it would be another thing to encourage it.” “Come, come, Ethel!” said Lord Clevedon, with some degree of reproof, “ you aré going too far.in speak- “ing like’ this. “Were you agreeable to the proceeding, there would be nothing extraordinary in your marryin aman like Colonel Bainbridge. He is a gentleman, “ait the king can be no more.”’ ‘ Lady Ethel stared at her father with unmitigated sur- é: “But your daughter may require more, sir,” she said, “and you need not think that she will ever so far forget what is due to her birth ‘and station in societyas to sink the name of Carr in that of Bainbridge,” with Bhs Siete ‘ “The Bainbridges are a very wealthy family,” re- sumed Lord Clevedon, in an amusing tone, “and it would not be the first time a woman has exchanged her noble name for the means of maintaining it. Remem- ber that you have no dowry, Ethel; that when you m you will take your husband literally nothing.” ‘« Nothing, father?’ she repeated, interrogatively, with a satisfied glance at the lovely features reflected in the mirror. ‘ ; “Ah, child! I know what you are thinking of; but beauty is a gift common to peer and peasant alike, and of small value in the matrimonial market. You know I am not rich, Ethel: in fact, for a man in my position, I am exceedingly poor; and after my death there will be no separate provision for yourself. .Carrhampton and Temple Grange are en- tailed estates: they both go to your brother Temple, with little enough for the poor child to keep them up on, long as his minority may last; for I regret to say that I am deeply involved in debt. This house, then, and furniture, with the income derivable from her own marriage settlements, is Pa, all I have to settle on your mother. Were I certain of her remaining as she is, I should feel differently on the subject, for in any ease sho will enjoy the interest of her son’s money till he comes of age; but as it is, Ethel ’’—with a deep sigh ‘Gertrude is young, you see, and very much ad- mired, and it is impossible to calculate on what m happen.” “e understand you, father, and it is no news to me: you have often told me the same thing before : and if it must be so,it must. But nocircumstances, however unfortunate, are likely to influence me in making a match below 4 station in lite.” “But wha' ant to conyince you of is, that birth 4 mero accident, and no man who is a gentleman can be Fed depend- always get on welltogether. The thought often makes me feel-un- father ; don’t let that dis- beneath you. I have been obliged to leave ent on your mother, Ethel, and you do no’ happy.’ “We get on well Noaghs oy tress you ; but as for this man Bainbridge’”—— : _“ Colonel Bainbridge,” mildly interposed Lord Clev don. “Colonel Thomas Bainbridge, I believe his name is.”’ : : “Yes,” rejoined Lady Ethel, with supreme indiffer- As ane owe ence, “perhaps so; the name fits the man. Colonel Thomas Bainbridge, then, I tell you ' that I would rather starve as Lady Ethel th my means of support to him.’’ A “Notif you learned to love him, Ethel!” “My eyes are not likely to look on the gro enough to learn to love him,” she replied ins ‘Lord Clevedon regarded his rebellious d some moments in silence, and when he spo _ ness of his tone was almost solemn. “Ethel, that pride of yours will some ¢ _ down. I pray that, when it is, your _ may not be overwhelmed at the same tim with the discussion, he SSS PRESS a ee ee i Se A Ee ee ee ae ee ane: Oe A eae -sessor of realized the perfect happiness of ransomed souls set free from the chains of earth and sin, or the burst of choral singing with which the gates of pearl are thrown open to admit another angel to the Presence that re- deemed it. She had no power to look beyond the signs of our mortality. : Her cheeks blanched, and her frame trembled when Lord Cleyedon mentioned his probable decease, but it was more from fright than misery. She did not believe it possible that his surmise was correct, but she shud- dered to remember that such a horrid thing as death must inevitably come to every living creature, and he have obliterated the knowledge altogether if she could.. ; “Papa, papa, what are you thinking of—what are you saying ?”’ she said imploringly ; ‘ pray don’t speak like that. We shall be at Nice, you know, next week, and then Dr. Chalmers says that you are certain to get well again.” \ “ Perhaps so, my child—as God pleases,” replied the earl, gently. And then, with a blessing, he once morc dismissed her. And hastily drawing her handkerchief across ber eyes, Lady Ethel quitted the apartment. CHAPTER II. LADY ETHEL’S LOVERS. Bur she had scarcely crossed the threshold of his chamber before the softness which had played about her features as she listened to his last words disappear- ed, to be replaced by a bearing in which offended pride was the predominant feeling; for the tenor of her father’s conversation returned upon her memory, and she re- called from whom it was he had derived his informa- tion of the colonel’s predilection for herself. “She would see me married to a tradesman,” thought the girl, bitterly, ‘in order to gratify her own ambition to get rid of me; but if Lady Clevedon imagines that a Carr will be turned out of her father’s house to enter any but one equal to it, she is yery much mistaken.” And the remembrance of a title as ancient as the Earl of Clevedon’s, and which she had reason to expect, would, before long, be offered for her acceptance, sent the same conscious blush to her fair forehead, which had crimsoned it before, and dispelled much of the ugly feeling that was lingering there. The suite of reception-rooms to which Ethel Carr now took her way were gorgeously furnished with white and old, and hangings of pale blue satin, in the same old- ashioned style as the bed-chamber. They were pro- fusely decorated, moreover, with hot-house flowers, and crowded with a large and brilliant company, in the midst of which, surrounded by the elite of her visitors, sat their hostess, Gertrude, Countess of Clevedon, In age not over six-and-twenty, with large, clear, gray eyes, fine features, rosy complexion, and an abundance of auburn hair, Lady Clevedon, in the estimation of many of her friends, was considered a handsomer wo- man than her stepdaughter. But a certain coarseness in the outlines of her figure, the sparkle of her eyes, and the appearance of her open mouth, with its full red lips, deterred men of refinement from paying her the admiration which she exacted from the crowd, Physically beautiful she certainly was ; but there was less llect than vivacity written on her face, and more cunning than cleverness depicted in her charac- ter. And yet, like many women of her type, she drew simply because she stooped to draw ; and the men who now hovered round the ottoman on which she was ‘Te- -ciining, and vied with one another in engrossing her attention, were some of the most flattered and sought quite) na cae ti hone th Sieqens d uously among them shone the ) Lacarras, the mention of whose name had called forth a sigh from the lips of the Earl Clevedon. This gentle- | man, even in an assembly where many were handsome —most were young, and all fashionable—was the pos- nt beauty, youth, and mode, to com- mand universal notice. And, perhaps, his manifold attractions were increased rather than diminished by the fact of his nationality, which was not sufficiently minent to t barrier of distinction be- eon hint his y ped noble families of France, and, bred sufficient of them- ression is ithout ex- Descended from one of 1 tion to. th different one; in repose he appeared tired of the world and its pleasures, which was perhaps the reason that, with him, to appear interested was to pay the highest compliment of which he was capable. On the present occasion, although he hung conspicu- ously over the Countess of Clevedon, and even took the trouble to draw off her attention from her other guests, he seemed more listless and indifferent than usual, and his dark eyes roved constantly trom the contemplation of her neck and shoulders to the door of the apartment in which they were sitting, No such feeling of ennui, however, possessed his fair hostess, for she was all sparkle and flutter at his mo- nopoly of her, and would leave any question unan- swered to listen to the faintest murmur from his lan- guid lips. “It was at this juncture that Lady Ethel descended the broad staircase leading from the upper story. A group of men and women, who had been unable to find seats within, or who preferred freedom and flirta- tion to foul air and chaperones, were clustered on the landing, whispering in couples, or being “eloquent in silence.’ They fell apart as she appeared, making way for her to enter, and with a taint smile and inclination of the head she passed through them into the crowd beyond. “Very lovely! Don’t you think so?” suggested one young lady to her companion, as the white satin train swept over the threshold of the drawing-room. “H—m !” said the companion meditatively (he knew that an unqualified “yes”? would any thing but please the fair querist), ‘some people might think her so, but she’s not my style; she is far too cold and statuesque- looking to please me.” At this qualified commendation the young lady felt that she might safely push her argument. “Oh? butI assure you Lady Ethel Carr has been con- sidered quite a belle this season ; and at the last draw- ing-room it was remarked that she was the prottiest woman there.” ** Indeed! then you can scarcely have been present,” returned her cavalier gallantly. “How can you?’ was the curt but expressive re- joinder, and then, as ve bs to change so personal a subject, the lady continued: ‘‘ but I believe what you said respecting Lady Ethel’s ap ce is perfectly true as regards her character. Everybody says that she is terribly cold.” “Of course; perhaps you will believe me another time.” “She does not get on well with other girls. They complain of her being so uncommunicative and re- served. Nota bit like dear Lady Clarendon, is it ?”’ ‘No! There’s a pretty woman now,if you like,” ey the gentleman, forgetting for a moment his role. “Such life—such coloring? She is worth two of her stepdaughter ?”’ “But don’t you consider her just alittle too stout for beauty ?” inquired his listener dubiously ; and then he saw that he had overstepped the bounds of making himself perfectly agreeable, and declined to carry on the discussion any farther, Meanwhile the subject of their remarks had gained the inner drawing-room. A cloud, mingled with an expression of contempt, passed over her face as she surveyed the group upon the ottoman, and turning quickly to one side, as though to avoid the sight of it, she ran straight upon a tall, dark man, who was leaning against the wall and contemplat- am, ga with grave earnestness. e started, seized a chair, and stammeringly asked her if she would not take it ; while Lady Ethel, scarcely knowing what to answer, accepted the proffered cour- tesy, and found herself a minute after in possession of a seat, at the back of which stood sentry the man of | whom she had spoken with such scorn—Colonel Bain- bridge. rr now, at the risk of wearying my readers with description, 1 must devote a few lines to the notice of this gentleman, who will play no mean part in the story which follows. Thomas Bainbridge a man of thirty, but one of the youngest colonels in the service of artillery, was the only child of a wealthy Birmingham manufacturer, who, having amassed a e fortune, had for many years past retired from trade, and lived on an estate which he had purchased over the border, _ His son, having evinced a strong ambition to serve Her Majesty, Mr. Bainbridge had considered himself justified in consenting to his wishes; and proud of seeing his child in the position superior to his own, had warded his career by every means in his power. At first Thomas Bainbridge had not found it all smooth as. the army, and there were hours when he had wished heartily that he had chosen a more humble occu- The expression of the marquis was generally an in- | pS. It is a well-known fact that sons of our wealth- + tradesmen are to be foundin the best regiments of the service, but it is quite as indisputable that they do not always find their position to be a bed of roses, Bainbridge’s ence had been no excep- e rule: yet he had outlived almost the re- rance of it. if in the first year of his military ‘there had been found spirits coarse and un. nanly enough to taunt him by a covert allusion ing of his father, that time had passed away, t the present moment, there was no an officer in ngth or breadth of England who would not have roud to shake Colonel pom ey the hand. this change had not been effec y any lavish ‘ ution of his riches, for he lived as any subaltern ; it had been wrought solely f and his ior. : * 4 | fact, Thom: bridge was a gentleman: an Sees tort Clevedon called him so, he only paid a | natural tribute to his mind and manners, which all who knew the man would have been ready to acknowl- due, : on Rretle by little, without any forward pushing or eager desire for introduction to those above him, he had si-. * 4
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HER LORD AND MASTER. lently worked his way upward in society until he not only carried men of high birth back with him each year to spend the shooting-season at Cranshaws, but. what is far more worthy of note, found himself a wel- come guest at their houses in return, and on the visit- ing-list of such leaders of fashion as the Earl and Countess of Clevedon. But.it is not to be supposed that Colonel Bainbridge carried any mark about him by which it might be re- ecognized that he was not of aristocratic birth ; on the contrary, he was a far finer-looking man than many of the sprigs of nobility by whom he was surrounded ; and his manners, though rather grave and silent, were equal to the best of them. Of unusual height and bulk, and bronzed like a Moor from the Indian sun, beneath which he had passed - several y6ars of service, the healthy, uncontaminated blood which he had derived from a race to which lux- ury was unknown betrayed itself in his muscular limbs, thick hair and beard, and fine white teeth. His eyes, not large, but searching, were of dark brown ; his nose was prominent ; and his mouth (although this latter feature was concealed by a heavy mustache) clean cut and decided. As to his character, if this tale is to tell anything, it may be left to speak for itself. CHAPTER III. THE WHISPER IN THE BALCONY. Lapy Errer, pron | Mel Bainbridge offere his close vicinity. Her breast was still heaving with indignation at the thought that he presumed to aspire to her hand, or that her father should encourage so ridiculous an idea ; and she was determined to say nothing that could fur- ee the notion that he was in any way agreeable to er, And so she continued to sit before him in a dignified silence, like a beautiful statue, while he gazed at her from above, thinking sadly that the sooner all this was ended, and he had put miles between himself and his folly, the better. But at last he ventured to bend down to speak to her, for people were chatting together on all sides, and the silence between them had become op- pressive—almost remarkable. a et you be at the opera to-morrow night, Lady e ” She jerked her head slightly as his voice struck her ear, but she answered him without any appearance of annoyance. “IT am not sure, Our arrangements at present de- pend so much upon papa.” “Lord Clevedon is better, I trust ?”’ “* Yes, he’s better ; at all events, he is no worse.” “The season is fast drawing to its close, and town will be nearly empty, I suppose, next week. Is there any chance of our seeing you on the moors this year ?” Lady Ethel lifted her brows in unaffected astonish- ment. The man would be sending them an invitation to his father’s house next, she concluded. Her answer was delivered with some asperity. “Not the slightest. We shall be at Nice, I hope, this time next week.” “Have you ever visited Scotland? Have you seen the Lammermoors when the heather is in bloom ?” “No; and I cannot say I wish todo so. I have never had the slightest desire to cross the border !”’ She delivered this so curtly that he sighed. It was the merest fragment of a sigh—more worthy to be called a long breath than by that name ; but she heard it, and it irritated her, for it betrayed the interest which the manufacturer’s son dared to feel in what she thought, andit urged her to say more than she in- tended. : “The fact is, I hate Scotland, and everything con- ‘mected with it ;’’ and then, aware of the extreme rude- ness of her speech, she added, “you must forgive my plaia speaking, Colonel Bainbridge, but the truth will out.” “Yes,”” he said softly ; and then he bit his lip hard, and said no more. . Meanwhile she sat, red with conscious shame, and fanning herself violently, while she wondered how she should make her escape from him, for the crowd seemed to increase instead of diminish, and they were hemmed in by a throng ot silken skirts, or suppose you like it, as you live there,” she went on presently, feeling that she must say something by ‘way of apology; ‘‘but I have never been used to the country, you see; I have lived all my life in a town, and have no pcg yal trees and grass, and all that sort of thing. How intensely hot it has become here! ‘Those windows can never be open, surely !’’ and with- out further pee she started from her seat and com- ge her way towards the other end of the apartment. Colonel Bainbridge looked after her in troubled silence, At another time he would have sprung forward to execute her orders or aepenpeny her across the room; but at the present moment he saw plainly that her move had been effected to avoid himself, and he ‘was too delicate to follow her. So he remained behind, accepted the chair which Colo- her, felt very uncomfortable at in the same position as she had found him, but with a ype eee ‘ay Hie gatnbe hay Objaa: ay? anwhile, nel gained her object in escapin ne + a OEP and passed out of the drawing-ro ae wide | y inclosed with the OWS Oo whi been thrown open to. admit of the air, It was a lovely night; the dark-blue July sk was studded with stars, and the light breeze, whic gerne tbe passion-flowers trained against the casement, blew refreshingly upon her heated face and neck. th her arma, upon, tis ail snd loaned outa fara he wid while something like a sob rope in her t. ; “thel Carr Mer angry—but more with the force of circumstances than herself. She knew she had spoken rudely to a gentleman who had never given her the slightest cause of offense, unless a silent and respectful admiration could be interpreted as such. Yet she did not blame her own pride as the reason. She con- sidered her behavior had been forced upon her by the absurd pretensions of the man himself, the interfer- ence of her stepmother, and her poor father’s ready ac- | quiescence in everything that Lady Clevedon did or said. Still, she was too much of a gentlewoman to feel easy at what had occurred ; to which sensation an intense though unacknowledged jealousy of the conversation which was being carried on by the group. upon the ottoman, added its share of excitement—excitement which would have probably ended in tears, had not her reverie been interrupted by the sound of footsteps which followed her into the balcony. At that sound Lady Ethel’s unshed tears disdained to fall, and the arms which rested on the window-sill commenced to tremble ; for the girl knew intuitively that the presence which now stood beside her was not that of Colonel Bainbridge. *‘ All alone?” said the voice of the Marquis de Lacar- ras, after amoment’s pause. “Lady Ethel Carr must have something very pleasant to meditate upon, to prefer her own company to the ‘worship of her numer- ous admirers.” “She has !”’ was the sarcastic reply. ‘‘She is medi- tating on the sweetnesss of this life and the love we bear our neighbors, and the truth and honesty of what the world calls society! Are notsuch thoughts suf- ficient to make one enamored of solitude, monsieur ?” Monsieur pulled a passion-flower from its stem and said nothing. He had scarcely expected to receive so earnest an answer to his idle question. When he re- plied he seemed to have grown earnest. “Tcannot allow there is so much fault to be found F with the world, Lady Ethel. The present assembly, for his neighbor.” His neighbor was silent. Her face was still turned from him, for she had not changed her first position; but a mist rose before her eyes which made the stars she gazed on look blurred and indistinet; and her heart beat so rapidly that she could count its loud and impul- sive throbs. This was the moment she had been wait- ing for for weeks, that she had watched, as it were, recede and approach—approach and recede, until hope deferred had made her sicken with anxiety; and, now that it had come, she felt as though she could not bear to remain still and listen. But yet she leaned there, her whole frame shaking with neryous emotion, and her beautiful face, from which all trace of pride had fled, turned up to the cold passionless stars. Presently a hand came creeping softly upon hers, a fine and white, though not effeminate hand, on which, even in the midst of her agitation, she could not help looking down with fond admiration. “Am I very presumptuous ?” whispered the me in whose wet ree there lingered just sufficient of his native accent to make the words sound more caressing than when pronounced boldly. Still Lady Ethel answered nothing, because she could not have trusted her own voice to speak; and Victor de er silence, that in uis, among the occupants of the drawing-room; and Ethel, gazing timidly from the shelter watched the crowd give way to permit. the entrance of Dr. Chalmers, who appeared desirous of gaining the presence of her stepmother. “Oh, hush !” she said in her surprise, “what can be the reason that Dr. Chalmers has been sent for at this time of night? My father must be worse !” “No, no;” he answered camera, nla there is no chance of that. Ethel, let me-once you say that Tak iaar homkaole 2ido;* she aftaroh Kauchadly, - yes; how ,* she ut , as ne disengaged herelf from his clasp; ‘‘ but, Victor, earest, her lover’s arms, me go. See! Dr. Chalmersis leading Lady. Clevedon from the room. Iam certain that some harm has happened to my father.” or the intelligence w would so be hers had cae cae Goon aera ranks of fashion. The Earl of hed its cl Mek , ines ob ote hina tind tett eish —panant repos- side ng in his arm-chair—but never to wake again woman. . ; ‘ Bar, These simple-hearted, old-fashioned women had sin- CHAPTER Ivy. MAGGIE HENDERSON. CRANSHAW CASTLE, or Cranshaws, as the estate of Mr. Bainbridge was generally called, was situated on the Scottish moors, a little north of the county of Rox- burgh. The nouveaux riches are usually supposed to be dis- satisfied with anything to reside in under acastle or a court; but it was not the fault of Mr. Bainbridge that his possession bore that high-sounding name, for it had neither been built nor baptized by himself. He had bought it as it stood, with its many hundreds of adjoining acres, and had been anxious at first to alter its pretentious title; but finding that the place was too well known to admit of such a change, suffered it to remain as its former owner had left it. For Mr. Bain- bridge was in all things a most humble and retiring man, desirous of nothing more than to avoid publicity, and proud of nothing less than of his self-made for- tune, And if any modern erection deserves the name of castle, Cranshaws was that place. Built in the style of the twelfth century, with careful regard to every peculiarity of the architecture of that period, and backed by a noble plantation, it stood, with moat and drawbridge, on the brow of one of the highest undula- tions of the moors, frowning down upon the smiling valley beneath, and the river which ran rapidly through its bosom. But the frown of Cranshaws, like the frown of one pretending to be angry, was but a make-believe, for the house itself was furnished in a light modern style, and the approach to it lay through a beautiful flower-garden. All the ground inside the moat was dedicated to flowers and smooth-shaven lawn, the especial property of Mrs. Bainbridge; and the faces which were to be daily seen there were as smiling and contented as the yalley they gazed on. For if he could help it, Mr, Bainbridge allowed no one about him to be unhappy; and he was so good a man, and so faithful a Christian, with a temper so equable and serene, that it was difficult to live with him and not catch the infection of his kindly spirit. He was an universal philanthropist, exercising be- nevolence in a thousand little ways which were never made public, spending far more of his wealth on the re- lief of his fellow-creatures than on his own comforts; and never thanking God so peal aoe for the good- fortune he had sent him, as when it had been the means of furthering religion or alleviating distress. For miles before you reached Cranshaw Castle, you drove ey om the peapery whieh belonged to it, and Mr. Bainbridge took good care there should be no want within his precincts. He was about the only remaining landlord in those parts who refused to adopt the new hay-cutting and reaping machines, because the use of them threw so many poor Irish, who had crossed the border expressly to find work at harvest-time, out of employment, And no laborers were better paid, or horses and cattle better kept, than on the farm at Cranshaws. But there were penalties (or what some people would consider such) attached to these good things. No man who drank, or ill-used his wife, or was a Sabbath- breaker, was retained at work on Cranshaws; and by the same rule, Mr. Bainbridge was very particular about the behavior of his seryants and the members of his own family. They had every comfort and luxury which they required, and in all innocent amusements the master of the house took a cheerful and ready but he was most strict with respect to their at church and prayers, and the way in which they spent their Sundays, even to the conversations they maintained on that day, And his opinions on these subjects he diffused freely, both to guest and relative alike, which made a visit to the castle to be felt by many as somewhat of a restraint. At the same time there were founda few (and among them some of the wildest and most careless spirits, whom Colonel Bain- nee took home with him to his father’s house) wha admired the old man, not only for his sentiments but the rigor with which he maintained them. His own family consisted of his wife, himself, and their son Thomas, who was seldom at Cranshaws, ex- cept for the shooting season and Christmas; but with his accustomed benevolence, Mr, Bainbridge had offered a home to the maiden sister of his wife, and to his own orphan niece. And these two had lived so long at Cranshaws (which had been in the possession of its resent owner for more than twenty years) as to have Gene part and parcel of the family and place. Miss Letitia Lloyd (better known as Aunt Letty) that she might not feel herself to be a visitor, had always been deputed a share in her sister's housek g, and she divided with Mrs. Bainbridge the love of blooming Maggie Henderson, who grown up among them from a child of three years old, to be the pet and dar- ling of the househo the aunts vied with each other which should wait on caress their niece the most, while Maggie returned their affection with all the warmth of a very genuine heart. Pi Letty boasted that she had instructed her im , music and French, while Mrs. Bain e had tion, and made her a good “housekeeper and needle- rt ed to herself the direction of her general educa- ‘ ed that, having the time, they had all the d } capability of imparting to their in- nthey had themselves received— idea | had been strengthened by Mr. natal ex- pressed dislike to boarding-schools for ’ ladies, and. their yay Segre ies to ir there fea 8 or. as overness to the ly circle. _ If o to neat, ey argued, it would be dif- iar ae ees
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sary she should be. Accordingly “little Maggie,” hav- ing been put through the routine of morning lessons when she felt so‘disposed, and excused the same when- ever she desired to fish in the river or ride her pony, or accompany her uncle round the farm, was at eigh- teen years of age about as unaccomplished a girl as it was possible to find in her station of life. i She could ride and fish, and shoot at a mark, and walk over the moors tor hours together without feeling fatigued, but her general knowledge was very small, and she had no idea of pronouncing French, or of fin- gering a piece of classical music; above all, she had never mixed in what is termed good society, and her very misty notions of the ways and manners of the fashionable world were derived trom the remarks she occasionally heard full from the lips of her cousin’s regimental frienus. Once or twice Colonel Bainbridge had commented on Maggie's deficiencies to »is aunt and mother, and then the two good creatures had looked at one another, and commenced to fear that they had made a mistake in not confiding the girl’s education to some one more compe- tent to conduct it than themselves. But an appeal to Mr. Bainbridge invariably met with the same reply. “Not accomplished eaough!’”’ he would exclaim “Tell Thomas to mind his.own business. The child can read, and write, and sew, and what more would you lave? We have no need for French and German on the moors, and I should be sorry to see Maggie mixing in the society where tuey are-meeded. Let us be content with the station of lifein which God has placed us; the girl will do her duty there, or lam much mistaken.” And as tur as outward appearance went, there seemed every probability of his prophecy being verified, for Maggie Hénderson was no ordinary character. Younger by w year than Lady Ethel Carr, she had already twice the command over her feelings than was evinced by that young lady, and her naturally high temper had been brought intosuch control, that seldom, if ever, did its ebullitions disturb the equanimity of the quiet household at Cranshaws. They might disturb her own soul, but on the surface there appeared nothing but sorrow for a nature as yet imperfectly subdued, but which, with few exceptions, was most bright and’sunny. This effect might, in a great measure, have been ow- ing to example, and the method by which she had been reared, for it is difficult to dwell among those who live in the presence of another world, and not be imbued with a deep sense of the responsibility of living. At the same time Maggie Henderson owed much to her own energetic spirit, to her warm heart, impulsive feelings, and desire to evince her gratitude to those who had supplied the place of parents to her. By nature she was quick and clever—always ready to see a joke, and very fond of making one, but she had her serious moments when the young heart was too full to laugh and be merry, although.it overran with joy and gratitude. - These were Maggie’s dull hours, as some considered them, for her aunt Lizzy’s cares were directed more to “her bodily than her spiritual comforts; and her uncle, good man as he was, was of too blunt and rough a tem- perament to penetrate the finer sympathies of his little - niece’s mind. But there was one person in Cranshaws who always understood Maggie, to whom the girl had noshame in disclo her most sacred feelings, and from whom she never met with anything but the keenest sympathy in return, and that one was dear Aunt Letty. _ It was ona brilliant afternoon in the beginning of August that these two, the auntand niece, were seated: n the lawn which bordered Cranshaw Castle, beneath he shade of some far-spreading trees. Aunt Letty, a pale delicate-looking women of about * fifty years of age, whose simple cap inclosed a patient face, on which suffering had left its traces, saton a low aly ang employed in needlework, while Maggie enderson, with a bookin her hand, lay stretched upon the grass beside her. She was a fine, healthy girl, with brown eyes and hair, a complexion like blush-roses, and usually a most ani- mated expression; but at that moment a serious mood seemed to have stolen over her, for the humid eyes wera looking far away into the incalculable distance, and her laughing mouth was firmly closed. _. It was a lovely scene that lay before her, for the farm of Cranshaws, with all its yarignity buildings and in- closures, was situated some half a mile distant on the ones side of be? bagel sie Ip 3 chew ec Ae ba the pleasure-grou , the moat and drawbridge, the slopin pet te Se clotnea the side of the hill, and then’ the sparkling river with, its salmon-fall, and the miles of heather-covered moor which, far as her éyecould reach, stretched ont in purply undulations; while the only soun to be ard were the distant bark of asheep-dog, ort] esheets C) ies eat! of the grouse, as they were tart ed by it from their coverts. mo thoughts were occupied with none of HER LORD AND MASTER. circumstances, I mean; the triumph must have made them almost insensible to pain. And then,” she added, in a lower voice, “I think, when they knew for certain that they were so very near seeing Him, the joy of their hearts must haye quite overpowered the weakness of their flesh. Foz only fancy what it must be, Aunt Letty, to know assuredly that within a few minutes it will come to pass, Oh! I should die with anticipation before they had half expired !”’ Aunt Letty patted the blooming cheek laid against her knee witha very happy and contented look in her Own face. “It would be great joy, my darling—too great to bear, perhaps, were it not in general mercifully hid from us. But it is not absolutely necessary it should be preceded by a life of suffering.” “Don't you think so?” said the girl, thoughtfully. “ Now it seems to me, Aunt Letty, that all the saints and apostles of old glorified Him by unhappy lives or violent deaths; and that if our paths were all sunshine, it would seem as though He had forgotten us, or had nothing for us to do for Him! The Bible says, you know, that He chasteneth every son in whom He de- lighteth.” “I know it does, my*dear, and also that His chasten- ings are not grievous; and yet Ishould be sorry to think your life was not to be a sunny one. You are not des- tined for a martyr, my little Maggie.” “I am not good enough for one, you mean, auntie. Yes, I know that well enough; still, I have often wished that I lived in those days, that I might have some means of knowing how much my faithis worth, Aunt, Ithink that I could do it.” And Maggie's eyes sparkled at the idea of testing her strength ot mind. “J think so, too, Maggie. I think you are capable of doing everything that is right—with His help,’ Miss Lloyd added, reverently; ‘‘ only sometimes a very happy life, free from all trouble and care, is a greater trial to our faith than misery. Sorrow draws us nearer to Him as our consolation, but prosperity and affluence are only too likely to make us forget from whom they come. Your future is likely to be a very bright one, Maggie; but cling close to him through it all, and you will be safe.”’ “Oh, I will—I do!’ exclaimed the girl, fervently. “How could it be otherwise, Aunt Letty, when every- thing that I possess has come from Him ?’’ And then there was silence between them for the space of some moments, during which Aunt Letty raised her hand to brush away a tear that came gently cours- ing down her cheek CHAPTER V. AUNT LETTY HEARS A SECRET, THE pause at last became almost too long; it threat- ened to break up their pleasant intercourse. “Aunt, shall I go on reading ?’” “No, dear, not yet awhile; I would rather talk, if you have no objection. Your uncle has been i rsp to me of your cousin Thomas. He received a letter from him this morning.” ; ‘ Maggie turned her head away directly, and looked out over the moors. “Did he?’ “Yes; and he purposes to be at Cranshaws on the eleventh. He brings two friends with him this time— Captain Grant and Sir Charles Hammond. You remem- ber Captain Grant, Maggie ?”’ “Oh, yes, Aunt Letty, quite well; he was here last season—such a liyely, good-tempered young man! Don’t you recollect the day we went for a picnic, and our letters were brought out to us on the moors—and he received one that required immediate attention—how cheerfully he left us all, although he had been enjoying -himself so much before, and went home to write tha answer? I always liked Captain Grant from that day; I thought it so good of him.” “Yet he is not a religious man,” said Miss Lloyd, thoughtfully. “Religious ? No—certainly not, if you take thé word literally; for religion means strictness, But I think there is more deep feeling among young men than you give them credit for, Aunt Letty, This Captain Grant, for instance, I remember obrerving how reverently he used to behave at prayers, or church, although he might be laughing only the moment before; and he always joined in the hymns when he sung on Sunday evenings.” “ But you don’t consider that those qualities, how- ever promising, are sufficient to make a good husband, a ?” said Aunt Letty, anxiously. The girl burst out langhing. She had evidently no tender memories connected with the name of the promis- ing captain, and her mirth seemed to clear away the rare of trouble which had gathered on her aunt’s ow. ; “T really can’t say, Aunt Letty, for I never sat down seriously to consider; but I should certainly suppose it requires something more than good-nature, and a gen- tlemanly desire to accommodate himself to the its “Your uncle has been talking very seriously to me. about Thomas, this morning,” continued Miss Lloyd nervously (for she was anxicus to sound Maggie Hen- derson upon a certain subject, and had not the least. idea how to set about it); “he, naturally, looks forward to his own death as an event which at past seventy can- not be so very far distant, and is desirous to see his son comtortably settled before that time, and prepared to take his place here assocn as he shall be gone. For Cranshaw is very dear and familiar to all of us now, Maggie. Weshould not like to see it let, or pass alto- gether into a stranger’s hands.” “Oh, no!” replied the girl, quickly. “Then it follows that Thomas must look out fora wife who shall be contented to live here with bim a'l the year round, and not be continually sighiug to go to London for the season, or spend the winter abreac.”’ “T should think there must be many such,’’ said Maggie Henderson; “he will not have to search far.” “Many who would accept the terms, my dear, but not many,I fear, who would keep them afterwards... And your cousin, having traveled a great deal, wiil re-~ uire, perhaps, a particularly home-loving wife to in- uce him to settle down contentedly as the landlord of Cranshaws. And yet it is his father’s great wish that he. should doso. You have never found the place dull, Maggie, have you ?”’ ' “Oh! Aunt Letty, how can you ask me such f# ques- tion of my own dear home!” and Maggie’s brown eyes: glowed with affection. “Dull! no; I’should think not. -No one has ever-been happier in a place than I have been at Cranshaws. I love every inch ofthe ground, every tree in the plantation. I would not ex- change that view of the moors, andthe river with its. salmon-fall—(do you remember when I caught the big salmon there, Aunt Letty, and he quietly walked down stream with my line and the first joint of my rod ?)— for all the finest sights that London or Paris could afford me. No more than I would exchange you, my own sweet aunt, who has taught me the best of sill my little knowledge, for the grandest friends that fF could meet there!” And Maggie ended her harangue by throwing herself into Miss Lloyd’s outstretched arms. “Then my little Maggie would be quite content to spendand end her life at Cranshaws?’ whispered the elder lady as she pressed her niece to her; “she would not think the pleasures here too limited, nor the secitey too insignificant and small?” “T? No—of course not,” stammered the girl, half- raising a burning face from. the shelter of her aunt's breast; “but I do not suppose, Aunt Letty, that when tt happens—that is, when he is married—any of us will continue to live on here.” “Not if he were to choose you as the mistress of° Cranshaws, my darling ?”’ «Me ?” she exclaimed hurriedly. Thomas spoken of it, Aunt Letty ?” “ No—no,” said Miss Lloyd, in a soothing voice,an she stroked the head of brown hair which was again buried in her bosom; “ not yet, dear; but he is very likely to do so, for his father wishes it, and Z should like to Kmow your thoughts upon the subject, Maggie.”’ But to this insinuation there came no reply. “Should you object very much to the idea?’ de- manded Miss Lloyd, atter a moment’s pause; “that is, if all went. well, and your cousin was willing to aéeede to his father’s desire, would it be disagreeable to you to look upon him as your future busband, Maggie ?”” “Oh, Aunt Letty! don’t ask me—don’t ask ma. I don’t know what to say.” : The blushing face was still concealed from view, but. Miss Lloyd could feel the ‘rapid pulsations of Magrie’s heart as i pieaved against her knee, and knew by the heaving of her shoulders that the girl was undergoing violent emotion. : “Maggie, my dear, I have not wounded you?’ she said, anxiously. : “No,” came presently in a tremulous and broken voice; but the agitation continued, and there was noth- ing to be done but to wait till it had subsided. When that occurred, Maggie Henderson yoluntarily d a. handkerchief over her face, and lifted two shy, tear- swollen éyes to meet those of her aunt. One look was. - sufficient to reveal her heart. “My darling,” said Miss Lloyd, as she kissed the crimson cheeks, “I had no idea it had gone so fer as: this. “Iam so happy, M @ : “T don’t know why I should feel so ashamed to think that. you have guessed the truth,’ resumed Magyie, in a, very low yoice; “but I could not bear that any one but you should know if, Aunt Letty. And yet there is no real reason to be ashamed, is there? for I could not help it. He has always been so good and kind to me, so thoughtful of my wants, and attentive to my wishes that it was natural I should grow to miss him, and think Cranshaws quite a different place when he is not. here. And now, this new idea—of which I assure you I had never dreamed as possible—it seems so wondefful, so startling—and that. = Ye should desire it, too—I can. “Has ccusin hardly believe that it is true.” “Tt is not so strange when you come to think of it, my dear. Your uncle has but one child to provide for,, after a lo they had bees reading, “ to have lived in those’ | of those around him, to enable a man to guide wife and | but he looks on you as his own daughter, It isnatiaral unt Letty! Fancy being tortured and dying | children aright through the intricate ways of this | he should wish to see your interests united with those. for the faith, Ah! after all, suffering is the true herit- | world. It must be-no easy matter, and a heavy respon- | of Thomas, Has your cousin never hinted at such a ge.” ‘ fe % . _ | sibility. Poor Captain. Grant has, I fancy, eno to do | probability to you ?” i red Aunt Letty, who was be- unt. Letty. ve _ not immediately respond; she’ had | to keep himself straight just atpresent.”” And e's coming curious to hear if anything which could becon- d the en usiastic age when martyrdom ) light rh again rippled over. Partsh ode str into a love- 6 had : 9 Aatan eth e thing. Perhaps, too, she ha expemenaet “Not like your cousin Thomas, my dear, Heisso| “Oh, no! neyer—indeed he has not,” : erated of it, and had no wish to recommence the war- | good and steady as to be competent to be the guide of 03 to imagine that blame would at- (ee ap ial ; «| any young woman. Don’t you think/so?’. ifhe had done so. “We have never talked ‘ea uld be very. thankful thats have been "Mies ‘Lloyd had —— receive aready answer in - How could you think Saw Letty ?” ny a trial, Maggie. It must have been a fear- | the affirmative; but her niece’s eyes opped upon ¥° r cousin is always very to you, my ne for them, poo! SON cl tat beeen the —— instead, and the color ¢ in her | 4 Be not? Very hate in his speech and e ee over"’— _ se have no doubt but that he, will make his wife |“ said the girl, with that quick color, which’ wae “But they could not have felt them, aunt, ys ‘happy; have wey Maggie aa ah. ‘hér ie ttration, ifng to er cheek, ahd be ever the girl, turning her glowing eyes up to Miss Lloyd’s| “No! Aunt Letty,” came at last; but in avery sub- | likes to go out shooting or tie te mayne gh face; ‘not as they would have felt them under ordinary ' dued voice, know. One day, when they were going far, uncle ¢aid w=.
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‘Ishould be a nuisance to them, and! said—my cousin said that’’—— “What did he say, darling? You need not feel bash- ful with me.” “He said,” replied Maggie, with a hanging head, ** that he should not have halt the pleasure in his sport if I were not there.” “Nor will he have half the pleasure in his life if you are not there,’ exclaimed Miss Lloyd, enthusiastically. “Maggie, my child, I congratulate you. I couldmot conceive a future of greater happiness than that which is opening before you. Thank God for it!” «But Aunt Letty,” rejoined the girl, timidly, “it is not a settled thing, you know; he bas said nothing, and’’—— «“ But he will, my child, he will. Thomas is a good man, and a good son; and when he sees that his fath- -er’s hopes are set upon this marriage, he will. do his duty, and make us all happy. Leave it in God’s hands, and it will come right in the end; you may depend up- on that.” “But I would never marry him unless he’’—— and the sentence remained eloquently unfinished. “My darling, who could live with you and not love you?” exclaimed Aunt Letty, unintentionally conclud- ing it; and then, with a promise to preserve her niece’s ~ secret with the strictest fidelity even towards Mr, and Mrs. Bainbridge, she embraced her several times, and, gathering up her sewing materials, passed into the « house, leaving Maggie by herself upon the lawn. She was glad to be so left, for her head was still whirl- ' ing with the unexpected announcement made to her, and she wanted a little time to collect her thoughts be- fore she mixed with the family again. It was the Fourth of August, and on the Eleventh he was to be there; and when he had seen and spoken to his father he might speak to her. What should she say tohim? The summer sun was beginning to decline and throw long shadows athwart the unshaded moor- land, and turn its purple glory into the richest brown. Tne sheep which had been lying sheltered all day in the heather and the fern were commencing to bestir them- selves again, and speckle the hillside with dots of white. Stray hares and rabbits thought it time to peep out of . their hiding-places, and she could see the trout leaping ing in the clear stream below. : And even as she thought how peaceful and how dear the landscape was to her, and that she might live her life out amidst its quiet beauties, and beneath the pro- tection of one who was worthy of all her Jove and rev- erence, a little bird began to sing shrilly trom a neigh- boring bush, and Maggie’s heart ran over. . ¥ Not in tears—there seemed too much certainty for them—but in a burst of gratitude to the Giver of all ood, who had mapped out her pleasant liteas He had pee the smiling scene before her. She hada powerful voice, with tones as clear and dulcet as a bell, and as she pealed forth a verse of the grand hyma— “Holy! Holy! Holy Lord God Almighty, All hy works shall praise Thy name in earth and sky and sea!” the strains attracted the notice of Mr. Bainbridge, who was in the shrubbery close by. “What! my little Maggie !’’ he ejaculated, “all alone, ‘with no one but the birds to listen to your singing ? ‘Well, never mind, we shall have an audience for you in 4 few days: for here is a second letter from Thomas, ask- ‘ing house-room for another of his friends. I was just going in to speak to Aunt Lizzie about it.’’ “T don’t want an audience,” said Maggie, shyly, as she ; rose and slipped her arm through that of her uncle, “So much the better, my dear.. Songs like yours are never lost, for they have listeners up there ’’—pointing with his finger to the blue arch above them—‘“‘and a chorus too, I reckon, if our ears were only quick enough to catch the sound of it. Ay, and He pays his singers too, asa Royal Kingshould do, Stick to your songs, my daughter; they’re.the only ones worth learning, for they’ll endure when Time itself has passed away.’ Kina and fatherly as the manner of her uncle always had been, it was the first time he had actually addressed her by the name of “ daughter;” and as the unwonted term of endearment struck her ear, connecting it with the circumstance which she had just heard, Maggie's ‘quick start of pleasure and surprise resolved itself into a quick sigh of full contentment. CHAPTER VI. COLONEL BAINBRIDGE AT CRANSHAWS. No further allusion to the subject of her future prospects passed between Maggie Henderson and her Aunt Letty, and an occasional glance of intelligence on the part of the elder ade was the only intimation by which she conveyed that she had not forgotten the re- velation made to her. But after a while even this fur- tive token of sympathy grated on the girl’s feelings. In the first heat of hersurprise at the proposition madé to her, she had divulged far more than she intended— the secret which she had sacredly guarded for many months beforehand; and though it was oniy to Aunt Letty she had betrayed it—Aunt Letty, who had been the depositary of allher little joys and troubles since her days of infancy, who had heard all her secrets thitherto, and was.as true and as safe as the rock of Gibraltar itself—yet that she should have disclosed her love to anyone—the love which up to that moment had neither been asked or offered to her—was a cause of burning shame, and an episode upon which she conld Mo look back without feelings of deepest annoyance. . She was only acountry-bred girl, lacking in most of the requirements of fashionable society, but she pos- sessed a refinement of character too often found want- ing in the highest circles. Mer tell-tale cheeks and eyes, unused to practise concealment where all about them BER pORD AND MASTER. was done openly, had foolishly blurted out her prefer- ence for hercousin before her aunt; but Maggie was terribly angry with them for doing so, and would haye scorned to let them repeat the same story when in his presence. She was up to no one of the thousand little ways by which a woman of the world will leta man know he is agregable to her, and she would have opened her brown eyes very wide, could she have been initiated into many scenes that take place between members of the Belgravian coteries who have no inten- tion, and in many cases no power, of becoming more than lovers to each other—if triflers in search of mere excitement may be called by such a name. Maggie's simple, old-fashioned notions, derived from the homely experience of Aunt Letty and Aunt Lizzie, did not carry her beyond the exploded ideas that it is the peculiar province of man to make love to woman; that an engagement deliberately entered into is sacred as a Imarriage, and that marriage itselfis a death to il- legal admiration and excitement, anda resurrection to all the domestic virtues which can be crowded into one female form. And feeling like this, she was horribly ashamed whenever she remembered that she had over- stepped the privileges of her sex in making that revela- tion to Aunt Letty. But there was no remedy forit now, and no comfort excepting in the 2 ier that she had not wilfully done wrong, and Miss Lloyd’s promise of secrecy was sacred. Yet her distress and nervous anxiety increased as the time for Colonel Bainbridge’s arrival drew near; and she seemed to realize how much easier, if disap- pointment came to her, it would have been to bear it ell alone; so that when she greeted her soldier cousin, she was in reality, looking paler and less well than she had done for some time before. Colonel Bainbridge, in company with his friends, ar- rived to the day appointed, for he was as particular in private as in professional matters, and, quite unspoiled by the hospitality which had been extended to him abroad, would have been ashamed to upset the regu- larity of the home management by giving himself any of the airs of a fine gentleman. : He did not notice the unusual timidity and quiet- ness of Maggie’s welcome, nor the subdued expression of her face; on the contrary, fresh from contemplatin the waxen-like delicacy of Ethel Carr’s complexion, an the trained grace of her movements, his little cousin’s appearance and manners struck him as being far too rebust and noisy for those of a young lady, and the fashion of her dress seemed equally to offend him. ‘I say, mother !’’ he exclaimed abruptly, one day, as he followed Mrs. Bainbridge into her private sitting- room, ‘when are you going to let Maggie have some new things?” « Mrs. Bainbridge, who, with the traces of considerable beauty, and without being positively unlady-like (her father had.been a curate), was still one of those stout, rosy-complexioned, countrified dames, whom one never suspects of snk any blue blood concealed about their persons, deposited her comfortable self in an arm-chair; and then regarded her son over her spetcacles with un- mitigated surprise. “New things, my dear Thomas! new clothes do you mean? Why, your cousin had no less than four dresses made last month, and I believe the one she is wearing this morning is put on for the first time.” “Really? Well! I don’t know how it is, I don’t pretend to understand such things, but it doesn’t look right tome. Ought not ladies’ dresses to haye some bobs and. tails behind now-a-days, and ‘little crinkley things’ all round the edge of the skirt ?” _ Lady Ethel’s dresses being the only ones the man had ever taken the trouble to observe, had been made some- what after the fashion he attempted to describe, and the remembrance of them was still running sadly in Colonel Bainbridge’s head. But “bobs,” and “ tails,’’ and “little crinkley things ’’ were a paraphrase of the last Parisian mode, and a flight of dress-making ake ether beyond the comprehension of his worthy mother. “My dear Thomas,” she exclaimed, more amused than interested, “I really don’t know what you are talking about; Maggie’s dress appears very neat to me, and very suitable for a girl of her age, and Jeanie Ransom, who came over from Borthwick expressly to make: it.” (Borthwick was the nearest town, distant about ten miles from Cranshaws), “said that she was cutting all the ladies’ dresses now exactly in the same Style. And I know that Jeannie has the fashion-books regularly from London. What fault can you have to find with it?” “Oh, none, mother! it is very suitable for her, as you say; and, after all, it signifies little what one wears in the country—only I shovld have liked Grant and Hammond to see Maggie at her best, and—dcn’t you think she is just a little brusque in her manners for so young a girl—a little off-hand in her way of answering, and so on? I may be too particular, but it strikes me so,” “Towards the other gentlemen, Thomas ?—well, perhaps she may be, but Iam sure you always find her considerate enough with yourself.’ “Oh, yes! I have no complaint to make on that score. Maggie is most affectionate and kind; she isa thoroughly good, honest little creature, and I love her dearly, Whidk is, perhaps, the reason I perceive her faults sooner than I should those of another person.” “You can scarcely call it a fault, Thomas. In my time it was considered a desideratwm in young women not to be too forward in their manners.’ “Oh, by Jove! and soit is now. But Maggie certainly wants a little polish—she’ll never get a proposal if she sets her face so determinately against small talk.” “Our Maggie will not go begging for a husband,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, with an oracular smile: “No! not heartily; “she is too good for that.”’ And then he sauntered off to join his cousin in’the garden, while his mother hurried away to repeat thé’important conversa- I can prevent it,” rejoined her son, tion which they had held together, to his father, for with her all his anxiety: about Maggie’s dress and behavior tended to but one point—a conviction of the particular interest he took in her. That he was in- terested in her was indisputable, though in a very different manner from what his parents imagined. From his boyhood he had seen this girl growing up beside him like a younger sister, and his earliest memories of Cranshaws were associated with her bright face and winning ways. After a service of three years in India, he had returned home, about a twelvemonth previously, to find his childish playmate changed into a woman, but ready to extend the same affectionate welcome to him as of old, He had thought then (with the memory of the pallid faces he had left behind him tresh in his mind) that he had seldom seen a more at- tractive countenance than that of his country cousin, and if Colonel Bainbridge had ever stood in danger of falling in love with Maggie Henderson, it must assuredly have been at the moment of his return. A great deal of innocent but atfectionate intercourse had taken place between the cousins at that period, but his stay at Cranshaws was necessarily limited, and when he quitted it, to rejoin his battery at Woolwich, he left behind him an impression which even at that date, he would have been shocked to discover. Since which time he had mixed much, as has been said, in good society, and had his eyes opened wider and wider to pocr Maggie's defi- ciencies. He did not love her less; on the contrary the more intimately he came to know her character, the more estimable he perceived it to be, but his organs of sight and hearing, rendered fastidious by the ultra- refinement of the circle in which he moved, began to be shocked by the rusticity of her address, and the obsolete, not to say vulgar, fashion of her clothes. Every one knows what a dress, let the materials be what they may, turned out by a country dressmaker looks like— how it bulges out wherever it ought to lie flat, and urns all a woman’s curves into squares, and makes ita unfortunate wearer appear about as easy as though clothed in a suit of armor, Miss Jeanie Ransom’s pro- ductions (although she did come all the way from Borthwick to make them) were no exception to the eneral rule, and Colondi Bainbridge’s mind, already Ned with a fairer and more fashionable image, had no leisure to bestow on the dissection of the generous, self-denying, womanly heart that beat beneath those ill-made coverings of silk and merino. Yet he was pleased to hear his friends speak. in warm terms of Maggie’s bloom and youth, and as he gained her pre- sence on the occasion alluded to, and threw himself beside her on the grass, the old brotherly feeling re- turned so strongly upon him that he longed to make her a confidante of the anxiety then preying upon his spirits. ; Prhis impulsive, tender, and compassionate little heart, he thought, which was always ready to listen, even to a beggar’s tale of misery, would be so sure to sympathize with the prolonged pain of suspense occa- sioned by his uncertain hopes. The girl changed color as she saw his tall figure issue from the French windows of his mother’s morning- room and advance towards her; but Colonel Bainbridge was too indolent or too uninterested to observe the action. i ie!” he exclaimed, as he “A glorious get Mag: stretched his huge limbs lazily on the smooth sward, “but almost too warm for tramping over heather. . I feel sadly inclined to waste a few hours-in your com- pany instead.” + tp She did not appear to notice the indifferent compli-+ ment his words conveyed, but inquired anxiously :, » “Have you a headache, Cousin Thomas!’ . 3 For Colonel Bainbridge’s altered looks had been the subject of universal comment since his arriyal at Oran- shaws, and he had been compelled in self-defense to. at- tribute them to the effect of the late hours he had kept during the season. Bi! “A mere trifie, Maggie !—I did not sleep well ‘all last night. What a lovely prospect we have from here! It is a thousand piiies that Cranshaws is not nearer some good town. It is so terribly isolated.” “But Borthwick is not much more than an hour's drive,” replied Maggie, ‘‘and you can get everything there that you can possibly want,” whet Colonel Bainbridge laughed. Cy ’ “Bah ! my dear child ! why, Borthwick is nothing but a stupid little pottering country town. I don’t sup- pose there’s a pair of gloves fit to wear to be produced in the place. o woman of fashion could dress herself from a hole like Borthwick,” “Oh, no; I suppose not. I know so little about such things,” said Maggie timidly. t ‘But you are happy at Cranshaws, are you not?” he resumed presently. “It is pretty lively here, I sup- pose ?—for the country, that is to say—during the sum- mer and autumn weather. In the winter it must be un- bearable.”’ “ I never find it so,” replied the girl, whose heart had commenced to beat very rapidly at his question, so sig- nificantly like that of her Aunt Letty; but I have al- ways lived here you see.” “It might be vastly improved,” he went on, dream- ily; “there is no “a ape aber and the paddock at the back of the castle would be just the place for arch- ery. It wasa mistake of my father’s not having a bil- liard-table on the lower floor; that stupid orangery, which is no good at all, and little ornament, just takes up the room required for it.’’ “He would have had little use for it, you see, cousin, as he never plays billiards himself, and your visits are so few and far between.” ’ “But we shall change all that, perhaps, by-and-by, Maggie,” he said, with a bright glance mporeets op 3 suppose you think Iam such an old bachelor there is no chance of my ever marrying; but more wonderful things have come to pass before now.’’ t iti “Oh, yes; I know,” she answered confusedly, as she bent her eyes upon the work in her hands. ia 2 ee
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HER LORD AND MASTER. “Heaven forbid I should wish to oust the dear old people from their places; but Cranshaws may own a younger mistress some day ; and if that ever happens, Ishall make it as bright and pleasant for her as I can. It would be a jolly place to live in for six months in the year.” “Uncle and aunt have lived in it all the year round,” suggested Maggie, who could not help thinking what his parents would say to hear him speak so lightly of his obligations towards Cranshaws. , “Ah! yes—but then they are old people, who have never been used to mix in gayer scenes; you could not expect a younggirl to be contented with what makes them happy, Now, tell me the truth, Maggie: do you really believe that a girl, say of your own age, could settle herself as my wife down here at Cranshaws, and live through all the weary round of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, year after year, without wishing for something a little livelier than the company of her husband and the prospect of these everlasting moors ?’”’ “Oh! I don’t know. Ireally can’t tell,’ faltered his blushing cousin. But at that moment the voices of Sir Charles Hammond and his other friends were heard in search of him, and he rose to join them in their morning’s sport. “ Think weil of it, then,’ he answered laughing, as: he rose to his feet, ‘and let me have your deliberate con- clusion. A great deal may depend upon it, Maggie; you don’t know but what I shall be guided by your answer in one of the most important occasions of my life.” And so he left her, jestingly on his part it is true, but with a firm conviction on hers, that Aunt Letty’s sur- mise was correct, and that she should very soon be told that her cousin’s future happiness was bound up in her own. And thinking on his final words, Maggie shed tears of excited joy and gratitude. CHAPTER VII. A DECIDED REFUSAL, ‘In was but afew days after the circumstances just no that Mr. Bainbridge called his son into his atudy. ‘ 4 nop you give me afew minutes of your time, Tho- “Certainly, father!’ and in a second the door was closed behind him. They were a great contrast, this father and son’; for Mr. Bainbridge was a small, stout man, with the round- ed shoulders acquired from oe over a desk, and — unaristocratic features; and as he sat opposite noble-looking offspring, whose personal appearance had been all derived from the other side of the house, a stranger would have found it’ hard to believe they were so nearly related to each other, Yet there was that on the face of Mr. Bainbridge which almost beautified it; which certainly .made his friends forget that it was homely, and which, joined to its kindly expression, impressed all who saw it; and that was the stamp of a settled and abiding peace, such as had never softened the dark features ef hisson. In- deed, as they now appeared, notwithstanding his dis- | advantages of age and person, the father looked almost the younger of the two; for in many a tussle with the world and thought the brow of Colonel Bainbridge had gained deep furrows, which Time, and a heart at rest with God and itself, had smoothed out of the forehead of the other. Aud this fact seemed to strike Mr. Bainbridge as though almost for the first time, as he lifted his eyes and contemplated the careworn expression of the man who had thrown himself into a chair beside him. Tinks boy,” he said affectionately, as he touched his hand, “there are more lines in your face than there should be at your age. You are not concealing anything ‘ her us, Thomas; you are in good health, are you 4 no , = “Perfectly so, father,” replied Colonel Bainbridge, rousing himself. “I have the strength of a lion and the appetite of a horse—if that is sufficient to satisfy you.” “The reason goes deeper. perhaps,” said the old man interrogatively ; for to see the day when his son should feel as he did was all he cared to live for; but we know what Englishmen are when any one, everra parent, at- tempts to probe their most sacred feelings. Colonel Bainbridge sat bolt upright in his chair, affirmed that if anything was to blame for his wrinkles it was the cli- mate of India, and putting on a look of the most perfect indifference, begged that he might hear for what pur- pose his father had desired to speak with him. Mr. Bainbridge returned to his desk with a sigh, but still with a degree of satisfaction. He was, perhaps, the very remedy for his son’s waning youth and premature cares ; the means, too, by which Heayen designed to lead him into the way of peace. He entered on his self- imposed business with alacrity. “ Thave just been looking over these papers,”’ he said, “the title-deeds to the little farm of Brackenhaugh, our Maggie's single possession, you know. It’s a poor place, very poor in ; and we've only been drawing a pound an acre for the best part of it for many years past. But Taylor, who held it up to Lady- Day, has just vacated, and Robson, the Glasgow manufacturer, wants to take it on lease for the next fourteen years. He has two other farms about there, and Brackenhaugh divides his property. Only he won't give me as much rent as Tay- lor did, but promises, on the other hand, to use the ot for arable purposes.. Now my difficulty is this : ‘kenhaugh ought to bring in a higher rent than Robson offers us, and so Maggie will be losing by it for the next fourteen years: but still the place wants drain- ing and a dozen other improvements, andif I let it again to a sheep-grazier the property will go on deteriorating till it’s worth nothing at all. Robinson will do his duty by it, for he’s an affluent man and an honest one ; and if Maggie is cheated out of part of her rent, she will profit by the loss in the end. But I should like to have eee EE a ee Cie a 2) es a your ideas on the subject, Thomas ; for two heads are better than one; and it’s hard to choose for another person.” Colonel Bainbridge had listened to this harangue with the utmost astonishment. It was the first time in his life that his father had appealed to him for advice about anything connected with agriculture ; and considering that he had chosen his profession at an early age, and followed it closely ever since, it was but natural he should know nothing of such matters. He remained quiet till Mr. Bainbridge had finished speaking, and then, as might haye been expected, he replied: “Tam really so totally ignorant of everything con- cerning the business of a farm that I am afraid I can be of little service to you. I have never even seen Bracken- haugh, you know, so my opinion, if I had any, would be utterly worthless.” “Don’t you think it is time you began to think of such things, Thomas?’ said the old man gently. “I may be called home at any moment; and if Cranshaws is not to run to waste after my death, you will be com- pelled to superintend the farm yourself.” “T trust that contingency is a very long way off,”’ re- plied his son, affectionately. “That is as He pleases, Thomas, though whenever you are master here, I hope that. you will be a good one. Not that that was a reason for introducing the subject of Brackenhaugh to you this morning,” continued Mr, Bainbridge, .a slight degree of nervousness becoming ap- parent in his movements; “ gie’s interests are very dear to me, Thomas, and I should like to feel that you hold them so, and in the same degree.” “TI do,” exclaimed the younger man, firmly. ‘ Have I ever given you reason to thing otherwise, sir? I am as fond of Maggie as though she were my sister, and you may rest assured that I shall never divide her interests from my own.” (This he said thinking that the old man was troubled by the idea of what would become of his orphan niece after his own death.) ‘All, whom you leave behind you,” continued Colonel Bainbridge, “ will becéme sacred charges to ine, and I shall guard their happiness with the greatest care.” “Tam sure of that, my son. But Maggieis the only child of my only sister: her poor mother used to be the plaything of — boyhood, as she has been of yours, and when she lay dying she said I had made death easy for her by the promise that I would rear Maggie as my daughter. Now I feel as though my death- would be easier if I could see her future lot decided before I lie down upon it.” “It may be,”’ said Colonel Bainbridge, encouragingly. “ Maggie leads rather a secluded life*heré, but I should think she was a girl who attracted a good deal of ad- miration.” “I don’t want to see her married to aman who only admires her,” replied the other, impatiently: “my fondest wish, Thomas, is to leave her settled here at Cranshaws.’’ “At Cranshaws?”’ repeated Colonel Bainbridge. At first he had some indistinct idea that his father desired to oust him’ from his Heritage, and settle Cranshaw Castle on his cousin instead, but the moment his eyes met those of Mr. Bainbridge, the truth flashed on his mind. “Do you want me to marry her?” he said yeep! and then, struck by what appeared to him the absurdity of the idea, he burst out laughing. Nothing could have grated’so harshly on the feelings of the elder Brainbridge as that undisguised and hearty laugh. Had he beena worldly man, I should have said that he considered Maggie Henderson to be perfection ; but even as it was, he believed her to be as innocent and free from the taint of sin as is possible to a fallen crea- ture : and that any man could ridicule the idea of an alliance with her was incredible to him. Had his son looked surprised or thoughtful, or pro- tested against his chances of success, or a becoming love for his young cousin, hope still might have re- mained behind and persuasion have done much, but in that genuine mirth all concealment was impossible. It was evident at once that Maggie Henderson could never reign at Cranshaws. - olonel Bainbridge saw that he had hurt his father’s feelings, and hastened to apologize. : “ My dear father, I am sorry that I laughed, but pray dismiss that idea from your mind forever. Itcan never, never be. I could as soon think of marrying old Hetty the henwife, whom I have known ever since I was put into jackets. Maggie and I are far too much like broth- er and sister to become anything nearer. It would be impossible !” “Tam sorry for it!’ was all that Mr. Bainbridge said in reply. “ She knows nothing about this, I hope?” resumed his son anxiously. “Oh, no !’’ was the psi reply, for it must be re- membered that Miss Lloyd had never even mentioned that she had spoken to Maggie on the subject. «‘Thank heaven for that !"’ ejaculated Colonel Bain- bridge, ‘‘ or it would have broken up our pleasant in- tercourse. Father, I can’t imagine what should have put such an idea into your head.” “Tt seemed feasible to me, Thomas ; she is a sweet, lovable girl, andI suppose you will marry some day ?”’ A dark shade passed over his son’s face. “Perhaps so; but itis not at all certain. Any way, I should have thought, with your sound sense, that in the event of my marrying, you would have seen the advisability of my extending instead of contracting the family circle,” “Of raising it, you mean, Thomas!” rejoined Mr. Bainbridge quickly. “Well, yes, father, of raising it,’ was the honest. re- ply. “Iam not ashamed of my birth, as you know, but your wealth and my profession enable me to takea higher stand in society than yeu have done, and to shaege a wife in accordance with my improved posi- on.’* ns “You are ambitious of getting one with a handle to her name, perhaps, Thomas.” ° “She will make you none the worse daughter-in-law for that circumstance, if I am,’’ was the hasty reply, ; “T was rather afraid of that when I heard you had got among the aristocracy,” said Mr. Bainbridge with a sigh. “I am not like many self-made men, Thomas; I don’t rail against the aristocracy, and think it unfair that some should be born to a high station and others towlow. I know that God appoints our different con- ditions, and that what He does cannot be wrong. But. yet Ishould be very sorry to see you take a wite from among them, and bring her home to Cranshaws to look down upon your mother, and aunt, and cousin.” “T should never bring home any one but a lady, sir,’® interposed the colonel, with marked emphasis. “Ladies'can be very bitter sometimes, ’”’ replied his: father, “ when they don’t fear God. The higher classes are exposed to more temptations in that respect than. we are, Thomas ; the flattery they meet with, the re- quirements of the society they move in, and the de- mands made upon their time, leave them in general little leisure to devote to serious things. Now, my dear- boy, you know that I can’t control you in this matter, and that Ishould not wish to do so if Icould. But promise me one thing: that you will never bring home a reesei irreligious woman to be the mistress of Cran- shaws.” Colonel Bainbridge moved uneasily in his chair. The only creature whom, at that moment, he would have made mistress of himself and his possessions, he knew etre, Bard except that she was beautiful, and that her image haunted his imagination. And yet he believed that, however careless in speech, she must be at heart religious (does not every man try to believe so of the woman that he loves ?); and was sincere when he re- plied that he would never take a wife who was not, at the least, as pure and innocent as his cousin Maggie; “Nobody is pure in this life,” said Mr. Bainbridge, “and the world’s interpretation of innocence is very different from that of Heaven. Here every woman is called innocent who has not sly sinned, You are not a religious man yourself, Thomas (I wish to God you were), but you have been brought up, to the best of our ability, to know the signs of a religious life; and. I conjure you, as you yalue your own happiness and. our honest name, to marry Do woman in whom they are absent. I have no more to say to you at present. I suppose your mind will never be altered on the subject we have discussed this morning ?”’ “Tam sorry to have disappointed you, father, but it will never be altered. No thinking could bring me over to the idea—it is quite impossible.” “Very well, my son. Let us say no more about it,. I trust, when you choose for yourself, that you may get as good a wife and Christian as that girl will make.” And then the conversation was concluded, and never again renewed between them. But the disappointment which fell upon Aunt Letty and Aunt Lizzie, when Mr. Bainbridge made the upshot of the interview which he had held with his son known to them, is not to be described. Thomas had positively refused to take their Maggie a8 his wife—had even laughed at the idea of such a thing ; it was incredible to them. “He must have some other attachment,” concluded Aunt Lizzy. ‘Nothing less could make a man indiffer- ent to Maggie.’’ “IT am not so sure of that,” replied her husband, “but. Tam afraid that Thomas is ambitious—that he hopes to marry higher; and connections entered into for worldly motives seldom turn out happily.’ Aunt Letty said nothing ; she remembered the words which had passed between her and Maggie in the garden, and her heart was bleeding for her darling. “It is lucky our déar Maggie knows nothing ofall this,” resumed Mrs. Bainbridge presently ; ‘if her feel- ings had been concerned in the matter it would indeed have been a pe Spee though time and her good sense would doubtless have worked a cure.” “He who permitted the sorrow would Himself have: provided the remedy,” said her husband confidently.. And Aunt Letty laid up his words in her heart, and crept away to her own room to comfort herself with them as best she might. She felt terribly guilty in the matter, as she realized how much more hard it would be for the up bravely against her disappointment, knowing that the cause was patent to another. She longed to see: Maggie undeceived and put out of pain at once; but she dared not speak to her upon the subject again—it would be too sore a wounding of her darling's pride, She could only pray that her eyes might be soon Gpened ie the truth, and strength given her to bear the sight of it. And meanwhile the glorious August and September days went on, and Maggie Henderson lived ttdueh, them, a little anxiously, perhaps, but still quite undis: mayed by the prospect of the life that lay before her. CHAPTER VIII. LADY ETHEL IN DEEP WATERS, Lapy ErHer Carr felt the shock of her father’s sud- den death deeply. It startled, frightened, terrified her; and for the first: few weeks she was like some wild creature taken captive —flying from side to side to find an outlet for her sor- row, and driven back from all points on herself and her Own miserable thoughts. — 3 And then she sank into a state i apathy, from which nothing seemed to rouse her ; ‘and it was sad to see so young a creature sitting hour after hour with her mournful eyes fixed upon the blank wall of her apart- ment, and turning a deaf ear to the solicitations of her: attendants that she would take either food or rest. Yet her despair was not unnatural, for she had no hope with which to brighten it, Unable to remember: girl to bear: Re
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HER LORD AND MASTER. her mother, and her father having been the only one of the home circle who had engaged her affections, she felt as though in losing him she had lost every thing, It was the first time Death had stepped in between her and any one she loved, and it was all so dark and ter- rible she did not dare even to think of it. She told herself, of course, and in a manner she be- lieved, that her father had been taken from earth to heaven, and that some day she should meet him there. But in Ethel Carr's ideas (as in the ideas of so many of the young and careless) Heaven, instead of being 4 happy home to which she might be called upon to journey any day, was a very vague, misty, unsatis- factory sort of a pire, where by some means or other everybody would be united at last, to spend eternity in a fashion which she had no hesitation in affirming would be abominably dull, but which was an event so far off in the future, having nothing in common with our present existence, and only connected in her mind with doomsday and the end of the world, that she never troubled herself to think of it seriously at all. Meanwhile her father—her dear, dear father whom she had loved so much—had been taken from her, and hid in that dark, dreadful grave, of which she could not think without a shudder. He had disappeared, as it were, into impenetrable blackness, and she could only remember that in this world she should never see him more. x But through all her misery Ethel’a pride continued to reign paramount. She was cold and stately im her grief as the marble statues which adorn the corridors ; she disdained to ask for sympathy, and there was no one found bold enough to offer it to her. Lady Clevedon, whose part it should have been, was too much occupied with her crape and bombazine, and the most correct style in which to clothe the youthful earl, to have any leisure to bestow on her step-daugh- ter ; and bitterly as Ethel was grieving, perhaps even at that moment she would have resented any attempt at comfort on the part of her father’s widow as an in- fringement on her rights as chief mourner. For be- tween these two women there existed, and always had existed, an antagonism which was none the less deadly because it hid itself beneath a mask of smiles and caresses and endearing appellations. Lady Clovedon had been jealous of her step-daughter from the first, of her superior influence over the earl, and the lofty, dictatorial air which she had never been persuaded to abandon ; while Ethel viewed her young atep-mother in the light of an interloper, and her beauty as a fatal snare by which her father had been unfortunately betrayed. And, added to this, there had lately sprung up a fresh. source of rivalry between the two, which threatened to be more dangerous still. i With these feelings towards Lady Clevedon it was very bitter for poor Ethel, when the will was read, to learn with the exception of a small marriage dowry, she had been left entirely dependent on her step-mother. She had heard her father say so on the night of his death, and on several occasions besides, but she had attached small meaning to his words, or rather she had imagined she should be free from all authority but that of a husband before they would be put into effect ; now she felt as though the circumstance were almost more crushing than the blow which had preceded it. . The Earl of Clevedon had died very much in debt, to which the extravagance of his countess had largely contributed ; and his landed property descended by en- tail on his infant son, who was but two years old. There was little doubt, therefore, that the young mother would be amply provided for while the child’s minority lasted ; andif,on its cessation, her charms were still left “blooming alone,” she had always her marriage settlement to fall back upon. But Lady Ethel Carr, at once the fairest and the proudest of her sex, was com- mended to her kind affection and maternal care. Under other circumstances this would haye been the most pleasant and natural position in which to leave an orphan girl, but to Ethel Carr was intolerable pain. She ad several offers of a home made her, from relatives on both the sides of the house; but her proud spirit saw no-difference in one form of charity from another, and she resolved to abide by thelot her father had chosen for her. She had but one comfort in prospect—but one star shining on the dark horizon of her future—and that was that Victor de Lacarras would release her from her bondage before long. Had it not been for that hope, she would almost have died from disappointment and wounded pride, But the first wildness of her grief over, her heart re- turned with yearning fondness to the scene which had pastor between them on the balcony, and she cherished he words which he had then spoken as a sure pledge that he would be the champion of her future life. She knew it was not the moment that such assurances should be repeated or exchanged, but with her own ears he had h the avowal of his love, and she was satis- 8 . As soon as the earl’s interment was completed, Lady Clevedon proceeded, as had been pre-arranged, to Nice. A house had been engaged there for the winter, and she thought she could not do better than spend the first months of her widowhood abroad, where Lady Ethel Carr of course accompanied her. They quitted London immediately after the funeral, and without seeing any of their friends again, for which the countess had her own reasons, and Lady Ethel was, comparatively speak- ing, glad. She would not hayo cared to meet the Marquis de Lacarras, after what had passed between them, as an ordinary acquaintance. She preferred to live upon the memory of that scene, and to wonder how long it would be before it was repeated. Could she have overheard a conversation which took place about that time between Victor de Lacarras and one of his club-friends, Lady Ethel would have been better able to come to a decision on the subject. The name of the club-friend was Colonel Hartley, familiarly | known among his intimates as “Paul Pry,” on account of the wonderful facility with which he wormed out other men’s secrets, and the interest he took in every- body’s business but hisown. He was an elderly man, much made-up, both by tailor and hair-dresser; and he attacked the marquis on the day after Lady Clevedon left town, as he was standing in one of the club windows, thoughtfully regarding the traffic which went on in the street below: “Well, De Lacarras, and so you have lost your friends !’’ , “ What friends ?”” demanded the marquis, turning an indifferent gaze upon the speaker. “Why the Clevedons, to be sure. No Temple Grange shooting for you this season, old fellow, whatever you may have secured by next. Queer will, that of the earl’s, though, wasn’t it ?”’ “In what way ?”’ “Do you ask mein what way? Ishould have thought you would have been the last man to dispute it. Why, in leaving Lady Ethel Carr without a half-penny. I know it’s the case, because Hogden, the earl’s solicitor, is doing a little business for me, and I’ve seen him since the reading of the will.” “I dare say Lady Ethel will survive it,” “ And you ?”” ‘ “T have no possible interest in the matter; what should make you appeal to me?’’ “Oh, come, marquis,” exclaimed Colonel Hartley, with one of his must Paul Pry-ish looks, “it is of ho use trying to hoodwink me. Everybody knows what was your attraction in Park Lane this season; anil tliat had it not been fur this meiancholy circumstance we should hive seen you a Benedict before Christmas.” “Everybody knows a great deai more about me than I know myseif, then,” rejoined De Lacarras with an ex- pression of annoyance ; ‘‘andif your report is correct, Hartley, you may contradict it as soon as you like,” “You are not engaged to Lady Ethel Carr ?’’ “Engaged !”’ (Victor de Lacarras delivered the word with as much emphasis as if he had been accused of some dishonorable sn) Do Llook like a man who is engaged ? Lshould like to meet the person who has been spreading such folly abroad.” “T should certainly never have taken you for a mar- rying man,” said his companion, who began te draw it his horns at the other’s manners. “ Marrying man!’ repeated De Lacarras contem tuously. ‘ Now look here, Hartley ; judge for yourself ifit is likely. Every one knows my circumstances ; that I’m a regular beggar, without sufficient money to keep up my title,and in debt all over the world. How could I, in the name of all that’s reasonable, dream of marrying a girl like Ethel Carr, who, by your own showing, has not a half-penny? It bears absurdity upon the face of il.” “ But you have tot been unfavorably received in that quarter, Monsieur de Lacarras, if rumor speaks true,” ejactilated old Hartley with a meaning look. : The Marquis turned away to the window with a smile which meant even more than his friend’s look—such a smile as men of the world put on when taxed with gal- lantries which théy have not the strength of mind to deny—such a smile as is death to the hopes of any woman who has been led to place her trust in them. “That may be so,” it said, as plainly as though he had spoken, ‘“‘ but it is not my part to boast of it.’’ And then the men separated, Victor de Lacarras to think how fortunate it was that he had not committed himself by proposing to Ethel Carr before learning her penniless condition: and Colonel Hartley to spread several reports concerning them, by no means beneficial to her character or his. ee CHAPTER IX. AT TEMPLE GRANGE. Ir was not a long time before the Countess of Cleve- don wearied of the monotony of Nice. Six months had been considered the shortest period for which she should observe her retirement ; but long before that time had expired he announced her determination to return to England and take up her quarters at Temple Grange. i at quite sure that Nice does not agree with Alured,’”’ she said, in explanation to her stepdaughter, and alluding to her son; besies which, my spirits require cheering, and at the Grange I can ask some of my sisters down to spend their Christmas with us.” And cordially as Lady Ethel Carr disliked the count- ess’s sisters (who were all a degree faster and more flirting than herself), she acquiesced readily in her de- cision, for she also was becoming, not tired of Nice, but weary for news of Victor de Lacarras. She had grown fond of the quiet, peaceful spot which had ministered to her first sorrow, and in a measure taught her to overcome it; but she longed to hear again that voice the music of which was ringing in her ears by night and day, and to receive the re-assurance that her lover loved her. For the memory of that interview which had been interrupted by the fatal tidings of her father’s death was a sacred memory to her ; she had lived on it for months past, and would have staked her life upon its repetition. She was not surprised that she had received no letter from the marquis, or at least she told herselfso. She told herself thatit was far more delicate, and honorable and forbearing in him not to press his suit at a time when he must know that her heart was sore, and oc- cupied with graver things. He had heard her confess she loved him—and at the recollection of what she had said on that occasion, and his passionate rejoinder, Lady Ethel s cheeks would flush scarlet with mingled shame and pleasure—he must be certain she should never change her mind; and was satisfied to wait, as she was, until the proper period for a renewal of his courtship had arrived. And yet—and yet—that waiting time was sometimes marked by very anxious tears. It was December when they arrived at Temple Grange ; everyting around was looking bare, gray, and desolate; and Mrs. Mowbray, the countess’s favorite sister, was confined to her bed with an attack of bron- S geen! and powerless to rise and dance attendance on, er. } These circumstances’ combined to ruffle the equan- imity of Lady Clevedon’s temper, and: she was loud in < complaints of the dullness of everything about er, ’ “T must have afew people down, just for Christmas andthe new year,’’ she said, when the state of affairs became patent to her ; ‘my sisters won’t thank me for asking them here without a man to speak to; and Dr. Chalmers says that if I don’t take more ‘care of myself I shall beseriously ill. And no wonder, such a time as we have been moping at Nice.” “Is it not rather soon ?”’ inquired Lady Ethel, allud- ing to her stepmother filling the house with company, when she had so recently been made a widow, although her own heart was throbbing at the idea that ie might be among the intended guests. “Not at all!” was the pettish rejoinder. “We mustn't have any dancing or theatricals, or anything of that sort, of course ; but otherwise'there is no reason on earth why we should not see a few friends ina quiet way. With that dear child depending entirely on me, ‘it is of the utmost importance,’ as Dr. Chambers says, that I should not permit my health to suffer, which it most assuredly will do if l cannot shake off this dréad- ful depression. I shall only ask my sisters and the Marchmonts, and two or three men’; and I shall tell them that they are to expect no gayety, for it is to be quite a family gathering.” tug Lady Ethel asked no further questions, for she knew that Lady Clevedon had gues her penchant for the Marquis de Lacarras, and was too proud to evince an ipterest on the subject of his being one of the invite ut she had not many days to wait in suspense. “ They will both come,” laughed the countess lightly, as she threw two envelopes across ‘the breakfast-table to her, a few mornings after. ‘I thought as much.” And Ethel, recognizing off one the emblazoned cipher of Victor de Lacarras, took up his letter with a trembling hand, and perused. the brief courteous sentences in which he accepted her stepmother’s invitation. The flush which they called forth had not yet died away when she turned to the second letter, and with a'sud- den start read the signature of Thomas Bainbridge. ~ “That horrid man! Whatever made you think of pon toe Meer a abruptly, . : « y, el! tis a polite way to speak of of my friends. I asked Colonel Bainbridge no like oon and he likes me. Is not that a sufficient rea- son Ua OX 7 “Certainly, if it is the case ; but I was not aware that your mutual Sp te had progressed so far. I can- not say I acquiesce in your opinion. The man is be- néath us, in birth, and station, and ever seed. 3 “Ah! you must make allowances for me, Ethel ; my blood is not so blue as yours, remember ; Iam but a commoner inyself, so I can sympathize with Colonel Bainbridge. Any way, let us hope that his residence at Temple Grange for a few weeks may not have the power to Saeraean you.” “Were he to take up his residence here forever,” replied Lady Ethel haughtily, “it would make no dif- ference to me. He and I have nothing in common, and should be no better acquainted at the end of five years than five days.” ; “ Poor Colonel Bainbridge !” said Lady Clevedon, with much com on, “It is well my sisters havea higher opinion of him than yourself, or I should feel inclined toask him to postpone his visit.: But Harriet writes sd ten ere he is ran considered the match par ercel- ence, and seems excited at the prospect of meet- ing ar here.” * - r a “ ust that Miss Trevanion may derive all the advantage from his acquaintance that she tienivoar a Lady Ethel, as she rose from her breakfast- able. r Meanwhile Colonel Bainbridge did not at all con. sider himself an object of vowspaaeigni He was ina state of the utmost delight at the unexpected invita- he had received to Temple Grange, and feverishly an- ticipated the moment when he should go there, Since his return from Scotland he had been working steadily with his battery at Woolwich, often heaving a sigh as he gon on the events of the season past, and won- dering if,"in the coming one, he should meet with Lady Ethel Carr again. @ felt how visionary were his hopes respecting her, but he told himself that if she would not marry him, no other woman should. And in the midst of this vague, unsatisfactory train of thought came Lady Clevedon’s note, like an éarnest of success, inviting him to join a family gathering at Christmas-time, and in her country-house; the first, pd ices she had assembled since her husband’s eath. What man, hoping as he did, would startled by such a proof of interest ? iptink anton one of hundreds who had partaken of ' hospitality during the ey entre past season; andif his silent admiration of y Ethel Carr had been observed (and he had reason to believe the countess had observed it), there was the greater reason that he should not be singled out to meet her in the privacy of home life. Unless, indeed—and here a hope, faint as to prece- dents, but strong enough to make the man’s brain reel, would interpose itself, and turn his future into one great glory. He had been going down to Scotland as usual to spend his Christmas week ; but he wrote and made his excuses for not doing so, at once. He ” , told the truth; the Countess of Clevedon had invited him to spend a short time at Temple Grange, and-he should be sorry to lose the opportunity of doing so: he did not seem to consider that any other reason was’'Tre- 4 a ? ty Baw suid
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quired for breaking faith withthe home. circle. At Cranshaws his announcemeet was received with yari- ous feelings. Mrs. Bainbridge; notwithstanding her disappoint- ment, was proud to think her son should be associating with such grand people; but Mr. Bainbridge read the title with asigh; and Maggie’s face (which had been growing very pale and thin since his. visit in the autumn) turned just a shade paler as she tried to con- sole herself with the promise in his, postscript that he would try and get another fortnight’s leave, and run down to see them in the spring instead. So true it is that seldom can one reap joy in this world without entailing sorrow on another. On the day that Victor de Lacarras was expected at the Grange Ethel Carr did not know herself. She, ordinarily so quiet and. self- possessed, accustomed to stamp on her emotions with the iron heel of pride, was almost alarmed to find her feelings had outstripped her will, and that she was aS nervous and trembling as the most ordinary creature born. She had never realized till then, she said, with a htened look at her pale, anx- ious features in the glass, how much she cared for him. She felt as though she could not walk down into the room to meet him; and yetshe.knew that not only must she do so, but thatthe eyes of her stepmother and her stepmother’s sisters would be fixed upon her the while, eager to mark her agitation, and delighted if she publicly displayed it. That thought alone was sufficient to nerve her for the'coming interview, and perhaps Ethel Carr had sel- dom looked lovelier or more: defiant than when she emorged from her dressing-room that eyening and set her foot on the staircase which led to the apartment where she knew the company to be assembled, Phe deep mourning robes which she still wore for her father set off the transparent delicacy of her skin, and the beauty of her golden hair, to the greatest ad- yantage ; while a soft flush, calledforth by anticipation, relieved, tae pallor which-her face had too often dis- played since his death. She would not yield to the in- clination which called on her to pause and try to ‘the rapid beating of her heart, or still her trem- nerves, but passed swiftly on until she reached the ante-chamber. to the drawing-room. Even as she atood upon the threshold she saw a figure quickly leave, the side of Lady Clevedon and adyance towards her. She:felt the pressure of his hand and heard. him utter a few ordinary words of greeting, but she never could remember afterwards how she had met him; for. at the sound of his voice a sickly faintness assailed her, which made her fear lest she should fall, or betray what she was feeling. And perhaps she might have done so, had not a wholesale correction awaited her on the other side. ‘Tete that Lady Ethel Carr has not quite forgotten m¢,’’ said a voice from that quarter ;.and turning with relief to any distraction from the immediate presence of Victor do Lacarras, Ethel placed her hand almost eagerly in that of Colonel Thomas Bainbridge. wakt-ow aif doe vy EAPTER, X. ' - SPORT TO HER AND DEATH TO HIM. -e THe dinner, and. evening that. followed it, passed emuch in the manner that such: entertainments do where the gathering is small and private and the con- -versation becomes general. »» The Miss Trevanions, by. forwardness and much talk- ing, contrived,as they usually did, to monopolize the _lion’s share of attention ; and. attera due amount of coffee and drawing-room ballads the party separated for the night, without its being possible for any two of its members to exchange a quiet word with one another, » And yet, somehow, Lady Ethel. felt disappointed at the result of the meeting to which she been looking -dorward; with such ardor,even while she was angry with herself for feeling so. The Marquis de Lacarras had met her as any other goatiegan: of her eagaintance would haye done; as had mused to do while her father was alive: and under the. cireumstances she could not have expected him to do more, It would have been wrong, indeli- cate, unseemly ; she would have been the first to blame .,himif he had dared to make any demonstration of his attachment to her; so she said, with the quick eager- - ness of a woman to deny any imputation of coldness inthe man she cared for. Vietor would take a proper op unity to renew the conversation, which had been interrupted ; in a. few days all would be right between them, and she would be enabled foreyer to silence the insinuations and stop thesneers concerning him, which she had so.often found it hard to bear from the lips of _ Lady Clevedon. Andso Lady Ethel went to sleep that first night very full of happiness and trust. But when day atter day slipped away without the marquis mak- ing the slightest effort'to see her alone, or the remotest allusion to what had passed between them, her pride took alarm, and she asked herself whether it were pos- sible she could have been mistaken. Was the scene which had taken place upon the bal- cony, and. every particular of which she so vividly re- membered, only a delusion of her fevered: brain? Had . Victor Lacarras never really told her that he loved her, . and asked for the assurance of her affection in return ? and paige been dwelling for all. these months upon a mere chimera the product of her vain imagination ? Lady Ethel, with her face buried in her hands, sat down in her own room, seriously to consider this. Oh, no; it was, not fancy ; her memory was too clear, her love too real; she could never have invented so much She saw again the balcony lighted only by the stars . ‘watched the white hand creeping on’ her own, heard pies: fond tones, and felt the warm kiss laid upon Bs It was not fancy ; she had passed through and felt HER LORD AND~ MASTER. all this, she had been deceived and made a fool of: she was of all women the most miserable. Now it necessarily happens in a small coterie such as was assembled at Temple Grange, that there is little privacy for any one. There is no seclusion so perfect as that of alarge crowd, where each individual is occu- pied with his own concerns, and too busy to pry into those of his neighbor: but in a tamily party, separation means estrangement. Consequently Lady Clevedon, who was most particu- lar in impressing. upon her ape te that she was living in the utmost seclusion, and could not hear of any- thing like gayety, took care that whether they rode, or drove, or walked, each one should share in the amuse- ment; but if it happened, as it very often did, that her ‘‘poor head ached,” or her ‘poor heart felt heayy,”’ and she claimed the privilege of bereavement to be left behind, she generally managed that the Marquis de La- carras should be her companion. “‘You are so good, you will not mind staying with a stupid creature like myself,”’ she would say on such occasions ; and Victor de Lacarras, with all a French- man’s fervid politeness, would affirm that he had no pleasure equal to that of waiting on the wishes of his amiable hostess. Lady Ethel was not annoyed at this: she had none of the petty jealousy which would keep a man forever loitering by her side, and she knew that the manner of the marquis, like that of many foreigners, was empresse towards every woman with whom he happened to be brought in contact. But when she found that he never attempted to break the countess’s chains in or- der to remain with her, and that his services. appeared to be always engaged either by her stepmother or the Miss Trevanions, her mind, loath to give itself up to the despair which was fast-coming on it, passed into another phase of feeling, and she clung to the idea that it was by Lady Clevedon’s means that the marquis was ib haid coming to an understanding with herself. he remembered how, even during her father’s life- time, her stepmother had vied with her in attractin his attention, and she believed that she was doing al she could to come between them now. 9 Lady Ethel knew that she was proud, that many called her cold and reserved, and she was aware that she had never gone one step out of her way to afford Victor de Lacarras the opportunity for which he might be diligently seeking. On the contrary, on more than one occasion, fearful of her conduct pane miscon- strued, she had purposely avoided ange & eft alone with him. She might have been wrong; thinking the matter quietly over im her chamber, she decided now that she was wrong: and that if such an accident. oc- curred again, she would not shirk it. A large conservatory opened from the drawing-reom at Temple Grange ; and two days after she had arriyed at this conclusion Lady Ethel was standing on its threshold, looking at the bright array of winter flowers, when the Marquis de Lacarras approached her leisurely, “A splendid show of camellias,” he said, following her glance. “Yes ; is it not?’ she answered in the nervous tone with which she always now addressed him; ‘and the nearer you look at them, the more beautiful they’ ap- pear ;” with which words she stepped into the con- servatory. It was along one, and Lady Ethel walked slowly to the end of it and back again, but. Victor de Lacarras had not followed her. When she returned to the drawing-room Lady Clevedon was sitting .there alone, ‘ “So your invitation was not accepted,” she said, with a sarcastic laugh. “‘Upon my word, Ethel,I did not give you credit for so much forbearance. I should feel just a little piqued with the indifference of Mon- sieur le Marquis if I were you.” The hot blood rushed to Ethel’s cheek and brow, and she was. about to give an angry rejoinder, when her words were choked by the re-entrance of the marquis himself, accompanied by Colonel Bainbridge. : “My dear. Lady Clevedon,” he exclaimed, addressing his hostess, ‘ we come to ask a Hg de of you. We have got up ascratch-race in the park ow—just a couple of hurdles, you know, and a ditch of water: but we shall derive no pleasure from our little burlesque unless the ladies honor us with their presence, and encourage us with their smiles. Pray let me conduct you to the scene of action; the Miss Trevanions have already gone on under the charge of Major Marchmont.” : “What, monsieur! is it to take place immediately?” she asked, laughing. ‘Indeed, then, you must manage your race without me, for it is much too cold to stir out this morning, in my estimation. But here is Lady Ethel, who, I am sure, will be only too pleased to accept your escort; you can offer her your arm instead.” Lady Ethel, who had been standing, flushed and indignant, by the table while Lady Clevedon was deliy- ering her emphasized harangue, now drew back with a gesture of refusal. b “Many thanks, monsieur,” she said as she bowed in acknowledgment of the marquis’s extended arm, “ but Ethel Carr prefers to choose her cavaliers, to having them chosen for her, even by so good a judge as Lidy Clevedon ;”” and with a smile that wes too openly scornful to pag oe to be in play, she passed him by, and placed Bainbridge. The countess burst into a loud latigh, while Victor de Lacarras bit his lip and looked annoyed, and Colonel Bainbridge, coloring with pleasure at the unexpected reference shown to him, led his beautiful companion Reg the room. The glance of displeasure with which the marquis had viewed this act on the part of Lady Ethel did not e her notice, and prompted her to follow it by many of the same sort. If he chose to neglect her, she said passionately to herself, he should at least be made to see that there were others ready to take the place he had abandoned, er hand upon the coat-sleeve of Colonel. And since between Colonel Bainbridge and himself there had always been a very apparent though un- avowed dislike, no less than because the tormer was always near at hand to aid her in her scheme of retalia- tion, it came to pass that he was made the tool of Lady Ethel’s revenge; and from having studiously avoided his company, it might almost be said she courted it. Her heart burning with resentment at the slight put upon her by the altered conduct of Victor de Lacarras, she thought of nothing and no one but herself and her own wrongs, and in self-defense she used the first weapon which came in her way. That Colonel Bain- bridge, cherishing the feelings which he did for her, should have been that weapon, was unfortunate for him and for herself. And yet she scarcely thought of the ps evil she was doing him, nor was she conscious of the consequences she was drawing down upon her head until she was roused to a sense of the situation in which she had placed herself by receiving an offer of marriage from him. It was after an evening of great excitement on all their parts—an evening during which Lady Cleyedon had entirely appropriated Victor de Lacarras, and flirt- ed with him in a manner so open as to call down censure on herself from even the lenient lips of Mrs. March- mont, and in the sight of which, Ethel Carr, deaf and blind to everything but what concerned the man whose ungenerous behavior was eating out her heart, had permitted Colonel Bainbridge to say more, and to go farther, than she had ever suffered him before, that she found a note, in his handwriting, placed upon her dressing-table. Half fearful of what it might contain, and yet scarce- ly believing, in her intolerant pride, that he would make her an offer of marriage, Lady Ethel tore the letter open, and read as follows : “DEAR LADY ETHEL: If you deem me presumptuous in addressing you on a matter which lies very near my heart, you must blame the kindness which has em- boldened me to do so ; but after the events of the last few days, and especially of this evening, I feel that I can wait no longer to ascertain my fate; for every ex- tra moment of suspense becomes a purgatory tome. I cannot remain at Temple Grange unless it is as your accepted suitor, Am I to go—orstay? Believe mo, yours always, “THOMAS BAINBRIDGE.” CHAPTER XI. THE RIVALS. WHEN Lady Ethel read this letter it was late at night, the guests of Temple Grange had separated for their respective chambers an hour before ; and had she not, in.a. vain endeavor to shake off the restless anxiety which oppressed her, been loitering and wre eye J in the room of Mrs. Marchmont, she would have received it on first going up stairs. She was alone—her sleepy maid was nodding in the ante-chamber, waiting for the sound of her mistress’s bell, and no one was witness of the feelings with which she perused it. © And it was as well, for those feelings were very bitter. She had been thinking much more leniently of Colonel Bainbridge lately, but this letter changed all the cur- rent of her thoughts. She was not generous enough |to observe what a manly, straightforward proposal it was, nor to remember that her encouragement had forced it from him, but a mighty, unwomanly indigna- tion, and a hot sense of haying been insulted in her father’s house by the man whom Lady Clevedon had chosen toinvite there, rose up to choke all thoughts more befitting the situation and her sex. ° She was hard, contemptuous, crushing, in the first knowledge of his presumptuous hope, and her angry heart cried out against Victor de Lacarras, as the ac- complice by whose cruel conduct this indignity had been brought upon her. Everybody was, in Lady Ethel’s mind, to blame, ex- cept herself, and her resentment knew no bounds. tor Colonel Bainbridge and his probable suffering, those -were matters left out of the question altogether. Her first impulse had been to tear the letter into shreds and cast it to the winds; her next to show her step- mother what had come of her insisting upon asking people to the house who did not know how to preserve their station in society, and the stern means by which she intended to teach them the lesson. Always im- pulsive, when her weak point had been interfered with, without. further reasoning Ethel flew down the broad. staircase and into Lady Clevedon’s dressing- room. But it was unoccupied, excepting by the ser- vant working patiently by the fire, who, in answer to the young lady’s excited inquiry, replied that her mis- tress had not yet come up Stairs. It was all the better—so thought Lady Ethel—for her stepmother would be alone; and what she had to say to her was not a subject fit for listeners. _ Her light feet scarcely sounded on the rich carpets she traversed between that chamber and the drawing- room, which had been deserted, as She thought, so long before. : : But as she gained the doorway, the low murmuring of voices reached her ear, and without further preface, she drew aside the heayy portiere and stood upon the threshold. At the scene she witnessed there her heart seemed as though it turned to stone; for on one of the low sofas which had been wheeled near the fire, there reclined easily the form of the Marquis de Lacarras, while by his side, still in her evening dress, her hand elasped in his; and her wealth of auburn hair laid caressingly upon his shoulder, sat her father’s new-made widow— Gertrude, Countess of Clevedon. Lady Ethel stared at them without speaking a word: yet that undefinable instinct which makes us Jeel with- out agg Hee we are observed, caused the pair to turn their heads and quickly change their position,
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. beloved, I appeal to you if there is any life so eruel, ' any death so hard to bear, as the life which has been fellow-creatures 1!’ How’ could she ever bear again to go' | Oh; Victor | ‘Victor!’ And the mere: mention of his ' mame brought down'a flood of tears which did not’ cease ‘until nature was well-nigh exhausted. w floor, moanin That thought was sufficient: in a moment her predomi-~ | ‘would not allow nim, and—and—Lady Clevedon ° ; RO one could be the So / Bat the girl:could not , she did not even think of | had he argued at. the moment and so wot have ar~ Praying: from first to last of that long night of agony, xd to the end of time, had not the fact: fis folly have @ wild mention of the name of the Almighty was all the had aspectator conety ohengas the aspect of affairs, ' she made to: éaven for/help in her distress, «|. Then he was.a fool: Lady 0 enasien ais tr ay and dot ‘was ‘she to. ‘from the life-long misery of | the sooner he turned his back, on ple , and |, pre Sev ether’? ‘That was the next question. — chance of getting himself into a scrape, the bet- 600 vcould ‘act her: for HER LORD AND MASTER. 9: him, as the husband of her stepmother—in the position of his daughter? andat the ‘thought, so sadly ludi- crous, so unnaturally probable, an hysterical laugh rang sharply on the night air, to be followed by a tre- mendous burst of passion. It should never be !—and her foot stamped, and her pale features kindled beneath the rising storm—he had insulted her enough already —they had combined together to outrage her most ten- der feelings : they should never have the satisfaction of seeing her heart daily trampled on. But how to escape from it—she, who was tied down in miserable dependence upon Lady Clevedon’s pleas- ure? how was it possible for her to evade the hourly pain which her stepmother would so well know how to inflict wpon her? At that moment her eye fell upon the letter which con- tained Colonel Bainbridge's proposal: in which he made her the offer of his heart, a matter she was perfectly indif- ferent to—of his home: the refuge she was seeking. Lady Ethel’s breast heaved, and her breath came quickly; was it possible she could accept it? She sank into a chair, and taking the crushed letter in her hand, smoothed it out and read it over carefully. She was still gazing at itin a vacant, stony manner, when the first rays of morning streamed through her bedroom- window and looked upon her pale and careworn. face. Then she rose; and with the same fixed expression as though she were walking in her sleep, deliberately summoned her-maid to her assistance, and haying first refreshed herself with a warm bath, proceeded to make & most elaborate toilet. j But before they did’ so, Lady Ethel had dropped the portiere and was gone. “Who was that?” said the countess sharply to her companion. : “It was Lady Ethel Carr,” he rejoined moodily, and then they dréw apart from one another, and'there was silence between them for a’ little space. It was inter- rupted by Lady Clevedon’s nervous laugh. “JT shall have to make some excuse or other to her, I suppose, to-morrow morning,” she ‘said inquiringly. “Can you help me to one, Victor ?’”’ “There is no occasion to ask me,’ was the quiet answer; ‘‘you know that you are much cleverer than I ani.”* + The countess sighed, gathered up a shawl which had fallen off her shoulders, impatiently, and holding out her hand, affirmed it was high time that all respectable pacpte bid each other good-night. The marquis took the proffered hand, released it without so much as @ pressure, and turned on his heel towards the smoking-room ; while his fair hostess walked off to her own apartment, and rated her maid for her stupidity and awkwardness until she drove the unfortunate menial into giving her warning. Meanwhile Lady Ethel Carr was creeping—creeping slowly, like one who has received a severe blow on the head, and is blinded ‘or dizzy from the shock, back to the shelter of her own room. She passed through the ante-chamber, mechanically letting fall’ the sentence “I don’t want you” to the servant as she went, and then she locked her door and sat down by the dressing-table (still in a kind of stupor), and spread out her hands upon her lap and tried to understand what was this misfortune that had over- taken her. t : Ihave drawn her as a vain and arrogant girl—as one whom many would call heartless; but in this hour of her deep humiliation, every head should be uncovered before her. Ob, women! women possessing not only hearts and souls, but warm, full life, and the natural impulse to CHAPTER XII, CASTING THE DIE. THERE were various feelings at play in the hearts o those who assembled round ‘the breakfast-table at Temple Grange that'morning. Lady Clevedon, especial- ly, would have been puazled to explain exactly what she felt. She was hali-nervous at the idea of encoun- ering her stepdaughter (for she had never yet arrived at the knowledge of Lady Ethel’s character, and was un- certain paaaiben she would resent the blow her pride had sustained by an open show of resentment or indif- ference), but at the same time she experienced all a woman’s triumph at tlie defeat of her rival.| For that was the real position in which she stood to her late husband's daughter. For months before Lord Cleve- don’s death she had viewed the attentions of the Mar- quis de Lacarras to Lady ‘Ethel; Carr, with the keenest jealousy, and had done all in her power to divert their tendency. And her first thought,on becoming a widow had been how best and easiest to secure them for her- self. But the game was not yet in her own hands. She had met the marquis in the corridor that morning, and with a pretty pout of injured innocence, accosted him with the domplaint: ? “You have made me quite afraid to meet Ethelagain, Victor: Iam sure she will repeat that story every- where: you have compromised me most terribly.” “If so, it will. be for the last time,’ he replied care- ‘lessly, ‘for return to'town this afternoon; and then Lady Clevedon ‘had been ready to contradict all that she had said, in herendeavors to make him stay. , Butithe marquis was determined, for he would rather any contretenvps should have happened, than the Lady:} Ethel Carr should have witnessed his familiarity with her stepmother. | ~ He was a wild, dissipated man, careless and unthink- ing; but his heart had never. so nearly approached lov- ing ‘any; woman.as it: had done the daughter of Lord Clevedon. ‘Had her father lived, he would doubtless have proposed to her: in fact; he was on. the point of doing so when they were interrupted in the balcony; and nothwithstanding he had congratulated himself since that he hadnot gone far, of late—and especially since Lady Ethel had. bestowed so many of hersmiles on Colonel Bainbridge—he had nearly arnived at the con- chision that he did care for her, and that, fortune or no fortune, he must tell her so again. And now, by one act of folly, he had rnined all his. chances of success, for he knew the girl’s disposition too well to believe she would eyer forgive such a direct in-. ‘sult to her affection, © Why had -he ever permitted it? The Marquis de Lacarras ee his silky black mustache thoughtfully a fingers,and was unable to answer the question; : Ah! why indeed?. Why was he not stronger than ninety- nine out of a hundred of his fellow-men, subjected to the same ordeal? He was weak, and 1, and irreso- lute by nature, and ‘‘ the woman tempted-him!” Aman requires to be something) more than sto- | ical to push away the head that uninvited is oft ling robbed of the affection which was all in all to us, and the death of hopes which we had considered to be cer- tainties. No man can understand this grief as we can, for wé were made for them, not’ they for us: and love us as they May, we never can fill up every chink and cranny of their lives, as their affection does for ours. And we are so utterly powerless to do more than sit down and cry our’eyes out over their inconstancy: When Lord Clevedon died, his daughter thought she had lost everything : but in this moment of oe that her lover was untrue to her, she felt that she h never yet known what it is to be really poor. Up to ‘that'momént she ha@ hoped against all hope : now hope was ‘doné)and love, and life, and everything finished. She had seen his perfidy with her own eyes. When Lady Ethel’s meditation reached this point, a vivid picture of her own deserted and desolate condition rose up before her mental vision, and, struck with pity for what lay in the future, she cast herself pros’ te on the floor, and gave vent to an exceeding bitter ox, Oh that her life were ended: that she could die of grief just where she lay : that‘she might never more see 6 hateful light’ of day, nor hear the voices of her through the’ monotonous routine of daily existence: to listen to. the: song of ‘birds, or walk among the flowers: how could she support the intolerable paimof living ? For an hour or more the wretched girl lay on the quietly to) herself, or giving way. to fresh bursts of sorrow, as memory recalled to her! what she had lost. And then there: came a lull. “With a sudden effort, Lady Ethel rose to her feet, and stagger- ingly approached the mirror. ‘Was it her own image she saw reflected there—or had a midnight ghost sprung up to personate her ? Her eyes were b hot, her eyelids dark and swollen, her face ghastly pale, and down her fair smooth cheeks the'tears seemed ‘already to have cut two little channels for grief. As she gazed’ at the effect of her unusual emotion, the idea struck her’ that in afew hours all: the world of Temple Grange would sce'them too, and become masters of her secret. nant on’ had sprung’ into ‘full play; Ethal, ashamed of her weakness, even though no eye had been witness to it, hastily bathed her ‘burning fea- ‘tures in order to eradicate the traces of her grief, She this last name brought ‘out with a dry, hard sob) to tave the pleasure: of erg: pra together over her crest-' fallen and woe-begone demeanor. bs ae If it killed her; if she died of suppressed agony the moment afterwards, she would yet appear at breakfast on the following morning, and look them both straight |. in the face, and make them believe she had never been | being more happy)) 6) ‘Happy! Merciful God! and everything connected with.’ ine was Over for her! t iby Oh, efor pray !: If every friend in this) world | and Lady & few hours—fora few| And so much mor’ uneasy even than Lady Clevedon ) months, But could she trust (of | + foreyer=to live in’ the same house with! | interwoven with ‘must. inyent, some en alt poe al parane ray sheng 1 ing made her appearance, he would haye escaped to the shelter of his own apartment, had it not been for the fear of meeting her alone upon the stairs. So he kept his place in moody silence, refusing to smile at his hostess’s most brilliant sallies, and making a great pre- tense of being occupied with the contents of his plate every time a footstep approached the door. There was another person at the table that. morning who awaited Lady Ethel’s approach with nervous so- licitude; and that one, as may be supposed, was Colo- nel Bainbridge. It was the license with which she had ae arg po him to address her the last few days, and the right looks she had cast upon him, which had, em- boldened him to write to her, but he had done so while in the flush and excitement of her unexpected notice : and by tbe cold morning light, his boldmess appeared very like unpardonable presumption, Did she consider itso? Was this unusual delay in her appearance an indication of her consent to, or her refusal of his wishes; and would her eyes, as they met his, shed an encouraging forgiveness, or paralyze him with their scorn ? His whole heart filled with these perplexing ques- tions, Colonel Bainbridge sat on thorns till he should learn his fate: showing but too plainly, by his inat- tentive and distracted manner, that his thoughts were not with the business in hand. But even as he pon- dered, the dining-room door flew open suddenly, and she was in the midst of them, countess’s gloom had proved contagious ; Mrs. Marcb« mont looking tired, and the Miss Trevanions axnoyed at the listless and absent demeanor of their cayaliers. But with Lady Ethel Carr the yapidity dispersed, for acted smile upon her countenance, that brightness seemed to enter the room with her, At her approach the men of the party rose to their feet, but she mo- tioned them to their places again with a light wave of the hand, ‘‘ Pray don’t disturb yourselves. I don’t deserve it, for I know that I’m shockingly late, Good-morning, Gertrude, I hope you slept well. Good-morning, Mrs. Marchmont, . Monsieur, we will shake hands when. breakfast is concluded ;” and then she nodded smiling- ly to the rest of the company and took the chair whic Victor de, Lacarras placed. for her, She had noticed each one there by word or look excepting Colonel Bainbridge ; but as she was about to seat herself, she felt that he was still standing, and involuntarily raised her eyes to his, ‘Something in their expression, some- thing betwixt humble pleading and a man’s demand for his rights, touched the best portion of her nature, and for the first. time a sense of the wrong she was about to do him. excited her compassion, and, rising, he i i out her hand across the table and put % nto his, A quick flush of pleasure kindled the bronze features of the: soldier, as he reverently accepted the honor done him; and the Marquis de Lacarras turned his head the other way, and pretended he had not wit- nessed the compliment she had denied to himself, 4 Meanwhile Lady Ethel's tongue ran on glibly. A “A beautiful morning, is it not? We really must not waste it in-doors.as-we did that of yesterday. « Ger- trude,, cannot. you devise some plan to amuse your guests? We have done nothing but yawn and J0ok at eachother, day after day. Could. we not make up a riding-party. somewhere?) You are fond. of: riding, Colonel Bainbridge—of course a soldier always is ;” at which appeal the man she addressed colored again, furiously, and said-he should be only too pleased to ac- company Lady Ethel Carr anywhere, Lady Clevedon looked at her stepdaughter with amazement, and indeed anyone cognizant of the facts related would:have done the same. to see her pale and dejected, smiled, do so in a forced nothing could ap: the behavior of colored ribbons, smiling face, she was almost, disposed.to question whether she had , and there had ever been a peyannnk for Monsieur le ais de Lacarras lurking m her beret a heart. abet WI : Some one remarked | the beauty of the morning would not last, and that some, one else had prognosti- cated the approach of rain. ghia ‘In that case,” exclaimed Lady Ethel, “we really for indoors. - Ger- trude, is it quite that we should get dance this ross 4 a ‘comes but once a vest, remember.”” ; been bet pdaughter appeared less “I am surppisod at: your askin ng it,” returned the peuntens somowhat, indignantly or, age Ra y ;/it robbed her of 80 much of. her, pode cire lesee; ohir " » carcuuns| under w ed here, and the proviso Imade with my guests ve. < fasts gators pe =< ¥ 4 P ie bil dp ” : Re Soenm | The meal had. been a dull one until then, for thé she came forward so apringingly, and with such awell-'
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10 HER LORD AND MASTER. of the room, leaving her standing there—with the ex- ception of one other—alone. Then all the forced spirit and diablerie died out of the girl’s face, and she withdrew into one of the embrasured windows, sick at heart and trembling with indecision: for she knew that the hour was come, and her fate was: in her own hands. ms It was not.a second before Colonel Bainbridge joined er. “Lady Ethel, let me have my answer,” he said frank- ly, “suspense is so difficult to bear.” But she leaned her head against the panelled wall and closed her eyes, and answered nothing. She had thought that she had quite made up her mind—that she was de- termined to accept the relief his letter offered her; but now that it had comie to the point of saying “yes ”’ or “no,” her courage failed her, and she felt as though she = not put the sign-manual to the death of all her opes. Her silence threw cold water on the fire of his ex- pectation, and when he next spoke his manner had be- come much more subdued. e ie received my letter ?” “é es.’ , “Then be merciful, and if there is no hope for me, } put me quickly out.of my pain. You don’t know—you |} cannot understand ’—here -his voice sank tones lower what I am suffering.” “TI cannot—I mean, IT ”—— “You’.mean that I have" miade a foo) of myself, only your heart is too tender to tell me so, Lady Ethel—if it is-the case—only say that you forgive me; that you can at least two | » make allowances for) my presumption, and do not de- deeper importance. spise my love—an honest one, Iswear to you—and I will try to be content with your decision.’’ ‘But still she had no wordsinwhieh:to tell’ him that | he was mistaken. Again and again’she had tried to find her voice, but her powers of utterance seemed to have forsaken her, and the sylables died away upon her trem- bling lips. At last the man before her, perceiving her “prolonged distress; and futile efforts to say what she wanted, accepted her silence asa’ sign: that hope was over for him. ° : “Lady Ethel; I see it all; there is no need for you to speak—I thank: you for your great forbearance—I ‘shall leave Temple Grange this afternoon.” So he said huskily, in his deep, nianly voice, while two thirsting eyes were fixed upon her now pallid counten- ance, drinking in ‘each ‘detail of the beauty they never expected to look upon again, 3 She raised her own, scared and half-irresolute; and at that moment, as though to strengthen her decision, the | Marquis de Lacarras, with his hands in his pockets and acigar between his lips,sauntered leisurely upon the | terrace which ran outside the window. At that sight | the angry light which flashed into her face would have, been apparent to any but a’ lover; and all her determi- on seenred at once to return to her, “Colonel Bainbridge, stay one moment! I wanted just to tell you ”—— } “Don’t be afraid of wounding me,’’ with a sad smile, | *‘lam very strong, remember, and can bear misfortune as well as most men.” ” - “But this~you may not think it so; it is, that you must not go away: there is no need; I’’-—— ' “Ethel! is it:possible that you would give me hope. Has my great fear misled me ?’’ “You stay at the Grange as long as’ever you like. I—I~—accept your offer, Colonel Bainbridge.” THE NEWS TRAVELS NORTH. Ir would be difficult, without giving 4 digest of his character to explain how this sudden and unexpected | fruition of his dearest hopes affected Colonel Bain- bridge. - . } Tn thie first place, then, he’was no universal lover; which circumstance arose, most probably, from the fact that his feelings were deeper than those of most men. Without being that odious hybrid, a male prude, he had mever been very open tothe attacks of the other sex, chiefly because his mind was occupied with matters of But he had always entertained a had only accepted his proposal in order to rid herself of the continual presence of a faithless lover, never enter- ed his mind for a moment. Lady Ethel had said that she would be his wife. Ina few months this peerless creature (in his eyes the fair- his own possession ; to set up in the highest niche to which he could elevate her, and worship with all the strength of his noble generous heart to his life’s end ; and Thomas Bainbridge was more than grateful for her condescension. And if, as day succeeded day, and her reserve became, if anything, greater than it was at | first, he experienced just the shadow of. a disappoint- | ment, he consoled himself with the idea that it was the | bashfulness of a girl’s first love that made her shrink from any contact with him, and that he would not | have seen her free and forward (like the sisters of Lady Clevedon, for instance) for all the world. Yet, men “about to marry’? would do well to mis- trust the feelings of that woman who, after having confessed a preference for them, shrinks from the cir- cling embrace of their arm—the pressure of their hand. Nature may teach her modesty ; but modesty and loye are not incompatible, and love casts out fear. Colonel Bainbridge, at the period spoken of, would have scouted the morality of such a sentiment. To him, timidity and reserve appeared such beautiful and. desirable‘things just then—particularly as: Lady Ethel Carr had so large a stock of them on hand. He wrote home, to convey the news, in a perfect | fever of delight. Totally forgetful, in the exultation of success, of the conyersation which had taken place between them in the autumn, he dilated largely, in a letter to his father, on the extreme beauty, high birth, and aristocratic connections of his fiancee. Mr. Bainbridge was alone »when he received this epistle, and it troubled him greatly. He seemed to have Had a foreboding all along that it would come to this—that his son’s large expectations | and position ‘in society ‘would’ be found sufficient ‘to purchase him a wife, who considered that. she lowered herself: by becoming: his;:but it was no. less a disap- pointment to him. | All ‘his little schemes about Maggie, his hopes of gaining°a daughter for his old age; instead of losing a.| est and most stately of all womankind) was to become | heifer. tantly, ag she received their morning kisses. ‘ Now just try to guess what it is—but you never will; it’s quite impossible.” “Blossom has ¢c. ved!’ I ejaculated Miss Lloyd, alluding to the exp 2% ted accouchement of a favorite “Gousin Thomasi married!” said Maggie Hender- son, with the intuition of affection ; but she was scarce- ly prepared for the immediate answer. “Yes, youareright! Only fancy your guessing it so quickly, Maggie. -He is not married, though, but going to be, which is the same thing; and to the daughter of an earl. _ I never was so astonished in my life.’’ “T hope if may turn out well,’’ remarked Mr. Bain- bridge, as he sank with a sigh into, his. chair. Maggio said nothing, but walked away and seated herself behind the tea equipage, to attend to which. was her peculiar province. Aunt Letty’s eyes involuntarily followed her there; but there was something in the girl’s face that forbade scrutiny, and she re-turned her attention to her sister, : “You. surprise me greatly, Lizzie,’ she said,in 4 yoice which shook with agitation. ‘‘Surely, it. is very he i “Has Thomas written to. you himself. about i a? ‘‘He has written to his father: here is the letter,’ replied. Mrs. Bainbridge, as she produced it; ‘and I fancy, from what hé says, he must have: been. court- ing the lady for some time past. He writes very enthu- siastically about her appearance, which he describes as perfect.’’ ‘ “ A lover’s folly !’’ ejaculated her husband impatient- ly. “‘ We had better leave that until we can judge of it for ourselves.” , “But, my dear, Thomas would never be guilty of an untruth, and he says distinctly that she is very beauti- ful. Just listen here: ‘It would be impossible for me to describe her loveliness to you; it must. be. seen to be appreciated. She is a thorough blonde, with blue eyes and golden hair, and very perfect features, and was considered to be. the belle of the season.’ He could scarcely say. more than that, I think.’ “‘She must be very handsome,” replied Aunt Letty, with a furtive glance every now and then towards the tea-urn ; “but you have not told us her name, Eliza- son, were dashed to the: ground at once; for he was.) beth too sensible and clear-sighted to suppose that a Lady Ethel, reared in the hot-bed of folly and fashion, would ever be contented to sit down quietly in the domestic cirele at Cranshaws; and call him and his good, dowdy old wife by the names of father and mother. i No! he must give up that idea once and forever. Thomas was no longer a boy, aud he trusted he had chosen for his own happiness’; but that that happiness would thenceforth be separate from theirs, was without doubt. So that it was with a grave face he called Mrs. Bainbridge to read her son’s communication, and pass her opinion on it. It was much more favorable than her’ husband’s, Woman-like, the good mother was dazzled by the re- ported beauty and the high-sounding title, and be to think at once what the people of Borthwick would say when they heard of Lady Ethel Bainbridge. She was not at all dismayed, either, at the notion of enter- taining a town-bred young lady at Cranshaws Castle and eyen went so far as to wonder if her intended daughter-in-law had any unmated brother that would do for Maggie. “It is the best thing that could possibly have hep pened to Thomas,” she concluded, oracularly; ‘and it may be the making of his cousin. Maggie will marry a lord next, my dear—mark my words.” “Oh! I hope not—Itrust not,” replied the old man, fervently. “It is’ bad. enough to. lose Thomas; but I couldn’t part with my little Maggie yet awhile. Pray don’t put such notions into the child's*head, Eliza- beth; she must wait till lam gone before she leayes Cranshaws.” , “Nonsense !”” exclaimed his wife, who was not to be reasoned all at once out of her conceit. ‘ You would never be so selfish, surely as to tie the poor girl down. to a dull country-house, when she might have the chance of getting a title: When Thomas‘ is: married, Lady Ethel will doubtless invite Maggie to stay with them in London; and there'is no saying what luck may ' swholesome reverence for wotmen—a reverence which | not be in store for her. But come-along, my dear, and ' fore itis Hot tobe wondered at thi ‘made him believe the: best of them—and hold the old- {let us go in to breakfast; and tell the good news to fashioned creed that the virtuous of their sex were not'| them at once. Iam sure, if Iset them guessing, it to be hed or spoken of with undue lightness or !would be hours’ before they discovered our secret.” familiavity.. A pure woman, whether as maiden, wife or | And dragging her husband with her, Mrs. Bainbridge mother, was in his eyes as sométhing sacred; and there- | descended, all pomp and flutter, to the breakfast-room, for many months-|} where Miss Lloyd and ie were wai ‘for them, he was contented. silently to worship Ethel Carr. He | Maggie Hendetson was certainly not looking well. had not frittered away his honest heart upon a score of | The sickness of deferred hope’ had .robbed her cheek of '» wonieh—knew nothing of their nature—had not been'| much of its bloom, and her figure of its roundness, fy. ' ‘of his great love, to overlook the | and sti d character vio used, in fact, to being courted, and did not therefore re- |'The neighbors said she wanted change of air, and her cognize the « of indifference which. she exhibited | uncle and aunt had more than once urged a‘trial of the ‘towards him. - ‘he gone through but one such scéne | remedy wpon her; but’ Maggie was resolute to stay at ? owed to have her way. She ‘ly as theretotore; re er ‘ood as ’ ‘ht 6 was tortures of silence ‘| herself authorized to cherish } being slowly starved dob thes ‘cause of her altered tender ; -worth, doubtless, that had pro: ay ‘already seated at the breakfast-table when . and Mrs. Bain entered the room. {°° Such news; my dear |” exclaimed the ma latter, exul- ‘station an ji ‘80 valuable a prize was turning away with ri ught | be enabled to ‘preserve her e she had earnedthe luxury of doing “Lady Ethel Carr,’’ said Mrs. Bainbridge, with great unction, “the daughter of the Earl.and Countess of Clevedon. . ‘Her father is dead,’ Thomas says, ‘and her little brother, only eighteen months old, is the present earl, but her mother is still the countess ;’ nothing can rob her of that.’ ‘& “And itis quite a settled aning. then: you are: sure that Thomas will marry her?’’ demanded Aunt Letty, presently. “As sure as one can be of anything i& this world, I suppose,’’ replied her sister. ‘They.are engaged to each other, at all. events ; and Thomas. says it is pro- bable the marriage will take place shortly, but, that it will be quite private, on account of Lord Clevedon’s recent death. , F -“ Which will prove very convenient in this instance,” said. Mr. Bainbridge, with what was, for. him, a) most unusual degree of sarcasm, ‘as it obviates the necessity of asking one’s country relations. to. take part in the ceremony. I see that Thomas particularly mentions that none but the immediate members of Lady Ethol’s family will be present... It is just as well. You and I would be quiteout of place there, wife, among earls and countesses,” : “Now, my dear, I think oe hard upon our boy. Thomas has neyer been ashamed of his parents yet ; he has been a good son tous; and surely we may trust him to choose a wife for himself.” “Yes, he has been a good son, and I thank God for it ; but he has made a mistake in this matter, as he will find out to his cost sae en , “Well, I can’t think why you should set your faee so much against it, when most. people would be delighted at the prospect of such a match; Aunt Letty, you have said nothing yet upon the subject. Don’t you think it appears a most desirable connection ?”’ 5 “Tf Thomas is really attached to the lady,” com- menced Miss Lloyd, in a tremulous voice. She was waiting neryously for some sign or sound of agitation from behind the tea-urn; but except for the clatter za 24 sugar-tongs and tea-cups, all there was as still as ea ”. 4 - 4? “ Attached, my dear! attached is no name forit: if one may judge from his own words, his affections seem to be most deeply engaged. And then, fancy what a thing it will be for gie there,to haye a cousin brought ap with such advantages: ‘why, as I was tell- ing Mr. Bainbridge, it may be the making of her. We oo have you come out as a London belle next season, ag Pg om “Never! while I have a voice in the matter,” ex- claimed her uncle energetically: and then Mrs. Bain- bridge abandoned dangerous ground, and confined her conversation for the rest of the breakfast-hour to specu- lating which room she should give up. to the married couple when they visited. Cranshaws; and whether it ought not to be completely refurnished and decorated for the reception.ot so aristocratic a bride...) Meanwhile gie Henderson, had raised neither eyes ‘nor voice } and, fortunately for her maiden pride, both Mr, and'Mrs. Bainbridge were too much occupied with their own reflections to any on her silence. Allshe hoped—all she prayed for—was that she might + unbroken, until she had: ‘the privacy of her own room. And, therefore she would not trust herself to speak or took | up ‘from her occupation, but went on mechanically with yen not to think or understand until wWOradt yA } ling the: occasion almost as her duties, try. ‘Aunt Letty, who was . .ertielly as the girk herself, after: haying made one or two futile attempts to turn the: ‘ into a leas painful channel, sat, paleand anxious,.on her.chair, ap-
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HER LORD AND MASTER. it PLIES A SERS DENIES 0 OFT STE AES TARTS SSE ERS AOA STRESS ES SEI oe PE PE TO EIN. aS SENT EET EE POEL Swering her sister’s questions in monosyllables, and longing for the moment when she should rise from table and release them. It came at last: Mrs. Bainbridge shook out her ample skirts and stood upon her feet; Mr. Bainbridge, with his hands beneath his coat-tails, took up a station on the hearth-rug; and Maggie, turning the key of the rosewood teapoy, fled, like a lapwing, to the upper stories. There Aunt Letty quickly followed ber. She feared lest the strong restraint the girl had placed upon her feelings all through the breakfast time should re- sult in an hysterical or fainting fit. She did not yet half know the strength of Maggie’s character. She reached her bedroom just as she had entered it. Maggie was leaning on the chest of drawers, as though to support herself: her face was very pale, and she seemed ‘to have some difficulty in breathing; yet, as she caught sight of her aunt’s anxious countenance, she tried to smile, : * Aunt Letty, will you leave me quite alone for a little while—no, not alone; I never can be that—but, by my- self—I shall be all right in an hour or two.” And so Miss Lloyd retreated, having offered neither comfort nor caress, and left the girl alone with God and sorrow, Where even her love feared to intrude, curios- ity must not seek to enter. . CHAPTER XIV, MAGGIR’S STRENGTH. Ir was'noon when Maggie’s pale face peeped into her Aunt Letty’s' bedroom door. : : “Has anybody been inquiring for me?’ were her first anxious words, ~ “No one, my darling! Your uncle went out on the farm directly atter breakfast, and Aunt Lizzie has been engaged all the morning with her housekeeper. boa Iam so deeply grieved about this business |” er niece closed the door and drew nearer to her; but she answered nothing. “T do so feel for you, my darling! so young, so full of life and happiness! to haye all your prospects blighted in this manner; it ‘seems too cruel to be true.” ‘ “ Allmy prospects, aunt? Is that the comfort you draw from your own teaching?” *“All your worldly prospects, dear; though I trust, indeed, that even they may only be blighted for a while. You will get over this disappointment after a time, Mag- gie, and find some one who will appreciate your affec- tion more than Thomas does; at least, I hope and pray sO. At this allusion Maggio started. «Aunt Letty! tell me one thing; tell me the truth. Did Uncle ever speak to him about—about what he so much wished ?” Her niece’s anxious éyes were staring her full in the face, and Miss Lloyd, even had she dared, could not have evaded the inquiry. : ‘ “My darling, I believe he did—just mention it; but your cousin’s affections were, doubtless, even at that time engaged; and so he could scarcely have been ex- ‘pected, you see, Maggie ’’——-with a yearning look into the girl’s countenance, over which an expression of the deepest pain was passing. “Of course not; don’t say anything more about it, Aunt Letty. It may make it a little harder, but there is only one thing left for me to do now, and that is to try and bear it as wellas I can. And you must help me, dear; not hinder me.” : «“ Hinder you, Maggie! when I would sacrifice all I have to give you any comfort or pleasure |” “T am sure you would; and therefore I have the more confidence in asking you, as a favor, to speak to me, henceforward, as little on this matter as may be. I have been thinking it well over, Aunt Letty, and I am sure my best plan will be, if possible, never to mention = te eo I have spoken too openly and too freely of it rei ° i ‘ “But, my dear child,” exclaimed Miss Lloyd, in whose eyes to discuss and weep over a misfortune appeared the very “luxury of woe,” “what will you doif you have noone to whom you can sometimes unburden your heart? It will kill you, Maggie, never to speak of what is Site anim: on your mind.” '“T have always one friend to whom I can unburden _ it,” replied the girl, simply. ‘Look here, Aunt Letty !’”” she went on, presently, finding that her companion made no response to her last words; “‘I should like to ~ tell_you exactly: what I think about this matter; and . then we will consider the subject a forbidden one. No ROUTE cries ~; Manaio’s Sgnte was oneis to blame, remember. My cousin certainly is not; and I—I hope T have not done very wrong in encour- hace nt Sy ersten cs ven me a: eae erefore, that thought must make it easier to bear than df it had been otherwise, ‘and I have een thinking even this anal Sma OpI TE a trouble it appears beside those that some ple ate called on to endure.’” “ The back is fitted to the burden, Maggie, and this is an overwhelming trouble to invade ‘your quiet, inexpe- £ @ of this sor . It was noiding out the ots f Oh! tertained deste ‘tho. BA wd Tnartyrs | \ . T told ou how ‘ished T had sorte means by'y b ch’ my toraecortal Theritai tubes That Ln etotky, Fae the pat | hands were clasped together, her eyes were kindling with devotion. Miss Lloyd regarded her with silent admiration ; she felt her pupil had outstripped herself. “ And it seems to me, Aunt Letty, that since we must endure whatever pain He sees fit to send us, whether we will or no, the only way by which we can show our love to Him is to endure it cheerfully ; to liyjt wp the cross instead of letting it drag after us. And I have read somewhere,” she added, in a lower voice, “ that when we do that heartily, and with all the strength ot our poor will, He always bears the heaviest end of-it Himself. Crosses are ever so much lighter when we |earry themin company, Aunt Letty,’”’ with a little wintry smile anger! over her young features. “Oh, Maggie,” exclaimed Miss Lloyd, in a tone which was almost reverential, “you are teaching me a lesson to-day which I shall not easily forget: My brave girl! I had no idea you were so lion-hearted ; you are a little heroine, Maggie!” But at these words Maggie looked up ina hurried, fearful manner, as ‘though frightened at the honors she was called on to sustain. “ Bravo! lion-hearted ! a heroine! oh, Auntie? how little you know of the poor, weak, cowardly spirit I possess!” and, to Miss Lloyd’s surprise, in another moment she was sobbing in her lap. : **Let me cry, auntie! don’t try to stop me; it is for the last time! we will forget to-morrow that this has ever been.” “Not forget it exactly, perhaps,”’ she added, after a pause, as she rose to her feet and dried her streaming eyes ; “but we mustvact as though we had forgotten it. | I have so many duties here, Aunt Letty. Lowe so much to those who have been like parents to me that I should be worse than ungrateful if, inreturn for all their kind- ness, I permitted them to be unhappy on my account, or even to suspect that Iwas souponmyown. There4’ fore, unless this matter should be forcibly dragged before our notice, we will not talk of it again, will W622” But oh! if I could “Just as you please, my love. only see you happy!” > Maggie pondered for a moment, and then slowly and deliberately she answered : “Tam happy! I never knew until this moment | how much I owe to your. teaching, dear, and to your example, without which I never should have realized that all you taught me was the truth. I suppose this will bea very heavy trouble to me; but I can say truly, in the face of it, that I have lost neither the best Hope nor the dearest Friend that I possess.” “Thank God!’ ejaculated Miss Lloyd ; and when the girl had left her she thanked Him on her knees. CHAPTER XY. FROSTED WEDDING FAVORS. Ir was, perhaps, an hour after she had accepted Colonel Bainbridge’s proposal that Ethel Carr entered Lady Clevedon’s morning room. “Are you disengaged, Gertrude? I want to speak to you,” There was so little difference between her age and that of her late father's wife that she always called her by her Christian name. : ' Lady Cleveland glanced up at the determined features of her stepdaughter, and grew uneasy. She felt certain she had come with the intention of speaking to her of the occurrence of the night before, as it was not the first time Lady Ethel had taken her totask for ligh behavior, and she had no wish to have scandal afloat about her in the early months of widowhood. And so, on the principle that the first thrust has the advantage, and forgetful of the adage “qui s’excuse. s’accuse,”’ she answered the simple query addressed to her with the warm remark: “I know exactly what you have come to say to me, Ethel ; and though it is altogether out of your province have no objection to tell you that the situation (though, doubtless, sooner or later, it must have occurred) was hurried on by the foolish interest I take in your affairs. I say foolish, because hitherto it has been a thankless task, as you well know.” At these words Lady Ethel stood amazed. She had sought Lady Clevedon with the sole intention ef in- forming her of the alteration in her prospects; and to’ allude in the remotest degree to the conduct of the Marquis de Lacarras was the last thing to which her proud heart would have prompted her. Now, however, as her stépmother’s last sentence struck her ear, in her surprise she ejaculated : : 4 affairs !’” f “Yes; yours. I know that you are very independent, Ethel; but I have been left by your d father in the position of a mother to you’’—(Lady Clevedon could ‘be so very motherly when it suited her purpose)—“‘and I ‘should: not have thought I was doing my duty—after all that passed last season, and what have I seen his visit here—if I had not asked. ‘intentions concerning you,”’ , me her eye, which glowed in- me or on the woman who had prepared this in- ‘sult for her. © z to mention the circumstance, yet, as you did see us, I]. and arrange such matters personally. tell you th cy Victor what were his} ruary. tion «at: five o’clo ordinary politeness? Yow? eyes may have been blind- ed, Ethel; perhaps, under the circumstances, it was natural they should be; but mine were not!” “With what object then did you ask the marquis down to Temple Grange ?” Lady Clevedon commenced to play with an ivory pa- per-knife. _“Tsuppose it is not absolutely incumbent on me to divulge the reasons for everything I do to my step- daughter. One object, though, certainly was to dis- cover how far he intended.to trifle with your feelings,’” *“‘Tam infinitely obliged to your ladyship for the in- terest you take in what concerns me,” interposed Lady Ethel, in a tone of sarcasm. “Now, it is of no use your being angry about it, Ethel; for to do so was my plain duty, and I put my own feelings in the matter entirely on one side.’’» (And here Lady Clevedon bit her lip, and looked sideways at the paper-cutter, and tried to get up alittle natural con- fusion.) ‘I put the question to him last evening, and his answer—well, I suppose from what you saw that you guess what his answer was—and, indeed, he only seemed surprised that I should have ever imagined his affec- tions were engaged in any other quarter. Of course, E am sorry there should have been any misunderstanding on the subject, Ethel, and I certainly should not have mentioned it so soon; but as it is’’and here Lady Clevedon smiled at the paper-knife, and waited in ma- hen expectation for some token of her rival’s discom- ure. But if she expected to receive such a gratification she was disappointed; for Lady Ethel’s voice, when raised in- answer, was more than urbane—it was positively mirthful. 4 408 . “Indeed, Gertrude, you have been gi yourself most unnecessary trouble on my account; for, in the first place, the situation in which I surprised you is not a sufiiciently novel one to demand any explanation’ at your hands; and, in the second, you could not pay me worse compliment than by supposing I have the least desire to have been your substitute. Iam afraid you must have wasted theiwaluable time of yourself and the Marquis de Lacarras. tv small advantage; for, had you but left my affairs out of the question until this morn- ing, I could have told you what I have just come to announce, namely, that I have accepted the offer of Colonel Bainbridge’s hand.” Lady Clevedon for the moment looked confounded. “Of the artilleryman! is it possible?’ and then she burst into alaugh. ‘My dear Ethel, excuse my merri- ment, but your opinions concerhing him must ‘have changed so very rapidly.” “‘Opinions do change rapidly, sometimes.” “And it is really settled—uwn fail accompli? Well, I must congratulate you, for he is an uncommonly fine- looking man, and will be, they say, as rich as Croesus. So, notwithstanding a few trifling disadvantages, I con- sider you are a lucky girl, Ethel.” ~ “Of course lam. If nry marriage only turns out as well as yours did, Gertrude, I shall have nothing to complain of.” ; « ‘“‘Ah! your poor dear father ’’—with a sigh—* well, it was the will of Heaven, and we’ must not complain.” “Tam sure I have never accused you of doing so, Gertrude!” ; “When is your marriage to take place?’ demanded Lady Clevedon, who thought it as well to change the subject. Lady Ethel’s news uite put the i of poorer er over her, in re the is de Lacarras, out of her head; for omen by no means certain of that slippery gentleman herself, it was a great object to get her st ughter married and out of the way; and the felt that the more conciliatory she became the better it would be for her purpose. At that question, recalling her to a sense of her situ~ ation, a shudder passed over Lady Ethel’s frame; but her voice continued steady, “I do not know—he has not spoken of it—but soon, FE suppose, in a month or six weeks.” ‘‘Ah! so early ?—but of course you will have every- thing very quiet, considering our mourning; and at this time of the year no one will be the wiser.” i “Of course; you do not suppose I should wish to da anything to outrage your widow's weeds, Gértrude!’”’ At this dart Lady Clevedon reddened, but took refuge in her ready tongue. ; ail “Am Ito write to your guardian, Lord Morston, on the subject, or leave the colonel to communicate the Re at { news of his own success ?” : “T think you had better speak to Colonel Bainbridge I only came to 6 mere fact that I am eng sa toubice, I leave S veel, ae ae eae hel left the room as as she ( p 3 He had been 7 en to about her—urged. to confess the truth of. his affection, the honor of intentions— and he had denied that he had eyer given her occasion to believe that she was dear to him. Oh, false—false— Clevedon to reanimate her resolution. 3 was spared at this time the presenée of eith f her lovers; seeditebgubetla\Tavartesces supine on in-| day a his ‘duty, from which so ePrice of her mE ement; few blissful ¥s.at hot side, returned toWoolwich and dan ; sd to take place in “the oe : : a Ww e8 0% wed F 7 oi “eve ave wo Ledd aliht {f :¢<oAERCAMONS cof, sero ei alll * THomas and wife will beat th il 8. ef aan | : ne ay OW SUI Sov .O Mr. ‘W
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ee es ll ee Oe ee ee eee eT ek , 12 HER LORD AND MASTER. Bainbridge one morning, as he perused his letters at the breakfast-table, “and they bring a German maid and a lot of luggage, so I shall give orders for the close carriage and the wagonette to meet them, and you had better see after preparing them a good dinner, Eliza- beth, for they ought to be hungry after such a long journey.” “ They cannot be here till past seven,” remarked Mrs. Bainbridge, “ for it will take Dunean more than an hour to find his way back over the moors these foggy evenings.” “ Half-past seven or thereabouts,” replied her hus- band; “ and now, look you, my dears,” addressing all three of the women, “fi have one word to say to you before this young lady makes her appearance among us, and that is, that {am not going to have any of the rules of the castle upset on her account. Our meals and prayers and hours for retirement must goon the same as usual, whether she chooses to take part in them or not, for I am a methodical old man of business, and cannot have all the regularity of my life disturbed because my son chooses to bring home a ‘lady’ for a wife to Cranshaws. Do you understand ?”’ “My dear, how can you talk in such a way?’ ex- claimed his wife, in a tone of remonstrance. “I am quite sure, from all that Thomas says, our daughter-in- law will never wish to do anything that is not pleasant and accommodating.” “T would not be too sure of our daughter-in-law un- til-you see her,” said the old man, quaintly. ‘ As for Thomas, he is in love, and would think it only too de- lightful if Lady Ethel were to condescend to use him as adoor-mat. You must not trust letters written in the honeymoon, my dear,” “They were married six weeks ago, yesterday,’’ re- marked Mrs. Bainbridge, who did not like her husband apeaking so freely before her husband and Maggie Hen- rson. She was correct in her statement, for it was as long ago as that since the wedding of which Ispokein my last chapter had been celebrated, and Colonel and Lady Ethel Bainbridge, after having. made the inevitable Con- tinental tour, were about to pay a visi to Cranshaws. It was the worst time of the year for Scotland, and Col- onel Bainbridge was almost reluctant to take his bride there; but he was so full of pride of his new possession and so. anxious to show her to his parents, and Lady Ethel was so utterly indifferent where she went, that the journey was finally agreed upon. “Why not?’ she had remarked, when her husband hesitated on the propriety of her visiting Cranshaws in the winter. ‘ I suppose they have fires there as well as anywhere else, and we certainly cannot stay in town at this season of the year;”’ and so, after much deliber- ation, and cautions, privately addressed to his mother, on the extreme delicacy of his treasure, the day for their arrival was at hand.) . ie Henderson flew about the house like a bird, and it seemed to her aunt Letty afterwards as though she had never sat down once during the twelve hours. Now she’ was up stairs with Mrs. Bainbridge, turning over the contents of the linen-closet (for, with all her riches, the mistress of Granshaws was too homely to delegate the duties of housekeeping to her servahts), then in the hall giving orders to the: gardener for changing the exotics in the library, anon ringing for the house-maid to keep up the fire in the room ap- pointed for the married couple; only once did Aunt . Letty detect her in anything like a thoughtful mood, hours later than usual, and it and that was as she was arranging a small group of hot- ‘house flowers, to, be placed in a vase upon the bride’s dressing-table.. Then Maggie had certainly lost herself in a reverie, ag she stood with clasped’ hands and dim, sad eyes, silently regarding the bouquet she had made. ‘Ob, Aunt Letty!” she exclaimed, waking up with a | hi start, as Miss Lloyd approached her, ‘do you think my flowers are pretty? I would have none but white ones, although the honeymoon is over,’’ with a low laugh, **because I thought Cousin Thomas might like to see them.”’. And then came a shade over the countenance, and the lips twitched a little. ‘Oh, how I do hope that she may make him happy.” : ‘We all pray for that, my dear,’ replied Aunt Letty, wish assumed briskness, ‘‘and I think there is little peo it. But aie te J ae ain sore in the’ ousekeeper’s room, , waiting to spe o your Aunt Lizzie, and I am sure she is toomuch engaged to see her this morning. Could not you be her deputy, ‘and hear what it is that the old woman wants ?” : . "Of course I will;’’ and Maggie turned from the dressing-table without another look, and ran down to: the ho’ "groom. + Ty But as the evening approached, she grew decidedly neryous,! although it was only to be detected by those who knew that, the sudden laugh brought to a close with, a spasmodic jerk, in which she continually in- pa rsogt unnatural to her, and assumed to cover the ° her feelings. ‘ The (inner hour was fixed for eight: o’clock, two : been decided in feminine conclave that, in order to pay a compliment to the bride, it was advisable they should dress with greater care than they were wont to do, when by them- selves, Aunt Lizzie and Aunt Letty, therefore, were closeted -with much state in their dressing-rooms for previously; and it would have been suffi- cient het ane keen 0 ‘to watch the erratic: - ner in. which flew from one:a) ment to: the other, Lyre gee de rattling. pmBd » “Aunt Letty, ioe look.charming? There is no col suits you as nd ¢ you have ever Oo, you must not wear that cam- ellia in your dress; it is too‘deep; it kills the lilac of « L donot care who gave it you; you must I ‘Tike thie stephanotos instead ; stephanotos is quite » bridal flower, you know, And orl must run and see i ie Bie asta caned is the prettiest cap |: Oo, ¥ how Aunt Lizzie is getting on. How well your dress hangs, Aunt Lizzie—Jennie Ransom is getting cleverer every day—and your blue ribbons match it exactly. They might have been manufactured for the purpose. Won’t you have some flowers? I have gathered you such @ lovely tea-rose; we should all wear bouquets to-night, Aunt Lizzie, it is the orthodox thing ; brides and flowers always go together. Now you are quite ready, and you couldn’t look nicer. Such adear,plump, soft old mother to welcome a daughter home. And poor Lady Ethel is like me; she cannot remember her own mother. I am sure you ought to seem like a real one to her.’’ Mrs. Bainbridge turned round and folded the: girl to her bosom, while something very like a tear rose in her eyes. “My darling Maggie,’ she said, “I wish—oh, howI wish——”’ . Maggie thought she could guess what was in store for her, and struggled to get free. “JT will tell you what I wish, aunt; and that is, that these good people would be quick in coming, Don’t you feel the pangs of hunger? I shall feel disposed to eat them both up at one meal, if they stop much longer on the road.” “Thear the carriage wheels,’’ shouted Mr. Bain- bridge from the staircase; ‘‘ Maggie, my child, come with me;’ and unknowing what excuse to make for not doing so, the little martyr placed her trembling hand in that of her uncle and descended to the hall; before the door of which soon drew up the carriage which had been sent to Borthwick station, CHAPTER XVII. BRINGING THE BRIDE HOME, Tux servant in attendance threw down the steps, and Colonel Bainbridge alighted. ‘What the devil do you mean by being such a time coming over these moors?’ he demanded sharply of the'coachman, and without observing the presenceof his father and cousin. The coachman touched his hat, and said it was im- possible to have done the journey quicker. He was an old servant. of the family,.who had known Colonel Bainbridge ever since he was a child; and as he after-. wards remarked in: the servants’ hall, it was the first _— ‘‘Master Thomas’? had ever spoken, angrily to “Have you found the journey -very tedious?” de- manded Mr. Bainbridge, coming forward. “Yes, indeed. Ah, father! how are you, and Maggie, too? Idid not see you before. must have been an hourand.a half, at least, jolting over these horrid moors; and my wife has been nearly shaken to pieces. This place is altogether too much out of the:way: I thought we should never arrive; ’* and then, with the samme air of complaint, he turned to the open carriage. ‘‘ Come, Ethel, my dearest, we are really here at last.” : : A slight figure, much enveloped in velvets and gables, appeared upon the steps, and having gained the ground, was passing rapidly through the lighted hal. . Her, husband’s voice detained her. “ Ethel |—my father !”’ She stopped short: turned to regard Mr, Bainbridge in his quaintly-cut old-fastioned costume with wide- open eyes of surprise, and then, with a faltered apolo- gy, held out her hand. “LIbeg your pardon, I did not see you; I was only thinking of the fire.”’ : Her father-in-law was about to bid her, welcome in his hearty manner, when his son again interrupted. m. “The fire? of course, my poor child, you must be nearly frozén—this way, Ethel;’’ and without further, parley, he led her into the drawing-room, and seating her before the blazing hearth, attempted in his blun- dering fashion to relieve her of her wraps. Meanwhile, Mr. Bainbridge disappeared to hurry the movements of his wife and sister; and Magoie unnoticed by either of the married couple, crept rx them to offer her assist- ance. l “I wish you would leave me alone,’ she heard the bridesay fretfully, as she entered the apartment. 1 would rather go up to my own room at once, Where is Louise #’” { ‘ ; “I will eall her, dearest! Oh, Maggie’’ (perceiving his cousin), “will you tell some one, to send Lady Ethel’s maid to her? and which room is to be ours?”? “The blue room, Cousin Thomas; the one to the right of Aunt Lizzie’s;” and Maggie departed to exe- cute her commission, ! “Who is that girl?’ she heard the bride say, as she left their presence. The question stung her; it proved how little he could have thought or spoken of her dur- ing his married life. On the upper landing she en- countered Mrs. Bainbridge and Miss Lloyd. , “Qh, Aunt Lizzie, are come!’ she breathlessly ejacu- lated, “‘ and she is so cold, and she wants her maid; and Cousin Thomas asked me to fetch her, and she és so beautiful ’’—with a wild, desperate look’ in the direc- tion of Aunt Letty—“her hair is quite golden color, and she has such a quantity of it, and ’’—— ‘ Hush! hush, my dear,’’ remonstrated Mrs, Baiu- ‘bridge; “Lady Ethel will overhear you, ifyou are not, more cautious. You had better do as she desires, and us afterwards. Weare just going down, to make racquaintance.” © . efie *s . But when Cpt, Pines wore that the Ger- man lady’s-maid really understood what. mee required. , om, 8 my my tn the hearth-rug by themselves, the bride and bridegroom having disap- before they reached the apartment.| { “Perhaps it is ee iho ag og “preg ine goed naturedly saying, in or © cover the t pointment w’ nm they all felt; “for Thomas told tt —* I should think we. npr Lala little oxtburet t' matortal’ pride, w found the | delivered _ ihe Sheartil od sand the the, katy irae Se Ariat Comeggints thet Mr ae Jaat 8 HGnT it’s more bexsonable’ Une of the father that the dear girl is dreadfully tired and upset by her journey; and doubtless she is anxious to change her dress, and make herself tidy before being intro- duced to.usall. Itis rather a formidable thing enter- ing a strange family; at least, 1 remember 7 thought it 80, my dear,” with a tap on her husband’s shoulder, “when you first took me to call on your mother at. Birmingham, I had plenty of gowns to my back, but I must needs have a new one made to see the old lady in; and it was.a gray merino, piped with blue satin, a very handsome dress—(you haven’t forgotten it, John ?)— and I was so nervous that I spilt a glass of wine right down the front breadth,’ But here Mrs. Bainbridge’s reminiscences were in- terrupted by the re-entrance of her son, with an ex- pression which struck Maggie as being rather worried. But as he caught sight of his mother and aunt his face brightened, and he kissed them both most affection- ately. “Well, mother, and so here I am, you see; taken in and done for, at last,’’ “I trust you may be very, very happy, my dear,” murmured his mother tremulously; ‘and your dear wife also, where isshe? Weare so anxious to see her,’”” “She will be down directly. I am sorry she should have left the room before you entered it; but she was nearly fainting from fatigue.- I am afraid she is not very strong, mother,” with a sudden overclouding of his countenance. ~ “Oh, my dear Thomas !—a young wife, and after such a long journey—we must make allowances. She | will feel more like herself to-morrow. But shall I go to her? will she think me remiss in remaining here? — ‘Not at all~she. would not expect it—besides which, here she comes?” he exclaimed brightly, and going into the hall to meet her. In) another moment, glow- ing with the pride of possession, he stood among them with Lady Ethel on his arm. ‘‘Here is your daughter, mother,’’ he said, as he led her up to Mrs, Bainbridge; ‘‘ but she begs. you will ex- cuse her dressing for this evening, as she is really too tired to nadleego any unnecessary exertion.” He spoke cheerfully, and. the good ladies of Cran- shaws, who. had prepared all sorts of little kind wel- | coming: speeches for their new, relation, advanced to re- ceive her, both metaphorically and physically, with open arms; but there was something in the look and demeanor of the young stranger which checked their ardor; and after taking courage to imprint a formal kiss. upon the passive cheek which was not advanced one inch for their convenience, the conversation re- lapsed into the merest commonplaces. Every one felt it to bea, relief when they were once fairly occupied round the, table; but even then the bride remained as uncommunicative .as before ; and her silence threw such a damper over the whole party that Colonel Bainbridge was obliged. to talk muck louder and faster than usualin, order to cover the un- pleasant impression made by the conduct of his wife. He.spoke of Paris and Brussels, and the German;baths, at which they had, been whiling away their time, every now and then appealing for a confirmation of his words to Lady -Ethel, with the hope of drawing her into the general conversation, and receiving a mono- syllable in reply for his pains; and then. he alluded to the house in Curzon Street, which had been taken and furnished for them by. the liberality of Mr. Bainbridge, but which would not, be ready for their reception, un- til the following May. ; > ale “You must come and see us: then, mother,’”-he con- cluded warmly... ‘(It is. years since you. have been in | London, and you. would enjoy. the change.’ “Oh, my dear Thomas,” ;exclaimed Mrs. Bainbridge, flattered nevertheless by the invitation, you will have plenty to do and te think of, on first setting up ho together, without, encumbering yourselves with the trouble of looking after an old woman like me.” 3 “T should be Barry to think we should ever have too much business or pleasure to permit of ourdaeang a& little time to yous mother; and so ould Laps Ethel, I am sure;” and, as he spoke, Colonel Bainbridge glanced across the table at his wife, as though urging her to second his assertion. Miss Maggie, too,” he went. on replay. with a d Dey s visit £ she afternoon. Can father ?’’ “She is the greatest blessing that Cranshaws has ever possessed,” replied the old man fervently. “A complimen trta me,’”’ exclaimed Colonel Bainbridge, with mock distress. “Can’t you find one word to say ety i ey eee od i? ory: < ™m dea r omas,”’ ; ; other, ‘al ing his ephaeichn ,‘tyou mus mot elieys et ther to be in earnest.. Every one knows the good, duti- ful son you haye been to us, and how thank bree in your possession; and, thoug ary ? ould not say it, it will be your wife’s own fault if she is not a oe
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HER LORD AND MASTER. will hardly be able to credit what a pretty place itis when the moors are covered with heather bloom.” And then he rattled’ off again’ upon ‘all kinds of subjects connected with the country and the farm, though every now and then his dark eyes stole across the ‘table, and rested longingly upon the fair creature whom he called his wife, as though yearning to extract a look of interest or kindness in return. And Maggie, who was still as crimson as a peony, from the effects of the notice bestowed upon her, inter- cepted one of these glances.+ It turned her cold, and sick, and trembling: she had never seen any look before which expressed such entire devotion to—almost worship of—its object, and she wondered that Lady Ethel did not appear more affected by it ; that she could sit so immovable and quiet while it glowed upon her, with her own eyes fixed upon a painting on the wall. oe CHAPTER XVIII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS, Ir was with this intent that, when the ladies found themselves alone in the drawing-room, Maggie, blush- ing up to her ears at her. own audacity, ventured to approach the spot. where Lady Ethel had thrown her- self into a low chair, and ask if she felt less fatigued than she had done beforo dinner. They were, comparatively speaking, alone; for Mrs, Bainbridge had left the room upon some household business, and Aunt Letty, scared out of her affectionate intentions by the distant demeanor of the bride, had carried her knitting to the farther end of the apart- ment. The fair face, with its chiselled features and white forehead, over which a few locks of golden hair were negligently disposed, slightly turned, towards the speaker as her question was answered in the negative; and Maggie thought she had never seen any one so loyely as this new cousin in her life before. She looked so graceful, so elegant, 30 composed; so unlike any of the rosy, blooming, vivacious girls who passed as beau- ties in that part of the country; so totally unlike herself, Maggie’s heart gave one great, jealous throb at the conyiction; but her mext remark was. no, less, sympa- thetic for the feeling, “You look so pale, I am sure the dinner was a wo! © you, Perhaps.you are longing for your bed ?”’ “ Thank you—I am very well as Iam.” “You will feel better tomorrow morning, I hope. I think most people arrive here too tired to enjoy them- selyes.. It isa very pretty place by daylight... Are you fond of the country ?’’ . ‘ “IT can’t say I am.” “Oh! isn’t Cousin Thomas sorry for that?’ said Maggie, quickly. “T really can’t tell yous-I never asked him.” “ Because he is to live at Cranshaws, you know, when —when—it becomes his.” ‘ “Indeed |” Lady Ethel’s tone added so plainly the query “whether T choose or do not choose?” that Maggie’s courage sud- denly evaporated, and she felt she had said more than she intended, Then followed a long pause between them, which was at last broken by Lady Ethel inquiring, m a peevish manner: . i ; “ What do you do with yourselyes'all day here?” . “Oh, lots of things!’’ was the hearty. rejoinder; “there is always work, of course, about; the house and unds; and then there are all the farm people to be ooked after ; and we generally ride or drive'out once a day. Aunt Lizzie does not: often go. farther than the garden, unless there is something tobe done in Borth- wick; bat Aunt Letty and I have each a little ‘‘ Shel- tie,” and we go scrambling over the moor, whenever we feel so inclined.” “And cannot you reach any place without crossing those dreadful moors?’ demanded Lady Ethel, with a look of genuine distress, beneath which Maggie’s face fell, ; “TI don’t think you will mind them’ so much after a little,” she answered, timidly. ‘There are some beau- tiful walks among them, if you can manage to climb the hills ; and if you like riding, my pony will take you anywhere, only, of course, it is ndét so pleasant now as it will be in the summer time.” “Who are your nearest neighbors?’ was the next question. “it , “The Duke of Ramsay has a shooting-box about three miles from Cranshaws, but he only uses it during the season ; and the Marquis of Booth keeps Herne Hall, on the other side, for the same purpose. The only reai neighbors we have, though, who live here all the year round, are the Appletons, of Horse-ap-Cleugh, and Mrs. Elliott, of Burnside; but she is a very old lady, and never goes out anywhere.” \ Lady Ethel’s silence was ominous. “We don’t depend upon neighbors in a place like this, you see,” continued Maggie, who was anxious to defend the charms of her country home; “for there is always so much business connected with a large estate that we Haye no timo for paying and returning visits, and those friends who wish to see us come and stay here ; indeed, ifit were not for going to church, I don’t think I should ever care to leave the grounds myself.’ “And where may your church be? “Oh, only three miles off at Mindon; such a dear lit- tle place, all coyered with ivy; anditis not much bigger than double this room.’”’ ; : “Three miles across these moors!” said Lady Ethel, ‘with a shudder, as she involuntarily wheeled her chair ‘nearer to the fire, and placed her feet upon the fender- stool. She remained thus musing for a while, and a RE then, as though thought had suddenly become oppres- Sive to her, sprang to her feet, exclaiming, “IT am really too tired to sit wp any longer, and will go to my room at once. You must make my apologies to Mrs. Bainbridge !|”’ But as she spoke the door opened, and her husband, accompanied by his father and mother, entered the apartment. “Colonel Bainbridge! I was just going up stairs; my head aches dreadfully |” He was by her side in a moment. “My darling Iam sorry; is there nothing I can do or get for you ?” : “Nothing, thanks! Mrs, Bainbridge will, perhaps, excuse my retiring so early.” “Of course, my dear; do just as you feel inclined,” replied the old lady; ‘‘and I think myself that bed will be the best place for you. I will send you a cup of strong coffee directly.’ “Pray don’t trouble yourself; Ishall take nothin more. Good-evening ;’”’ and with a bow that include the whole company, Lady Ethel was moving onward. “Ethel, my dearest, { am coming with you,’ ex- claimed Colonel Bainbridge, as he followed her. Pcs that she halted, and turned her pale face towards em. “T beg you will do no such thing—I would: so much rather be alone; and you must have plenty still to say to your family.” ; Her voice and manner were so cold that they would have,deterred most men, but they had not the power to deter him. “{ have nothing of interest in this world now in which you are not concerned,” he answered fondly, as he drew her arm within his own, and led her up the broad staircase to her room. - Then a blank seemed to fall upon the party they had left behind, for this was the first time that they had, been alone and together since their introduction to the bride, and each felt that all was not as it should be, while each was anxious to hide the fact from the others. \*Thomas seems perfectly devoted to her,” sighed on Bainbridge, with the slightest twinge of material ealousy. “There is no doubt about her being very handsome,” remarked the old man. 130%, no! she is lovely!” said Maggie with enthu- 8 asm. “But isn’t it just alittle singular, you know,” put in Miss Lloyd, ‘‘ for a wife to address her husband by his surname? I confess I should have been better pleased to hear her. call him Thomas.” “Oh, that will all come by-and-by,’’ said Mrs. Bain- bridge, with the superior intelligence of a married woman, ‘‘ They haye not been married many weeks, remember; and, for my part, I would rather see her too retiring than too forward. She certainly is a most beautiful girl,” falling back upon the fact which was indisputably pleasant. “Yes, and so aristocratic! She might be a princess. er ane appearance. How proud Thomas seems of er " “So he may well be! He would never have found such a wife down at Cranshaws;” at which Mr. Bain- bridge grunted dissent. “And talking of that, I wonder if Lady Ethel has everything she wants. Just run up stairs, Maggie, and see.”’ But Maggie shrank backward. “Oh, no, aunt, they can’t want me; and Cousin Thomas would. be sure to ring if anything was atc tt “My dear, what nonsense! Lady Ethel has pro soins 3 not. yet gone into her dressing-room, . Just knock at the door, and ask her, with my love, if she has everything she requires.” Thus urged, Maggie started on her errand, but as’ ti she placed her foot upon the. staircase she encoun- tered Colonel Bainbridge, Again she thought (but it might have been her fancy) that his face looked troubled; but as he caught her eye he smiled. oe a Maggie! Are you bound. also for the land oO oa? “Oh, no! Iwas just going to ask if I could do any thing for Lady Ethel,” . “That’s my kind little cousin! Yes, I wish you would; perhaps,your company might do her good.” And then he added, in a lower and more confidential voice, ‘‘She’s not quite the thing to-night, Maggie; she has been upset by traveling, and feels shy an timid among a lot of strangers. You are more of her own age; you must cheer her up, and make her feel at home.’ “Twill try,” said the girl, softly; and with that she passed her cousin, and, walking more slowly op ke remainder of the staircase, knocked gently at Lady Ethel’s door. CHAPTER XIX. . GOOD-NIGHT. At first there.was no answer; but after a second appeal Maggie thought she heard the words “Come in,” and, turning the handle, entered the bed-cham- ber. What was her amazement at the scene she wit- nessed there! She had been prepared to find the bride thoughtful, and even dejected, at the strange- ness by which she was surrounded; but she little ex- ected to see Lady Ethel sitting by the table, with er head cast down upon her outstrétched arms, and sobbing with all her might—a perfect rain of tears, as though she had lost all control over herself. For a moment Maggie stood still and watched her silently, for she was frightened at the sight of so much emotion, and, hardly knowing what excuse to make for-her own presence there, would gladly have crept away. again without haying been perceived. But the slight movement attracted the notice of Lady Ethel Bainbridge, who, raising her head proudly, and with the tears still glittering on her eye-lashes, de- manded to know what it was she required of her. “Oh, Lady Ethel,” faltered the girl, ‘Iam sosorry! I thought = heard you say ‘ Come in.’”’ “It is of. no consequence,” returned the other; “have you a message for me?” Her pride was wounded that this country-bred girl should have seen her in her hour of weakness; but, as it was the case, she was teo proud to let her know that she cared anything about it. And so she would not even raise her hand to brush away the tears from her streaming eyes, but sat there, with wet cheeks an@ humid glances, looking twice as beautiful as she had done before. ‘“‘ Aunt Lizzie told me toask if you have everything you want,” said pessie. “Everything, I believe, except my maid; and I suppose she will come if i ring; or, if she does not, some one else will. Pray don’t trouble yourself on my account.” ‘“Butit is no trouble, Lady Ethel, and I will send your maid to you. You may not like to see strangers.”’ ““Thanks!” returned Lady Ethel, courtly; and then there was nothing for Maggie to do but'to go, But yetshe could not go. A feeling had come over her— she could hardly define what it was, but something— which seemed to say that she must try what she could do to comfort Colonel Bainbridge's bride. That Lady Ethel—that the wife of her cousin Thomas—the object of somuch love and devotion on his part, could unhappy, was incomprehensible, and, had Maggie stop to analyze the probable reason, would have seemed absurd; and yet her im- mediate conviction was that it was so. Why, or wherefore, were puzzling questions re- served for the future; the present was alone before her; and in the present was a fellow-creature in dis- tress, another woman suffering—and a wild notion struck Maggie’s heart—suffering, somehow, much in the same way as she ,had done,.and. was doin still herself. With that, every throb of ox and jealousy which had been tormenting her ore out the even- ing died out of the girl’s heart, and in their stead _ gned a great womanly compassion and sense of nd as that feeling gained predominance e lost her timidity, and, going up to where Lady Ethel still retained her seat, she knelt down by the table, and, with a sweet manner, half-shy and half deter. mined, said gently: . . It would make “Don’t ory, dear—pray don’t him—it w make us al} so ‘unhappy to’think you were so, Lady Ethel bent her sad eyes upon the’ speaker with surprise. It was not often she had heard a woman’s voice jo omg to her in tones of affection; not often that she had met so innocent and pure a lance upraised to her own, or encountered a stranger ld enough to plead with her asa sister. ~ - She was generally excessively haughty and stern with any one who preheat to take a liberty with her; but there wassomething in fey state brown eyes —Lady Ethel did not recognize it at that moment, but it was the mysterious light of sympathy—which at- tracted her, as she had seldom felt attracted towards any girl before; and, instead of rebuking the familiar- ity of her appeal, she placed her hand before her own eyes and commenced to weep afresh. de Yes. She had reason for her tears, for the our and excitement of her unhallowed mal were wearing off, and leaving her (as any sensible person could have warned her that she would be Jeft) strand- ed upon a shore barren of both sympathy and affec- on. That her husband loved, and gloried, and trusted in her; that he poured upon her hourly proofs of his pas- sionate attachment, and thought no portion of his life worth living that was passed out of her presence, was only an sgeraverion of the punishment. she had brought upon herself, as no woman will need to be informed; for the existence bereft of all that it holds dear is far preferable to that which is compelied to suffer caresses obnoxious to it. prea] All through that evening, during which Maggie had been silently putting up little hehe to Heaven to help her to subdue the evil feelix i - of jes tae FA ie happy condition of her cousin’s bride, with which her . heart seemed filled to bursting, Lady Ethel had passed a hundred times through the last interview she had held with her poor father, and heard the an- swer that he had made to her insolent remark that she was not likely to look wre tee teknten the round to learn to love a man like Colonel Bain- ridge: r Hthel, that pride of yours will some day be brought down, I pra that, when it is, your life’s Ranpiace may not be overwhelmed at the same me.,”’ : Wandering about among German yee and Parisian me PR a handsome husband deyoted’to every wish, Lady Ethel had nursed her romantic sorrow for the treacherous desertion of the Marquis de Lacarras without realizing the whole of the' bargain she had made with Colonel Bainbridge for the'satisfaction of her outraged womanhood. But to-day, when he had brought her home to his own people, whom he ex- Scie her to call her people, end, aware of their de- ciencies, had striven so hard to conceal.every thing that was not just as she ‘had been used to-see it—this had been an awakening which she had never quite eee in, although she had talked so loudly on the subject. } And it had overwhelmed her. The child of eee and fashion, ruined by her own pride and self-indulgence, had had her eyes fully opened at last to the fate she had deliberately carved ay ao §
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mp eon Ae. Abe te Os Se ', =a. 14 HER LORD AND MASTER. ST EA NT aE SE MESS SET SE SRE PT SSR SE ES PTS a TY ED SST SSF ESSE | ESE 9 Oe SSR PY SOT EES LT PSE ET SST out for herself, and she shrank from it as from a scorpion. : She had no. friends to turn to in her distress, for she had cut herself off from her own associates to enter.a family which she felt could never be conge- nial to her; so it is no wonder if the gratuitous sym- pathy, even of this little, ignorant, unfashionable stranger seemed for the moment as something too sweet to be rejected. ; But only for a moment Lady Ethel had aecidentally lost command of herself, but she had no intention of adding to it the loss of self-respect. And so she hastily dashed away her newly-risen tears, and answering Maggie’s affectionate address witha deceptive laugh, said, lightly: “Unhappy !—what nonsense! Pray don’t take such an absurd idea into your head. I am only a little overcome by the fatigue of my journey, and shall be all right to-morrow.” Still, hie tg lingered by the table. Her femin- ine tact told her that Lady Ethel’s nonchalance was one nee and she longed to leave her more com- osed. ain I dare say the castle would look rather gloomy, seen for the first time at night,” she said, thought- fully. ‘‘It is large, you see. and difficult to light well, and my uncle has an old fashioned dislike to introduc- ing at “ Oh! it is not that, I can assure you.” : “T know itis not; ‘put it all adds to it, and, coming to the country, too, to which you have never been ac- customed, and among a lot of strangers, of course, would make you feel a little lonely.” ‘ . sf LORS ene ! what should you know about being onely?” Ny? Lfeel go sometimes, myself,” replied Maggie, sim- ply, ‘even though I live among my best friends. We PW ve thoughts, occasionally, in which no one else can share—no one on earth, that is to say.” ‘*Yes—I suppose so.” “ And then the only way to get comfort is to take them steele to Him.” “What did you say?” : “To take.them to our Savior,” said Maggie, in alow voice, though she grew very red the while, for she had perceived, from Lady Ethel’s foregoing question, that the freemasonry which exists between all those who hold a common interest in a common good was wanting here. ; : “Oh, yes—of course,” replied the bride, indiffer- ently; and then she added: “If you are really going to be so kind as to summon Louise for meI wish you poh do it at once; for I think the time must be get- ting on. P i y I come back, too?” inquired Maggie, wist- ully. There -was something in this beautiful, defiantly unhappy bride which interested her deeply. “No; you had better not. First. impressions go a long way; and I am not mistress of myself to-night. Let me go to rest now, and I shall see you again in the morning.” gie’s eyes glistened while she held out a timid ha ‘ The best of Lady Ethel’s nature came to the sur- ace. She was a woman, after allissaid and done, and she had a heart, however she might, upon occasions, refuse to listen to its dictates. At the present moment she acted just as it prompt- ed har teas and as Mastic arose, she arose, also, and kissed her on the face. “ Good night. Ithink thatIshalllike you. But don’t judge of me as you have seen menow. We will begin afresh to-morrow.” CHAPTER XX. ‘ACROSS THE MOORS. MaGere HenpERSON was down very early on the following Orsne. She had not slept well, for the interview she. held with Lady Ethel had left. a deep impression on her mind, and robbed her of her rest, i She felt drawnin an inexplicable manner toward this spolies iid of fashion,the beloved object of her cou- sin Thomas’s affections; and to be drawn towards her seemed li pxtenex ang her own cause; like going over to the enemy against her own bruised little heart. Nature had been mag against grace all night long and a selfish sorrow had nearly peines the victory over charity. Maggie could not help wishing either that Lady Ethel appeared less inscneeiins in her eyes, ort i she was not the person, of all others, she desired to. be least interested. in; and she was angry with, herself for -having given vent to her feel- ing which had come spontaneously to her. Exay Ethel’s hysterical emotion was doubtless, as she had affirmed, due to. the fatigue she had under- gone and quaby 2 have been treated like the un- re able folly of a child. It was impossible that, so lately married, and possessing everything in this world calculated to make a woman happy, she could have any cause for giving way to sorrow. : Maggie concluded that she had been far too quick her sympathy—had wasted it, in. and read ve fact; Pee ought galled her, and prevented her from sleeping. } So, as soon as the world was fairly awake, she arose and dressed herself, and crept sore down stairs, with the intention of getting out in the fresh air and walking off the effects of her vigil before she passed under the scrutinizing gaze of Aunt Letty. It was a clear cold.morning in the commencement of April. But Maggie cared little for the cold. She had Been reared hardily, and accustomed to be out in all sorts of weather, and often walked a mile or two across the moors before the elder members of the family had left their beds. And so, wrapped up in her woollen plaid, she step- ped briskly out upon the terrace, prepared to ,take an hour’s exercise before breakfast, but scarcely pre- pared to encounter Colonel Bainbridge walking u and down, with his hands in his pockets, as thoug waiting for her to join him. Maggie’s first impulse was to retire again; it was hard enough, under present circumstances, to meet him in the family circle—harder even than she had calculated upon—but she felt as though she could not trust herself to speak with him alone. And yet there was no opportnnity for retreat, for he turned at_the opening of the door and came quickly towards her, while she felt her stupid cheeks fame up at the mere consciousness of his approach. “Why, Maggie!’ he exclaimed, apparently as much surprised as pleased to see her, ‘are you too bound for a constitutional this fine morning? That's famous; we will go together; I was just longing for some one to talk too;” and as he took her hand, he placed it snugly within his arm. But the girl drew backward—it was not comfort to her; it was misery to fee] it there. She felt that she could have no part in that support, henceforward and evermore. There are some hearts so constituted that they must have all or nothing. “T never expected to meet any one,” she stammer- ed, as she held both her hands before her, and rolled them around tightly in her plaid. “It is so very early, notiseven o’clock; I thought everybody would .be in bed.” “Everybody except Miss Henderson and one other, I suppose,” rejoined Colonel Bainbridge, laughing. “Ah, Maggie, my little cousin, have I caught you out? And who is the favored laddie? Not one of the young Appletons, I hope; for I’m left your guardian, you know, miss, and intend you for something a great déal better than mistress of that tumble-down old place, eT chats eo ‘Oh, itis no one, Cousin Thomas, indeed!’’ replied r Maggie, who betwixt the desire to exonerate erself and the fear lest Colonel Bainbridge should press the question, was scarlet with confusion and distress. ‘TI only came out for a little walk; I often _do so before breakfast.”’ ““Never mind, Meggie!” said her companion: af- fecting to disbelieve her, ‘we won’t say anything more about it; and let me tell you, as one who has had some experience in such matters, that I don’t believe he would come this morning, at all, for it’s a great deal too cool for that kind of thing, and loveis scared at the’idea of red noses and frost-bitten fingers. So let us go for a nice little cousinly walk together ‘in- stead; itis along time since you and 1 have had a walk, Maggie. Which road shall we go, around the farm, cr down by the river? You had better lead the way, for it is such an age since I was here that Iseem to have forgotten all about it.”” Thus adjured, Maggie turned silently away from the ter and commenced totreada patli which led through the shrubberies of Cranshaws, and across “Good night, then, dear Lady Ethel,””. and. Mas- the moorland. : na, “Now, this is what I call joliy,’’ said Colonel Bain- bridge, as hé paced close to her side, “If reminds me of’old days. What a splendid air this is! one seems to draw in a draught of fresh life with every breath. How I wish that Ethel was strong enough to get up and enjoy it with us.” “How is Lady Ethel this morning?” said Maggie, feeling thatthe allusion called for an inquiry on the eure’ though she dreaded introducing it. Colonel Bain wy ei the occasion with apie ; ‘for that he might be able to talk freely of the thought uppermost in his mind had been his sole reason for, desiring a companion in his walk, and his little sousin appeared a very proper person for the infliction. It was a matter of course that girls must feel interested in the sayings and doings of one another. “ Thank’ you! Iam afraid she is not feeling very’ well; but it will take more than one night’s rest to en- ‘able her to overcome the fatigue of yesterday, I have told her that she must not get up this poten By the way, Maggie, I don’t suppose my father will be Ayr pk ne ol about her appearing at prayers and Bible- he?” “For this morning, Cousin Thomas? Oh, no, de- cidedly not; he is always ready to make excuses in a case of nb and I heard Aunt Lizzie say herself, last night, that she thought Lady Ethel ought to lie in ped until she felt quite recovered.again.’ “Oh, yes—yes, of course! but I didn’t mean that exactly. Yousee, Maggie, my wife has been reared in a very different style to what you are accustomed to here, and all these continual prayer-meetings and psalm-singings are quite novelties to her; in fact, I’m afraid she won't be got to join in them very easily. It’s all very well in the country, you know, where one has lots of time, but to people who have been used to a town life it appears perfectly absurd.” * Absurd, Cousin Thomas?” : The awed tone in which the girl beside him let fall this word, shamed Colonel Bainbridge into silence. He, too, had been reared, as she had, in the midst of worship, which, if it left scope for longings after a ritual more perfect and soul-inspiring, was, at all events, pure, both in its direction and intent. And there had been a time, also, when he would have been ashamed to speak of the meahs by which his good old father tried to lead the minds of his house- hold heavenward in any terms but those of respect, and when he had half resolved with himself to give up, once and for all, the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, and to make an open profession of those senti- ments which his conscience whispered. to him were the only ones worth holding; but he had fallen in with a woman whose feelings were utterly opposed to all religious truths; and having lavished his whole heart upon her natural beauty, forgetful of the short- reading, and all that sort o thing —will | comings of her mind, his soul was relapsing into the same indolence. as hers. But the ‘startled voice in which Maggie Henderson. repeated after him the word ‘ absurd,” in a measure recalled him to himself. “Well, not absurd, perhaps (I ought not to have said that), but tif unnecessary, and can do people no earthly good when their hearts are not in that kind of thing; only I should not like my father to be annoyed, or make a fuss about it; and neither, I am sure, would Ethel, though I have not yet mentioned. the subject to her.’ * He will be very much annoyed if she refuses to. attend prayers,” said Maggie, quietly, “But look here,” resumed Colonel Bainbridge, who had an idea (and by no means an erroneous one) that to enlist his cousin’s sympathy was to gain his cause. ‘It can make no difference to him, you see; and surely it is better she should stay away than at- tend rapt see a “But why should Lady Ethel be unwilling?” The question was a simple one, yet he felt puzzled how to answer it. He could.not shock her by. the information that his beautiful wife was callous to everything connect- ed with religion; that if she said her prayers, or read her Bible, it was in the most formal and unthinkin manner: and that she never entered a church exce +3 to dissipate the ennui by which she was invariabl: attacked on Sundays. And so he murmured singe ap ta about not being used to family prayers, and that they had been sup-— erseded in the High Church by Matins and Even- ~ song, and something further about the ritual and in- toning and the Sacrifice; on which subjects he was very misty himself, but which served to convey the notion to his hearer’s mind, that Lady Ethel had been used to so lofty astyleof worship, that she would be unable to pray in the library at Cranshaws. ‘Oh, I have heard of that!” exclaimed Maggie, with a kindling eye; ‘‘and I have longed—I cannot. tell you how much—that my Jot had been cast where Imight enjoy such privileges. We have many books a the subject, written an many of the Teating church-men of the day, and I must confess that. sometimes I have been wicked enough to feel dis- contented that I could only read it. Oh, yes, lam a true Catholic, Cousin Thomas; and so is Aunt Letty; and Scotland will never have the power to shake our faith in the Catholic doctrine. But were we on that account to refuse to join in any worship which is not conducted on strictly Catholic principles, what. would become of us? Our places have been assign- ed to us here, and not by ourselves; and surely God could never intend us to lose the substance while we are sighing after what may prove to us the shadow!” “But Ethel'splace is not here—at all events not at present,’’ argued her cousin. : ‘But she might die here, Cousin Thomas,” was the quiet answer, : “God forbid!” he ejaculated, a look of terror pass - ing over his face; and then he added, quickly: ** Yow have never been accustomed to these things, or you. would talk differently.” ; “But Lcan imagine them,” replied Maggie, hum- bly. “I can imagine, too, Cousin Thomas,” with a ; little sigh, “‘how you lookin your grand artillery uniform, with all your accoutrements, although I. » have never see you wear it; and how proud Lad Ethel must feel to'see you riding past : flag-s' ona field-day, at the head of your soldiers; but she doesen’t love you less, does she, when you have noth-: ” ing but plain clothes on?”’ “TI hope not, my child,” he answered, laughing. ‘But what are you driving at, Maggie?” ; “Only that wherever we pray, weworship the: same God; and though it must make one’s heart. glow to see His service conducted as we believe He: - wishes it, yet, where it can rot be, where it is impos-. . sible, we have an altar—you know, He must be there: —and to refuse to go would seem to me like turning our backs upon Him when He was in plain clothes, Cousin Thomas!” with a quaint smile at the homeli-- ness of her comparison. : ae stg ” But Colonel nbridge did not smile; her words: were striking deeper in his heart than she calculated on, . i “But with regard to Ethel—she is very beautiful;, . don’t you think 80, Maggie!” breaking off suddenly from his subject, with a lover’s rapture, and waiting eagerly for her answer. j : “Very beautiful!’ echoed the girl, with a sharp twinge of envious pain, for which she despised her- . self, and did- penance the next moment by ee iy her assertion. “More beautiful than any ey have ever seen before, Cousin Thomas;I can not find a fault in her face or figure!” “Nor I,” he answered, glowingly; “and you have not seen her at her best, remember—for she looked so pale last night. But her eyes—her ir—the moulding of her features—I have never seen them. equaled; and then to think she should belong to me,” with a low, deprecating laugh—‘‘a delicate, fragile creature like thut in the possession of such a great, rough, clumsy brute as I am!’ stretching out his muscular arm and large, powerful hand. “Why, it seems absurd, One of the six-foot lassies from these arts, with cheeks like nutmeg-graters and elbows: ike files, would have suited me better, eh, Maggie?’” ‘Oh, Cousin Thomas! you would never have been. contented with mere common beauty!” “No, by Jove! not after I had_ seen her, at all events. Iam so glad you like her, Maggie” (she had. never said she did), “* because 1 want you to be friends with her while she is here, and make things | smooth. And about these prayers, and regular’ meals, and all the other fussy rules of ushaws— don’t you think you could talk my father over for us?”
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HER LORD AND MASTER. & “No, Cousin Thomas, I am sure I could not,” said Maggie, firmly. ‘* Uncle is more particular about his rules being punctually complied with than anythitg else; and you must remember how he took Sir Charles Hammond to task before us all, for saying he made a practice of reading geriliat prayers to himself in bed. He never tried to evade them: afterwards, all the time he has been staying with us. AndI am sure, if you were to represent to Lady Ethel that it is uncle’s particular hobby, she would never wish to upset the ousehold arrangements by refusing to ap- pear.’ ‘“Oh, of course not—of course not,” replied Colonel Bainbridge, who was, nevertheless, anything but sure of his fair lady’s dutiful submission to the wishes of her father-in-law; ‘‘only I should have preferred her being able to follow her own inclination in the matter.” And then he launched forth upon a second edition of her beauties and virtues, keeping poor Maggie in such torture that her morning walk proved but an in- effectual Se for her sleepless night; and she was thankful when they once more'stood together within the hall of Cranshaws. —— CHAPTER XXI, THE COMMENCEMENT OF FOSTILITIES. Noruine transpired on the subject of Lady Ethel’s absence from prayers that morning, except the ex- pression of a general hope that she would be recov- ered by the afternoon; and towards luncheon-hour the young lady, preceded by an unusual bustle, de- a to Pas library. ‘ a ie, who, quietiy engaged upon some needle- work, wae sitting there at the time, thought she had never seen so much fuss made about a single person before. ; First appeared the German maid, Louise, with a shawl, and a cambric handkerchief, and a bottle of eau-de-cologne, who, after gesticulating wildly in the direction of Miss Henderson, and receiving no answer beyond a smile and shake of the head, wheeled Mr, Bainbridge’s own arm-chair in. front of the fire, plac- ed her burdens on the table, and retreated. Then came Colonel Bainbridge, who declared the room was as cold as acellar, and, violently stirring the fire, dragged out a screen which stood against the door to its full length, and disappeared again, grum- bling against the draughts in modern houses, and thé evils of a northern spring as he went. Maggie looked on in silent astonishment at all these arrangements, and was beginning to think that Lady Ethel must wt bonny consumptive, or have some com- jiaint of which they had not yet been informed, when he door opened to readmit her cousin, not bringing his wife on his arm, as a bridegroom might be sup- posed to do, but following humbly in her train, laden with a French novel and a foot-warmer, made of a stuffed fox, curled around as though he were asleep. The bride looked still more lovely than she had done the night before, or rather, had it not been for the vish, discontented expression on her face, she would have done so, was robed in a morning- wrapper of grey cashmere, trimmed with swan’s- down, which stood up all around her snowy throat and mingled with the golden tresses of her negli- gently-arranged hair; and such a costume, though one utterly unsuited to, and calculated to provoke much surprise at Cranshaws, was entirely in accord- ance with her fair, delicate beauty. She entered with a lip drawn down, for there had been a little discussion up stairs between her hus- band and herself (in which he had come off consider ably worsted), respecting her future compliance with the rules of the household. ’ So Lady Ethel considered herself rieved, and Colonel nbridge was in greater grace than usual for mae! presumed to express an opinion on the subject, Though, even in these early days of matrimony, unlimited as was her insolence and power over him, she intuitively acknowledged thejsuperior- ity of the man under whose control she had placed herself, by simply disregarding his wishes, without being able to summon up courage to tell him what she thought of them. Maggie arose at her approach, and went forward to meet her aimost cordia y3 for the mere sight of Lady Ethel seemed to revive the first impressions she had formed regarding her. But the bride, appearing to have forgotten that any but the commonest courtesies. had pa between them, chilled her advances with an indifferent “‘Good-morning,” and immediately sank into the arm-chair that had been placed to ré- ceive her. She was too much occupied at that mo- ment, thinking of her own imaginary grievances, to have leisure to remember anyt ing else. ‘*T don’t want it, Colonel Bainb dge,”’ she said, in a petulant manner, as he stooped to piace her feet in the foot-warmer; “I told you so up stairs.” “But your feet are socold, my darling,” he urged, affectionately. ‘‘ You had better use it for a while, until they get warm i pe if But all the answer his assiduity received was in the speaking fact that Lad) Ethel kicked the sleeping fox to one side, and placed her slippered foot upon the fender instead. Even this did not seem te annoy him, however, although he made no remark upon it, but drew a chair close to her side, and, sitting down after] a while, laid his hand caressingly on some por- tion of her dress or hair. “Ido wish you would leave me alone,” Maggie heard her say, with an impatient sigh; “ hg do fidget pee ce Aren’t you going out fora walk this morn- oubtless he did fidget her, for nothing on this earth can be more wearisome to a woman than the attentions for which she has no desire; but then Lady Ethel ought to have remembered that she had brought them on herself. : Colonel Bainbridge seemed rather hurt at his sec- ond rebuff, if one might judge by his leaving his seat, and taking possession of the Sepe ed and a chair on the opposite side of the ‘hearth-rug; but if he gave the feeling a name, it was only to hopé that Maggie would not take his wife’s words for more that they were worth. is cousin, on her part, was more annoyed than himself; for she felt honestly indignant at seeing him repulsed and treated in so curt a manner, and wounded for hissake that she should have been witness to his discomfiture. She took up her work again, and retired to the further end of the room, and brooded silently and sadly on what she had heard. She thoughtin that moment thatshe never could fancy againthat she should like Lady Ethel, how- ever beautiful or fascinating she might prove; for if she wasrude to him—if she did not value his affec- tion, orcare to make him happy, there could be no good thing im her. Meanwhile Lady Ethel did not even seem to ob- serve the defection of her little acquaintance of the night before, but, listless and unoccupied, reclined in her easy-chair in front of the blazing fire, with a screen held up before her face, and her large eyes languidly fixed upon the ceiling. She did not look like an ordinary mortal—so Maggie thought, as she stole furtive glances in her direction—in her elaborate and fanciful morning-dress, but more like some of the characters she had seen protrayed upon the stage, when visiting the theater, during her occasion- al visits to. Birmingham. : Tt seemed so unnatural to see the pensive, indolent beauty, in her cashmere and swan’s-down, reclining in the library at Cranshaws, and to remember that she was Cousin Thomas’ wife—really his own pro- perty, who could never again be separated in thought or deed from him—that Maggie wandered off more than once ina dream of things quite different from what they were, and had to veeall herself with a sigh to the reality of life. It was not long before the news that Lady Ethel had descended to the library _spead through the house, and Mrs. Bainbridge and Miss Lloyd hastened to offer their congratulations on her re-appearance. Anxious to make the best of every thing, they had tacitly agreed to ignore the unfavorable impression of the night before, and came in brimful of cordial greeting and kindly solicitude—Mrs. Bainbridge be- ing even brave enough to address her daughter-in- law by the familiar appellation of ‘* my dear.” ‘“ Well, my dear! and how do you feel yourself by this time? Our poor Thomas has been quite anxious on your account; but I hope you are none the worse er hae journey.” The good, affectionate creature, who would have taken a dairy-maid who was honored by her son’s love to her arms, came forward briskly, with the evi- dent intention of folding Lady Ethel in a maternal embrace, had not the look with whichshe was salut- ed ee all such presumptuous ideas into the back- ground, The occupant of Mr. Bainbridge’s arm-chair, while her husband arose immediately to his. feet in defer- ence to his mother’s presence, ee her big blue eyes at the greeting as oe it considerably sur- rised her; murmured something in reply about be- ng “‘ exceedingly obliged,” and’ much the same as -usual,”’ and retained her comfortable position. “Will Lad Ethel come in to luncheon?’ demand- ed Mrs. Bainbridge, as the meal was announced. The question was put to her son; she did not venture to address the bride again. “Oh, Ithink so. You will come, my dearest, will you not?” ; | “No, thanks; I will have itin here. It istiot worth while to leave the fire.”’ id. ‘*Of course not, if you prefer to remain hereé,”’ ac- pier ye Mrs. Bainbridge readily, ‘and the servant ll bring it into you yea of ° ‘He can bring it, thank you,” said Lady Ethel, with a careless nod in the direction of her husband, who immediately replied that of course he would, and, giving his arm to his mother, led her tothe din- ing-room. : My dear, is it necessary you should take that trouble? could not James do it’ as well?” remonstrat- ed Mrs. Bainbridge, a few minutes later, as she watched her son making a collection from all the daintiest dishes on the table, to-carry on a tray to his wife. Z 5 . “J would rather do it. myself; Ethel likes me to wait upon her,” was the rejoinder, as awkwardly lifting his unaccustomed burden, he disappeared from the room. . Mrs. Bainbridge looked across the table at Miss’ Lloyd, and sighed. They would have preferred to see Colonel Bainbridge’s young wife running gayl about the house upon errands for her husband; it did not tally with their ideas of his dignity and worth, to see him turned into a fetcher and carrier. “Ts her lade not out of her roem yet?’ de- manded Mr. Bainbridge, who had only entered ee house at the summons of the luncheon-bell. ‘No wonder she looks pale and delicate, if she lies in bed till this hour every day.” “Oh, yes, uncle, she has been down in the library for more than an hour,” replied Maggie. _ : ‘*Then why dceesn’t she come into luncheon like other people?” . Mrs. Brainbridge shrugged her shoulders. “T don’t know, my dear. You should ask Thomas. I am afraid he has chosen but a weakly wife.” “ Or a capricious one,” réjoined her husband; and to this remark there succeeded an eloquent silence. Meanwhile, Colonel Bainbridge, who, with the tray in front of him, made a sad bungle of opening and shutting the library door, and let a draught blow . straight in upon Lady Ethel, as she took good care to let him know, had reached bis wife’s side and deposit- ed his load safely upon the table. “And now you must let me see you eat something, go he said, anxiously, as he sat down beside er. “If you are going to sit there and stare at me alk the time, I am quite sure that I shall eat nothing,” was the discouraging or 5 “Pray go back to your luncheon; your people will think it so strange, your remaining here. “T don’t care what they think,” he answered. ‘‘ Oh, Ethel, if you only knew what @ delight it is to me to sit and look at you, you would not grudge me the in- ba oe It is not much to’ask, ci darling, is it?” and he placed his hand under her thin and turned up her face to his. She jerked it away impatiently. ‘*Ethel, you are unkind.”’ “Am I! But I have told you so often that I hate to be pulled about. Is it impossible to perform one’s duties in the married state without it? I suppose people are differently constituted, but if you want to make me happy you will leave me alone.” He sighed heavily, and moved a few steps farther from her. And then, after a slight pause, he said, seriously: “You know (and God is my witness) that I do wish to make you happy: it is my one great desire, and I suppose I must try and. be content not to.see it ful- filled in my own way. So long.as you love me, Ethel, love and trust in me, dearest—the rest matters little. And so I will leave you now to take your luncheon in peace;’’ and with a cheerful. nod he returned to the company in the dining-room. Assoon as he was gone, Lady Ethel jumped up from her seat, and rushing to the window, gazed on e still, cold, wintry sceneoutside. It looked like er presentlife to her. “] can not bear it—no, I can not. bearit,’? was the peeannwe language of her heart; and her knitted ows.and clenched hand attested to the strength of that language; “this horrid place—these horrid peo- ple—it is more than any woman can bear! can I do? where can I go away from him? Oh, dear what a fool I have been! I wish I was e 2" . 7 And then there came a shower of hot tears, which qf she wiped AWay, as quickly as possible, lest her dis- — comfiture should become patent to “the people” in the other room, but the. traces of. which, bemg de- tected by the anxious eyes of her hus down a pune, TeBURe upon her, which drove Lady Ethel to her chamber for the best part of the after- noon, CHAPTER XXII. LADY ETHEL IS TAKEN TO TASK. Ir may be remembered that Miss Lloyd, when speaking to Maggie Henderson of Colonel Bain- bridge’s amiable qualities (in those days when they both thought the girl would have been her cousin’s choice in marriage) said that “‘ Thomas” was so good and steady as to be competent to be the guide of any young woman; and that they had no doubt but that e would render his wife happy. Absurd as most newly-married men make them- selves,before custom and companionship have turned their angels into commonplace women, Colonel Bainbridge excelledthem all; and his conduct was the more remarkable at Cranshaws, where the whole female community had been used to wait on and make much of him. But now the times were changed; and if he were not less Bagel for the attentions of his aunt and © mother, he took less notice of them; for his whole soul was wrapped up.in the contemplation of his idol.. He waited on herlike a servant, watched her every look lest she should require something, stood lost in silent admiration of her person when she was not speaking, and hung upon her words when she condescended to open her mouth. All that afternoon he had been going on like an enamored school-boy, pursuing his father to the study, his mother into her own_room, Aunt Letty to the garden, and poor, hap- less Maggie everywhere, in order that he might forci- bly extract from them, over and over again, the as- surance that his wife was the handsomest woman they had ever seen, or that her figure was most graceful, and her taste in dress perfect. — But more than this the honest folks of Cranshaws could not be prevailed upon to say; for they rigidly Pospected truth, and not even to flatter the proud bridegroom (whom one .and all dearly loved) would they praise Lady Ethel’s manners, or disposition, or affection for himself. For, short a time as she had been among them, and eet as they were to be- lieve any harm of her, they could not but be already mig yf aware of the fact that whatever end Lady hel had had in marrying her husband, it had not been the end of loving him. And it galled them that it should be so; it outraged their feelings of affection and respect for the son of the house, the man to whom they looked up as their future head and ruler, who, even now, possessed the strongest mind, as the strong- est arm, among them, and for whom they had imag- ined no woman could be really good enough, And the little conclave that discussed the behavior of the bride that afternoon was a very grave one. It was evident that disappointment reigned at Cranshaws. But with the evening things looked brighter, for Lad Ethel eh Leena at dinner, having shaken off mui of her ill-humor, and, if not sociable, had atleast for- gotten to be glum. : Perhaps e was tired of sulking (it is a very fatiguing role when kept up for many hours togeth- er), or perhaps the genuine, unaffected compliments of her husband on her appearance had softened her But what. nd,drew . ——
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16 HER LORD AND MASTER. “That ig because you don’t know how. wicked I am —what evil thoughts I have,” said Maggie, monrnful- ly, as she lifted her swollen eyes to her aunt’s face. ‘“Dear—I am sure you will despise me for saying s0— but I wish sometimes that I could hate her.’ “Oh, Maggie! is that really true? You seem to get on so nicely with Lady Ethel—better than any one else in the house.”’ “Yes, I know; and I do love her, or rather I should like her if she were any body else, and that makes ‘it worse, because I feelso mean. But, aunt, I didn’t know—I couldn’t realize what it would be to see them together, and all day long, and.I shut out from every thing—it seems so hard!” and here the girl broke down again, and the small table on which she leaned shook with the violence of her emotion, Miss Lloyd was a good comforter; she knew when to speak and when to hold her tongue;‘and on the present o¢ca- sion she sat down in silence by her niece's side, and ates, patiently until she should renew the cotivbes: on, ' “I don’t know what you can. think of me,’ said Maggie. presently, making an effort.to keep down her choking sobs, “after allI said about this, and the fine resolutions that I made; but to act as though I were indifferent to what is going on around us is more difficult than I thought it would be.” ** You were are right to make the resolutions, my child,’ replied Aunt Letty, quietly, “but I should have been very much surprised if you had kept them without a singl drawback; in fact, I should have been disposed, in that case, to doubt whether you.had not dle; to place it on the mantel-piece, while Lady Ethel was too much astonished to oppose him. ‘* What do you do that for?’ she demanded angrily, as soon as she had found her tongue. ‘* My dear,’ replied the old man, ‘I don’t think the rules of this house very hard rules, but, such as they are, Imust have them complied with. Nothing but sickness can justify a person from not being present at family worship. I cannot compel you to serve God from your heart, but as long as you remain at Cran- shaws you must keep up the appearance of doing so. Here are the servants, you see! Now go back to your husband, like a good girl, and remain quiet until prayers are over; I shall not detain you a quarter of an hour at the outside. Ferpars Lady Ethel had never been spoken so to in her life. before. She had been opposed and fought against, but to be completely set down and ordered to do a thing, as though she had been a child, was a complete novelty to her. Amazement at the boldness of her father-in-law, and a gentlewoman’s innate de- sire to avoid anything like an eapose before the lower orders, forced. her back in silence to her seat, while she sat out the prayers that followed. But it is doubtful if one word of them reached her ear, far less her heart. She was almost lost the while in rage and indigna- tion, brooding angrily on the affront she had received, and wondering in what way she could resent it. Her husband, who. was disposed to be almost as of- fended as herself at his father’s curt way of speaking, viewed her acquiescence in his wishes with the ‘greatest. surprise, wondering what had come to his gh-spirited darling that she should be so meek. But he was not long left in doubt. They had scarce- ly risen from.their knees, and the train. of servants had not yet filed out of the room, when Lady Ethel, casting a withering glance upon Mr,. Bainbridge (which fell porkoctiy herelees, as the old gentleman was busy placing the markers in his books), and with- out a single parting salutation to the rest. of the com- pany, swept from the apartment. Her husband of with all the good that life held for her; and the gen- | Course rus ed after her, and then the domestics also erous tuipoias that had prompted her ‘actions then, | disappeared, and the Cranshaws party was left to it- lf. actually feel annoyed with myself because I can’t rushed over the girl’s heart again, as she eagerly re- | 8° ‘ 42). OF al plied: m" om vat Rene | ey Mr. Bainbridge!” exclaimed his wife, in 4 | dislike her,.and because, in spite of all her rudeness tone of vexation, as soon as they found themselves to uncle and aunt, and Cousin. Thomas, and her care- “But you have b tobe weary at the wrong end ie : ; : of life, dear Lady Ethel.” Lady iithel resaaluling to prayers thin oxehing? “Tait | (ransy pron spenieing of exeuything senionset feel ty Lady Ethel remaining to prayers this evening? Tam “Yes? Do you find it such a delightful thing to ust as though it. were possible that we ever could be heart (for however she may dislike more. particular attentions, a woman’s breast is seldom impervious to flattery); any way, she looked more animated, and pare longer answers than she had done the night be- ore, and Colonel Bainbridge in consequence was up- lifted to the seventh heaven, and could scarcely take his eyes off her ail dinner-time. This improved state of affairs, while it inspired oth- ers with content, had the strange effect of making Maggie’s spirits sink down to zero. She had been employing herself actively all day, studiously avoid- ing any opportunities of confidence with Miss Lloyd, and hoping to go to bed as bravely as she arose; but now a deep depression unaccountably took hold of her. .She ate: her dinner almost in silence, and, as soon as it was concluded and dog ears had adjourn- ed to the drawing-room, flew to her harmonium and took refuge in instrumental music. But here, in a few minutes, she found that Lady Ethel had panes her, She raised her eyes, and sickened at the sight of that perfect beauty, set off byJace and delicate muslin, and hung with the orna- ments: her husband had chosen for her; and Maggie turned her gaze away, almost with a shiver, and bent down closely over the pages of Beethoven, But her cousin's bride was evidently disposed for conversation. “How well you play! Have you had a music- master?” “Only the organist at Mindon, and a few lessons occasionally when I haye been at Birmingham,” re- plied Maggie, with a desperate effort to be agreeable. . dere not sing or play, Lady Ethel?” “No! Ihave learned, of course, but I left it off—I didn’t care for it; I don’t care for any thing;’’ with a sudden, deep-drawn sigh. “Oh, Lady Ethel! how can you say so?” “Tt's the truth! One 7 so soon weary of every thing in this world; and the same expression came over a, Ethel’s face that had so powerfully at- tracted the sympathy of Margaret Henderson the night before—an expression of having utterly finished affection for. your cousin. ere has been a great this is the inevitable reaction. You will go on allthe more bravely for a little relief?” “ Oh, what comfort it is to tell you anything, Aunt Letty!” said Maggie, with a grateful smile struggling through her tears. ‘‘ You always seem to put mat ters straight again, But Lhave not, told you half my wickedness yet. If I only disliked her, or was jealous and envious of her, however wrong, you know it, would sure that er, & ur live. then?” e that you have very much offended her, and o pat.as tt 1) , 2 dear Thomas into the bargain. Such a pity, so soon “TP ambie e-ans tes Paik EE ie hag he Bi 900 DOD er WeGnG, Ns. do. think our | 6 And why is it possible, my dear?” tended; only there is always so. much left to do, so 1 reaps: BRS allowed to:judge, for, themaqives i 4: | «. Oh! I don’t know; but it ¢an never be, Aunt Letty CEN eee Ene Of late Ae ta Tome eon en On bine, Waly, EONS. ARNG CUES A | tga dais tated te atone ciuenioua fat al that ave thought of late—that is, I sometimes “i : go i ‘Granted, Maggie; bu oug at you an think—” with astammering, blushing pause, on find- mined reply... “1 never interfere with. the amuse had pledged ourselves to fight against hiatairen Tt will ing she had ‘it on sucha ‘subject, with such a list- ener. ‘““What do you think?” inquired Lady Ethel, struck by her manner... Maggie had ceased playing though she retained her seat at the harmonium. “I think,” she continued, in a low voice, le * she should be overheard by. Mrs. Bainbridge, and Miss Lloyd, “‘ that it is best when we are not too happy in this world; that possessing all that our hearts desire must be so apt to make us cling to this life, and look upon death as.an evil instead of a blessing. Don't you fiad it so?” witha timid appeal in the direction of her ments of our guests: they may neglect me as much as they choose, but as long as they remain here they must respect their Maker outwardly, if not inwardly. | &Ying to endure if fb de ons apem 6 ea a mypossible.”” respect me too.” ; re “But Lady, Ethel has never been’ tised to these | 443 #7—she has everything! Be PS paki ae rae neat “TI cannot echo: your words, my dear, for I think pine. biendes Mrs. Bainbridge, “and ;she r $° | that poor Lady Ethel may have great need of ybu, ‘She is'ag old.as Maggie; isn’t she?’ returned her nusband sternly.. “ Elizabeth, it is of no use your attempting to argue the matter with me. When Isee a godless young .woman—especially the wife of my son (more’sthe pity),.it is my duty to remind her of companion. bow upon ae yeny Mi ys opportunity, yi cad age L ady ith ai Vdwhed. tell that I shall live till to-morrow to remind her o : t, or.she, to hear me speak?, And as for offending or the matter of that Tdon’t think it much | 5 H = aE 3 Aus d signifi eth r we are déad or alive. Do pla a ‘Thomas, that is quite a secondary consideration; he ut e : gead ought to be ashamed of himself, for having lighted thing lively; I don’t like that organ-thing half so well | the candle for her. A man who does not know how to guide his wife aright has no business, to he married at all.” ‘ ' Here, the discussion ended, and, though neither bride nor bridegroom reap d that evening, it. wasnot renewed among them... .— ; +e Lady Ethel continued to attend family worship whenever she was down stairs, though she seemed to take delight in behaving as badiy as she possibly could during. its continuance; and the slightest re. piace from: the lips of her husband, or father-in-law, nyariably made her worse. instead of better. Yet, she never forgave the old man for the rebuke he had administered to her pride—nout, that is to say, until her forgiveness, as far as this world is concerned, was, to all. intents and purposes, valueless. anay just be one of those ‘mysterious and inscrutable means by which He furthers His designs. One-can: wedd have thrown you two together (who are’so well suited. by sex and age to become friends) ‘in order that you may exert a wholesome influence on each other; she asthe piano;”’ and walking away from the instrument, she turned over the books that lay on the drawing- room table, until the entrance of the gentlemen made the conversation general. pp : But as the evening progressed Colonel Bainbridge became manifestly uneasy, and as ten 0’clock struck he was almost nervous. y, Ethel looked up from a book of pagronranhs on which she was employed, to watch the footman plactin § row of chairs in regu- lar order at the other end of the ropm, and demand- ed sharply: “ What is all that arrangement for?” “For prayers,” said gie, softly, remembering the talk she had had with her cousin on the subject that morning. ‘We “rays have prayers at ten o'clock, but they won’t take long!” : Lady Ethel laughed. “It is a matter of perfect indifference to me wheth- er they take.an hour or ten, for I am going to Good-night!”” : “Oh, do stay,” said Maggie, earnestly, ‘uncle will be so vexed.” , “Ethel! my darling!”’ remonstrated her husband, in a low voice. But the pleading tones irritated her, and she arose from her seat at once. “What nonsense/ As if one could not do as one chose in such a matter. Colonel Bainbridge, be so good as to light me a candle, will you?” The old-fashioned silver candlesticks stood in a row upon @ table outside the door, and seeing that his wife was resolute he fetched one and placed it in her hand... S “Where are you gh to?’ demanded Mr. Bain- bridge, as Lady Ethe vanced towards him with the lighted candle. j ‘Po my own room,”’ she replied, haughtily. She knew that the question denoted opposition, for the bedroom candlestick was evidence uP her de- showing her that under no cireumstancesican a Chris- _tian’s life be an unhappy one?” > iw to perform. m yourself,” “But, Aunt Letty, I know that He is always reacy tohear and answer prayer; but these petty feelings, these wretched, paltry jealousies, and mean heart- burnings at another’s gain—they do appear so utter- Ae posed to everything we have heard ee ar so teen to is purity and sanctity of life, that I feel sometimes as though it must be a desecration of His holiness even to naine them to Him, — It is impossi- pe yen can sympathize in the grosser passions of his earth,” ; CHAPTER XXIII. A NOBLE RESOLUTION. Iv was two days after this event that Aunt Lettie, ‘oing unexpectedly info Maggie Henderson’s bed- | m, was surprised to find her in a deluge of tears, _ Surprised, because during those two days, while Lady Ethel had been barely.polite to Mrs. Bainbridge and herself, and pertinaciously disrespectful to her father-in-law (a circumstance which the old man felt more than.he cared to acknowledge), she had been even cordial in .her manner towards Maggie, much moreso than she was to her husband; and Miss Lloyd had begun to hope that a friendship between the two girls might help to eradicate all feelings of jealousy from the mind of her niece. But she was crying now as though her heart would break—as though hers were the weakest nature pos- sible, and she had never made that heroic resolution to take up her cross and bear it manfully. - ‘Maggie, my dear, is it anything new?’ demanded Miss Lloyd, half fearfully, as her footsteps were arrested by the sight of the girl’s grief. “Oh, ne, Aunt Letty! Why did you come here to catch me just now? I bear it so badly—so very badly —lam fate ashamed of myself.” ; ‘Badly, my darling! and when I have been think- ing you so brave?’ : You are actually contradicting the Bible, which teac es us that. we can not have one feeling which he bas not felt before us.” a suppose——’ to complete the sentence. ““T suppose nothing, dear, but I believe what I have life are few, L know that he was perfect man as weil as perfect God, and tempted in every point like as we ations that fallto man? ere is 10a man in the that has not, in some shape or other, to sirupele against the impulses of his heart, and often to fight long and hard; to die, sword in hand, before he could overcome the enemy. And is_ it PrEnuls that He who bore all our sins and griefs in His own person should. have escaped or overlooked what is to His creatures, perhaps, theif deepest source of trouble,” “T never thought of that,” said Maggie, softly, “but ‘tis very sweet tO believe that He has felt it, and can make allowances. Aunt Letty; you. have made the burden lighter. He has lifted up the other end again. I can go on now.” sign. . 55 Bat we are just going to have prayers,” he said, quietly. ‘“‘T know that, thank you! but I have no desire to resent, Good-night.”’ is sole reply was gently, but firmly, to take the candlestick from her hand, and, blowing out the can- * ol * A Z strength; but it isnot ily I believe, after all, that is the best way fo make them | °° She donehoeneddart @,” mu red Maggie.“ She ‘by fortifying oon ‘strength under trial, and you ‘by » deceived yourself in canog ing Fou entertained any. . strain on your mind during the past few Cee nes, ‘ still be natural; but it is much worse than that!. I _ be difficult, perhaps,;and sometimes very trying—too | and that her’coming here and taking a capricious: > faney for you alone, out of all ‘her new relations, | not sy seeing what she is—-caréless, irreligious, and » to the things of this (world—without that » strong love for her husband which*might prove her: safeguard while passing through it. May not God » | “Oh, aunt, you expect more of me than Iam able > Not so, Maggie, for lexpect you to do nothing by ! “Maggie, my dear, think what ay are Saying. ; “But, Aunt Letty, you don’t mean to say that you — ud Maggie's reverence was too great to allow her © read. Although the details given'us of our Lord’s - are, though without sin. And are not these trials of ° the affections, Maggie, among the commonest tempt- ” world, let him be the greatest saint that ever lived, © %
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HER LORD AND MASTER. “ My child, I know you,will, and bravely. And what about poor Lady Ethel, Maggie?’’ ‘“Why should you call her* poor?” She appears so wich to. me.” “ Because, sp now you are not capable of judg- ing. To meshe seems the poorest creature I have met for many a day. She has just—nothing.” “Tam sure that she has all his heart.” “ And values it as much as you would that of her maid. Maggie, I must repeat it—with all her wealth and beauty and nobility of birth, and the affection of her husband, Lady Ethel is a Pinoy + int “Tf so, she is a willing one, for she has but to put -.out her hand and grasp it all.” “That does not follow, because love is not compul- sory. How should you find it, Maggie, were you to give yourself in marriage this very day to one of the young Appletons, or any man to whom you were ually indifferent?” ‘But, aunt, you. know that I couldn’t; that un- «der present eireumstances it would be impossible to e. S ] “Yes, dear, I do know it; but tosome women it is not impossible, and in that fact may lie a solution to the mystery.’ ‘But that is a very, very sad suggestion on your ‘part, Aunt Letty. I never thought it could be quite 0 bad as that.’ ‘*Remember that I know’no facts, my dear, and that.I am only speaking upon supposition. but of -one thing Iam certain: from whatever cause it may arise, Lady Ethel isnot happy. She is an orphan, ~who does not appear to have a regrets for the ‘home she has left, and certainly is disappointed with the one she has come to, and there seems to be but little confidence between her and her husband.” “There is only one person here with whom she feels disposed to make friends, and between that person and herSelf there is a barrier, @ natural bar- wier, though not an insuperable one,’ “Maggie, my darling, I dare say for a while it will “wmake your harder to you; but if you could re- solve, as far as in you lies, to be a friend of this poor girl, 1 believe that ~ might do her good, and in the end you will: feel. happier for it. It-may not. be the precise way in which you anticipated suffering, but when you, promised to carry your cross cheerfully you made no bargain as to which road you sho d Bmw : - ; There was a short pause, during which the girl was gazing straight out of snake up her mind. .“T do resolve,’ she answered, presently, in a firm, ‘tow voice; I will put_no. further restraint upon m aimpul but let. my heart open as it naturally wi towards her, and try to a her confidence turn, i a “Tt is a noble resolution, Maggie,” said Miss Lloyd, “‘ and it will bring its own reward. In trying to sound tthe depths of another suffering heart, you will forget £0 look so closely upon the wounds of your own,” « ~ CHAPTER XXIV. ; MAGGIE PLEADS HER COUSIN’S CAUSE, ‘ Macatr kept her word; and during the next few days, by reason of following freely the dictates of her frank nature, made such progress in her intimacy with her cousin’s wife, that Lady Ethel, selfishly un- ” observant. of, the f igs or wishes of others, kept her Conetantl y by her side, and in a patronizing man- ner openly expressed to her the dissatisfaction she sparen with everything at Cranshaws. : pr ne nd the German maid, Louise (who, to Mrs, Bainbr e"s great dislike, she would con- tinually send for to attend upon her in the general sitting-room, where they carried on lengthy conver- sations in German, intelligible to none but them- selves), were the only individuals with whom Lady Ethel condescended to exchange moré than the com- monest civilities of social life. ‘But Maggie, notwithstanding the interest she took in everything that concerned her cousin, and her de- sire to please him, found enforced friendship with his wife to ke no sinecure; and hadit not been for her resolution, and the encouragement she received from her Aunt Letty, would often have felt tempted to re- treat to her former standing-ground. For, in the first place, Colonel Bainbridge, whose eyes were see Tegel 3 to be opened to the fact that Lady Ethel might conduct herself with greater civil- ity towards the members of his family, was so charm- ed to find that, notwithstanding her behavior, one of them, at least, continued cordial with her, that he took to thankin ggie for her kindness, and im- parting little confidences to hér concerning his bride and his devotion toher, which was naturally very painful for the pict to listen to, And, on the other hand, Lady Ethel so often. made remarks derogatory to her husband or his relations in Maggie’s hearing; which she felt herself compelled to comment on, that more than once their intimacy had been on the ‘point of being ruptured: for not- withstanding the fancy she h en for her, my heroine’s inclinations were subservience to her pride; and it often ‘cost her young friend more pain than any one but herself could calculate, to summon up courage to utter the remonstrance which she felt she had’ no right to withhold. And yet, though Lady Ethel was often indignant, and, more than once, seri- ously offended at her boldness, after a few hours she invariably came back to M *s side again with the petulant: declaration that she was the only creature in Oranshawé fit to to. : When Sunday came around, the bride refused to go to church with the rest of the family. This was not so remarkable a circumstance, because the church was three miles distant, and the road to it a very rough one; but while discussing the subject with her a the window and striving to | ‘for most in all the world. husband. in Maggie's ppenenes, she spoke so rudely and bitterly to him, that Colonel Bainbridge, who had kept his patience wonderfully hitherto, suddenly flushed up to his temples with displeasure, and quit- ted the room without another word. As the door closed behind him, Lady Ethel laugh- “He’sin a nice temper, isn’t he, to go to church? I hope his psalm-singing will do him good. I am sure he needs it.” Maggie did not know what to reply, She was standing at the window in her bonnet and shawl, waiting for the carriage to come around; and she had been shocked to hear the tone in which Lady Ethel spoke toher husband. Colonel Bainbridge had turned once and appealed to her, and the look of pain in his face had been so great that the tears had rushed to her eyes at the sight of it, and prevented her from answering. And still, she was feeling the disgrace and the shame to himso deeply that she could hardly trust her voice to say what she thought of the scene which had just taken place. “Well, Maggie, are you sulking up in that corner? Why don’t you speak? Which side will you declare for, Colonel Bainbridge’s or mine?” “T never will declare fora wife against her _hus- band, Lady Ethel, and especially so good a husband as my cousin isto you.” a ** Dear--dear!’ exclaimed the bride, sarcastically, though she changed color and leoked uncomfortable at the rebuke; “you quite affect me. Under whom hive ty been studying the duties of married life so osely |’ But sarcasm was a weapon with which Maggie Henderson had no idea of oper. it was so com- pletely opposed to every phase of her character, and she answered Lady Ethel’s retort by coming sudden- ly tothe spot where she was sitting, and kneeling own beside her. : ; “Dear Lady Ethel, yon will think me very bold to ny so, but you know that you have Why do you not love hinvmore? What has he done that you should make him so unhappy ?”’ The wet, innocent brown eyes, with their true ex- Ramee were gazing earnestly into hers, and Lady thel forgot, or was too much astonished, to be an- sty. But she turned her own eyes un away. ‘I don’t mean to make him eed Thaveée a right to say what I think. Colonel Bainbridge and I perfectly understand each other.”’ “ But why claim your rent when you see it hurts’ his feelings? He issog so tender and so gentle with all weaker things——” here the ker’s voice slightly faltered, but quickly recovered itself, ‘‘and } part ou so much that I am sure there could | he loves never be the shadow of a Ning: Sean between you if you treated him more kindly.” “Kindly! What nonsense you are taiking, Maggie! What do you know about such things?” “Tcan see that heis not happy, Lady Ethel, and neither are you.” it was a desperate thing to say to such a woman, but Mag elt as though the case were desper- ate; and her words had a totally different effect to what she anticipated. : Lady Ethel’s white teeth closed ‘cruelly upon her under lip, and the tears rose to her eyes, though she dashed them impatiently away. , “Tf it be the case, it is not my fault,”’ she answered, rye in a husk voice. = Neat “Oh, yes —in a great measure,”’ rep Mag- gie, emboldened by the mood. of her companion; ‘for instance, Lady Ethel, the name by which. you call him; it sounds so strange—so unlike what most wives ‘*T eare nothing about most wives,” rejoined Lady Ethel, growing colder as M rivilege she had gained; “it ishis proper name, I elieve.”” “No, not for you; you, who are the person he cares And he would be so pleased if you were to call him “Thomas!"” with a coaxing lit- tle = “you will, dear Lady Ethel! now, won’t you But this was going a step too far. “Indeed, I shall do no such thing; a nasty, com- mon name, only fit for stablemen and ploughboys. I hate the very sound of it! If his parents wanted to hear his name called all over the house, they ought to have given him a decent one,” “Tt was his grandfather’s,” said Maggie, indignant- ly. ‘Yes? I didn’t know he had had a grandfather,” was the bride’s reply. Maggie was silent for a moment, and then, the full force of the sarcasm striking her, she colored vio- lently, and rising to her feet, retreated some distance from her companion: E “Oh, Lady Ethel! you are: cruel,” she said, in a low voice; ‘‘ you are worse than cruel; why did you ever marry him?” ‘*Maggie, my dear, the carri pos unele is waiting,’ said Miss Lloyd, putting her ead in at the door; and, without another word, the girl joined her friends, leaving Lady Ethel to answer to pga as best she might, the question she had put to her. eis around, and CHAPTER XXVv. SISTER MARGARET, THE drive to church that morning was not an ex- hilarating one, for Maggie was unusually silent, and Colonel Bainbridge, who rode on horseback by the side of the carriage, scarcely opened his lips. ; Neither of them could shake off the depression occasioned by Lady Ethel’s words, and yet each was loyally. as to confess it to the other»by so much as a look. z ‘been wrong. © the © rtunities for gossi Toor th neigh gie intrenched upon the: Unsetistyang 8s were the Sunday services at Min- don Church, Maggie Henderson delighted in them. She saw so little of congregational worship, and so seldom had the y rtunity of claiming the gracious promise attached to it, that it was a pleasure to her simple soul merely to find herself among her fellow- creatures, and to feel that they depended for their salvation on one common hope. And when hercousin sat next her in the per, and the same words left their lips at the same time, the pleasure was greatly enhanced, ‘ ; As Mindon was the gent church for several miles around in which the English service was ormed, the congregation was generally composed of famil- ies who came from some distance to attend it, and it was a great rarity to See a stranger there. Maggie could not imagine, therefore, what ailed the people when first she had leisure to notice them that morning—for as a were bobbing up and down in their seats, and whispering, togother in a most un- seemly manner—until her cousin touched her arm, and, turning her head in thé direction intimated, she saw, in the pew of their neighbors, the Appletons, one of those women who, by their spirit and exam- le, have elevated the standard of religion in the urch of England—a Sister of Mercy. There she satin her white head-dress' and black robe and veil, attired so somberly, and yet with a face so full of cheerful, sweet content; dead to the world, but who should live when the world diés, and apparently quite unconscious of the Commotion she was causing, There was something in the sight of her that pow- erfully affected Maggie, forshe knew the sister’s mis- sion and its cause, and the tears rushed to her eyes, as a sudden new hope sprang up in her heart that a vision of her own possible futuré had been granted to her. She gazed at the interesting stranger until the service conimenced, and then experienced quite a difficulty in tearing her mind away from her and fixing it on the solemn work she had in hand. » But Maggie did it; for: to contro! her inclinations had been one of the earliest lessons instilled by her Aunt Letty, though the last named lady, guessing the cause, was quite amused by the eagerness her niece evinced to get out of chureh as soon as ever the service was concluded, oy “The Appletons, aunt?” she whispered. “Don’t let them go without our speaking © want to know who it is they had in their pew to-day.” But ie need not have been in sucha hurry; there was little chance of her being disappointed, for were too rare in that e country for neighbors to separate after chureh before they had spoken to each other, And the la a who were not quite easy at aring there in company with a friend’ dressed ‘in’ so un- usual and striking a manner, considered they should only be doing what. was due to themselves by apol- ogiz ing to theit uaintanees for the fact: ees * “‘ How do you do, Mrs. Bainbridge? I hope I see you quite well, ma’am! My cousin, Miss Thompson,” to them,’ I do so. (indicating the sister, who smiled pleasantly and held : out ‘her hand)—“ Sister Margaret, as Is should call her,”’ with a shrug of theshoulders and a look half deprecating, half-amused; and then Mrs. Appleton lowered her voice and became confidential. “ A good creature, Mrs. Bainbridge—thoroughly good and honest, I believe—but y mistaken views, as you must see,” adhd et Ft in «her “Ob, [hope not!” murmured Mrs, Bainbridge, draw- ing her shaw] closer around her as some: | fear of the effect of Popery flitted through her mind. ‘tI heard that those kind of ladies. did ‘so much good among the poor—and were'so amiable.” "a “I’m sure it is most kind of you to say so,” ed her neighbor, returning thanks for the united» r- hood of England, ‘Ah, well, we must. not igudgel and she has been ill) r thing; over-worked herself, I believe, in night-schools, or some of these extraor- thn Fett institutions they have got up in: London, and come here for a few weeks to recruit her health. Miss ie and she seem to be ng on wonderfully together. I have just been ‘telling your good aunt, Miss Maggie,” she continued, raiging her voiceagain to attract the notice of Maggie Hender- son, who was already talking eagerly with, Sister Margaret, ‘that my cousin has béen ill lately, and has come to Horse-ap-Cleugh to try what Scottish air will do for her.” ° ify ** Oh, it will do hes good! Tam suredt w: ” replied the irl, quickly raising her bright, sym) eyes to the stranger's face; “it is so fresh > ting. Shall you stay here long?” f “T don’t know, but 1 hope not; that is to say, I must go back to my work as soon as possible,”’ i * And does your work take up much of your time?” Sister Margaret. smiled. id All of it—every moment—I have not.one to spare! i ; “ But that must:be very trying; no wonder it tells upon your health; and you do not look strong enough for’hard work. Are you not often tired?” ‘‘No, indeed! I sooner get weary where I have nothing to do... When one is constantly employed there is no time to think about one’s self.” ** And you do it all for love?” it “ Qh, no!’ My master pays me well,” returned the sister, brightl ;.and the words met witha ready echo in her hearer’s breast, ; ; “How I envy you!" she cried, enthusiastically, The stranger looked at her. Yes; there were on her face the traces of suffering, unmistakable to those who had also suffered—marks that the soul had received its baptism of woe, the gold beem dipped in the refiner’s fire; and her interest. in the young girl was immediately awakened. y fe Sister Margaret must have had ae expe ie in ief to have guessed the truth so quickly far aggie’s sorrow had not destroyed the freshness * ae. a 2 ee ee
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“ ye HER LORD AND MASTER. her beauty, as it had done that of Lady Ethel; and the signs of it were only to be met with in the chastened glances of her eye, and the pensive, tremulous expression of her mouth. She was suffering, but not so deeply as my heroine; for there was no bitterness nor self-reproach ag with her grief, and she had experienced help throughout it of which Lady Ethel knew nothing. And probably Sister Margaret guessed something of that truth also. ‘‘Perhaps I may eh Ne again while I am at Horse-ap-Cleugh,” she said, cordially, as the parties were about to separate. ‘“ {shall be glad if it is so,” “Oh! may I come and talk to you? Then I will come to-morrow,”’ replied Maggie, eagerly—so eager- ly that Miss Lloyd laughed, on their way home,at her new-born enthusiasm for Mrs. Appleton’s cousin. They were walking together arm-in-arm over the moors, in the style that Maggie loved; for the day had turned out so bright and pleasant that they abandoned the carriage to Mr. and Mrs. Bainbridge. and preferred to find théir way home on foot, Colonel Bainbridge having ridden forward long before, to gain the presence of his beloved tormentor. - en Miss Lloyd began her gentle quizzing, Mag- gie only squeezed her arm tight, and pressed up closer Ai her. There never was greater love nor confidence between women than existed between these two. : . ; “TI confess I have taken a great fancy for her,’’ she said, laughing, ‘“‘but you needn’t be jealous, Aunt Letty; there is no occasion, for I think it is Sister Margaret’s dress that attracts me quite as much as herself.” - , ; “Oh, my dear, how can yousay so? I think it is the most unbecoming costume I ever saw.” “ And her name, too,”’ continued the girl, musing- ly; ‘‘Margaret—the same as mine—it seems so curi- ous that it should be so.” : ; “But, Maggie, there is nothing particularly strange in that; it is the commonest name possible in this country.” But gie did not answer. 3 “Oh, auntie!” she burst out paaeiansiely after a brief pause. ‘“ How I wish that I could be the same assheis. A life like that would cure me. To be al- ways verking for tiie suffering and the poor; waiting on them; and nursing them, and teaching them— there would be no time left (she said so herself) to brood over one’s own petty troubles. Oh, howI wish —I wish that I could throw off every trammel that binds me to the world—that I could feel that Ihad renounced everything like comfort and luxury for- ever, and go forth amend the sick and needy, vas he did, and spend the rest of my life with them.” “Do you think you would be any the happier for it?” quietly demanded Miss Lloyd, after a short si- lence. ; : “What! doing his work, Aunt Letty? I wonder you can ask the question YP ‘ “But would it be his work, my child? That is the int I should like to hear you settle for yourself.” wciitas always been,.considered so,” rophied Maggie, ubiously. “ Yes, Yor some people—some who seem expecially called, by loss of friends and consequent exemption from home ties, to make God’s family their cwn. But you could never imagine that a woman was obeying God’s voice by leaving her father and moth- er (for instance) against their wishes, to go and wait upon the father or mother of somebody else—would you?’ i , “No, I su not.”’ “Therefore, while we have duties at home waiting for us to fulfill, I don’t think we should even let our minds dwell too inquiringly upon a condition which is not likely to become ours, and which in all probability, we sh drelish no better than our present one, if it did.’ " ‘*T shall never be able to do any thing more for Him than I do now, at that rate,” Maggie, heaving a per sigh. ' “Don’t say that, my dear. Wherever we are ines eee strive to progress, daily and_ hourly. te the f nt of our duties, both towards Him an our ne i ur bors.” Bat on, sant I have been dreaming such a heav: r dream.. { thought it would be so grand to rise up, and shaking off all this sorrow that oppresses. and keeps me di to go forth into the world and succor those who have been tried as I have. [It looked so easy—so delightful; and now you say that it can never be!” “No, Maggie, I did not go. as far as that. I only said (and I am sure that Sister Margaret would be the first'to uphold my statement) that we must not imagine we can serve God better b forsaking the duties He has placed before us, in order to perform others which we think will be more conducive to His glory! He knows best about His glory; .all we have to do, as servants, is to obey Him.’ f “Then don’t you think that women are ever right to leave home and become members of a sisterhood? Do you think that Sister Maragret could possibly please God better than she is doing now?” ““My dear, I know nothing about Sister Margaret; I was speaking only of yourself. You would like to run away and desert us all—and break your r old uncle’s heart, as I verily believe you would, in order to add your mite of work to the hundreds of hands— hands that perhaps have no one dependent on them —laboring among the poor.” | “Qh, no! Aunt Letty, that is not true,” cried Mag- gie, warmly; “you know I would never desert you; I would sooner die.” 4 “Well, darling, you must do something more. You must try and believe that, since Fg have been placed and given duties here, it would be impossible, under present circumstance, for you to serve God so well anywhere else.” “— | ) day. | shake off sleep and rub “‘T will believe it,” replied the girl in @ low voice. | on the table fit to eat, and then, suddenly throwing ‘**T can quite understand your feelings, my dear,” continued Aunt Letty, affectionately. ‘‘ You have had a great and mortifying pied arate and you would like to shake off, not only the grief, but all re- menbrance of it; to change place and work andcom- Penlonys to change even yourself if that were pos- sible. “But consistently with duty and gratitude, it is not possible, Maggie; and therefore you must not even indulge yourself by dreaming of it. No one could honor the noble sisterhoods of the whole Cath- olic Church more than I do. They area glory and blessing to the nations to which they belong, and, I doubt not, will receive au exceeding great reward when their work is completed. But at present, my Maggie, your place is not among them. We would sorely miss our little Sister of Mercy at home.” “You say ‘at present,’ Aunt Letty. Doyou think, then, it may ever come to pass?” inquired Maggie, earnestly. “Tf your life is spared, and you continue in the same mind, my dear, there is no saying what ma: happen during the next fifty years. But I wouldn’t speculate, about it. Speculation even is a want. of an i Him who will order all things according to will.” “ But if He ever wills it, auntie; if He opens the way for me and makes all things smooth, you would not keep me back from it, would you?” “ Ke ou back, my darling?’ You might as well ask me if I would keep you back from entering Heav- en. No, Maggie, when all you speak of comes to pass, I will be the first to put that great ugly flapping cap and black veil upon your dear little head; and don’t think I could give you a greater proof of my complete resignation than that, my sweet, bonnie girl!” and betwixt laughing and crying the two wo- men stopped upon the moor, and held each other in a long and fervent embrace. CHAPTER XXVI. A SWORD-THRUST, THERE was a slight coolness between Maggie Hen- dergon and Lady Ethel] during the remainder of that The bride chose to resent the last words that her husband’s cousin had spoken to her, although her heart told her that they had been well merited; and Maggie felt that she could not conscientiously profess to be sorry for having said what she should be com- pelled to say oyer again did the opportunity recur. And so she left Lady Ethel that afternoon to the com- pany of Colonel Bainbridge, and, taking her book into her uncle’s study, sat on a footstool at his feet, with her head resting on his knee, and alternately read and conversed with him until the gong sounded asummons to dinner. : She thought, once or twice, during that evening, that she caught Lady Ethel looking rather wistfully in her direction, as though she wanted to be friends again, and her tender heart reproached itself with being hard; but when she tried to say or do something to show that the occurrence of the. morning was forgot- ten, the remembrance of the insult cast on her cousin —on him—and on her cousin’s family, rose up to pre- vent it. And so they parted for the night with the most ordin- ary salutation, and Maggie began to think she should be very glad when y Ethel’s yisit had come toa conclusion. The next day was favorable for a walk ; and having ascertained that Mrs. Bainbridge was going to drive to Borthwick, and would not require her attendance, Maggie's desire turned towards Sister Margaret and Horse-ap-Cleugh; only she was pot sure whether, after the conversation she had held with Aunt Letty, it would be right to indulge herself by going there. “You know, dear,;’”’ she said frankly to Miss Lloyd, “ that we shall be sure to talk about her work and the rules of her sisterhood, and ail the. other delights, and Ishan’t be able to help wishing just a little ; and so, if you think it best for me not to go, Twill send an ex- cuse instead.” i “Vill you promise me, Maggie, if you should see Sist.r Margaret, and indulge in that sort of conver- sation, that you will repeat to her faithfully what you told me yesterday, and my remarks upon it?” «Oh yes, aunt! I should have no objection to doso.” “Well, then, go, my dear, by all means; for I am uite sure what'she will say, and that her advice will do you more good than mine.” ge _ And so, mounted on her pony, and accompanied by two or three favorite dogs; Maggie set off for Horse-a Cleugh directly after luncheon. . She did not see Lady Ethel before starting, for, either from laziness or ill-humor, ‘the bride had lain in bed again that morning; and when she descended to the luncheon-room, some time after the meal had been an- nounced, she found it deserted by all except her hus- band, who, with his hands thrust into the side-pockets of a loose velvet coat, was lounging moodily apon the hearth-rug. There had evidently been some difference between them that morning; for though Lady Ethel entered the dining-room with some clatter and one or two outspoken complaints against the domestic arrange- ments of Cranshaws, he did not even move from his position, but with sad eyes and gravely-fixed mouth continued to gaze steadfastly into the fire; for though men will be taken in and gulled over and over again by the women who profess to love them, where there is not even a profession made, it does not take ‘them long to ! their eyes and see. Love, unre- may drag out its existence, but itis quite impossible that it should thrive. The bride did not ap- pear to admire remaining unnoticed. She settled her- self pompously in her seat, made raids upon various dishes collected round her, declared there was nothing sponded to, down her knife and fork, turned round on him like a little fury. “Why on earth don’t you say something—stickin there, before the fire, and thinking of no dase but yous self? You have no more manners than a bear!”’ But the only answer that he made her was to moye towards the door. “Colonel Bainbridgel!” with an impatient movement. of her foot, ‘‘ where are you going? You might haye the civility to reply when you are spoken to!” Then he halted, came half way back into the center of the room, and raised his reproachful eyes to hers. “TI should hardly have thought you took so much in- terest in my movements, Ethel; I am going with my mother to Borthwick.’’ “To Borthwick—what for?’ ° “To see an old friend |” “What friend ?’” *‘No one, I think, that you would care to hear about —my godmother, Mrs. Hodson.”’ “And who is.she—a grocer’s wife?” “No, she is not a grocer’s wife,’’ he answered, calmly disregarding the insolence of her remark, although he flushed painfully as she deliveredit; ‘‘sheis the widow of a general in the army.” “Oh, dear me; what aristocratic company we are getting among! But Lam afraid the general’s widow must wait for the pleasure of seeing you. You can’t go this afternoon, )ecause I want you!’”’ “Oh, Ethel, dearest |’ he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with excitement, ‘I wish I thought you did want me—that my presence were in any degree necessary to your happiness; but you know that it is all ecaprice, and that if I stayed at home to please you, you would probably shut yourself up in your room forthe whole of the afternoon.”’ _ “That is\as it-may be,’ she answered indifferently; “but any way you must remain at Cranshaws !’’ But he would not allow her to press her advantage. “Tam sorry to say that I cannot do so, Ethel; I have already promised to attend my mother.” . > «And you set your mother before me ?”’ ‘ “T do not, either in love or duty, as you’ know well; but in this instance I must keep to my word. In the first place, I asked you to accompany us this morning, and you refused ’”’—— é : “AsifIam going to visit all the farmers’ wives for ten miles round!” she interposed. “Very well! I did not press it—only I cannot permit your fancies to interfere with what I consider to be my duty. Ihave not accompanied my mother yet ‘to see any of her friends—it pleases her as well as them—and from this lady I have received a great deal of kindness ever since Iwas a child. Nothing could haye given me peas pleasure, Ethel, than to have introduced you to er.” « Milles remercimens, monsieur!” she interrupted, with ascornful courtesy; ‘‘ but I prefer to remain where: Iam, and that you remain here also.” “That is out of the question,” he said, firmly, as he beiine be tig ie “Colonel Bainbridge ! you shall stay—I insist upon it,” in a heightened sink ! m: . “Do not be so foolish, Ethel! Do youintend tomake the whole house cognizant of our quarrel ?” “T dont care ifitis! I don’t care if the whole world knows how disrespectfully you treat me! You ought to be ashamed of yourself !’’ Pgh “Oh, my darling! my darling!” he exclaimed, with the vain hope that his love might touch where his de- termination failed, ‘‘for God’s sake; don’t cut up all our happiness in this way! you know that I would do any- thing in reason for you, Ethel—that my life and every- thing that belongs to me is at your service; but this is not phe mneret ae love; this is a mere child’s fancy that you have taken into your silly little head;” and return- ing to her side, as though it were not worth his while to oe seriously with any thing so young, and soft, and fair, as she was, he put his kind arms round her girlish figure... But she shook herself free from his em- brace as though it had been that ofaserpent. “Don’t touch me!” she cried angrily, andin her anger unheeding what she said; ‘‘don’t dare to touch me, or tospeak tome! I hate you!” As the assertion struck his ear, he changed color, his arms dropped listlessly to his sides, and, without ano- ther look, he turned away and left the room. - It was the first time her unkind words had hit him mortally. Former ones had come and gone, settling on his heart for a moment, and wounding as they settled, but their pain had been but transitory, like that occa- sioned by a stinging fly. But these, when taken in connection with the tone, the look, the action, that accompanied them, were, as oison dropped upon his soul, the effect of which, hough salved over, was never entirely eradicated. CHAPTER XXVII. GALL AND WORMWOOD, OCoLONEL BAINBRIDGE left the house without speaking to his wife again ; and as soon as the carriage contain- ing his mother and himself had passed the dining-room windows, from which he kept his eyes carefully averted, Lady Ethel, considerably nettled to find her power was. not quite so great over him as she imagined, shook out her ruffed plumes and went into the drawing-room, with the intention of making Maggie Henderson a. sharer in her indignation. ; But here she was disappointed, for the apartment. proved to be empty, Miss Lloyd having left the house, on around of cottage visits simultaneously with the departure of her niece. . Lady Ethel rang the bell, and, hearing that every one was out, threw herself into a chair and ¢ommenced to turn over the freshly-cut pages of the various maga-
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EE Me Eee eee ey HER LORD AND MASTER. 1g zines and papers’ with. which the castle. was always liberally supplied. But they did not interest her ; for though she’ pretended to be; completely, indifferent to ‘the scene that had just. taken place between her husband ‘and herself; in reality she was not only. piqued, but a little! bit unhappy on the subject; added to which,. there /»was:'a, nasty,-uncomtortable | feeling knocking’ at her ;heart} which bore. a strong . re- semblance to fear lest. she might have gone too far with him ; and on discovering which. she. experienced quite as niuch surprise,as Colonel Bainbridge would have done. She kept glancing at. the clock and won- dering how long i¢ would take -him to call on ‘that old togy at Borthwick ;” and whether he would re- turn home ina better humor than he had left it; and, if he diel not, what could. she do, without com- promising her dignity, to b ,him round again. As this thought flashed through her mind, Lady Ethel smiled consciously to herself; for she knew well enough how be had been caught and entangled by the wondrous light in her liquid eyes, and the golden meshes of her hair; and that she had to exhibit but one or other of her many charms to bring him back, adoring, to her feet. : , Yes, y Ethel, it works well for a certain number of times ; but there are limits to all ‘things, and some wounds are more than skin ‘deep—and even not to be healed by beauty. She was ruminating much after this fashion, when the door opening roused her from her reverie, and look- ing up, expectant of the entrance of Maggie or, Miss Lloyd, her eyes encountered the trim old-fashioned fig- ure of her father-in-law, Now there was no one, at that moment, whom,;Lady Ethel would not have sooner seen than Mr. Bainbridge, for since the eyening he had. com- pelled her to remain to prayers she, had felt a mingled dislike and fear of the old man, which was quite as pat- ent to him as to herself, and on that present occasion the grave and almost stern expression of his face seem- ed to warn her that,their interview was. notto be a pleasant one.’ She guessed at once that he had entered ‘ with a purpose, for he was never known to occupy the drawing-room during the day-time; and yet now, first closing the door carefully behind him, he came deliber- ately forward, and took a seat by her Side, while Lady Ethel, recalling the loud tones in which she had spoken to her husband, grew a shade paler and moved her chair away. : : ; “You have no need to be afraid of me, my dear,” quietly remarked the old man, inatone which was very offensive to her pride. ‘I have afew plain words to say to you, it is true; sol am glad that I found you alone; but I.shall make them as I feel to be consistent with my duty.” = } f Lady Ethel stared at the intruder as though she had never seen him before. : - “Lam not.aware what you can have to speak to me about, Mr. Bainbridge,” she replied‘ haughtily; “ but whatever it may be, it is not likely to have the effect you anticipate.” ; “ Well, we shall see, we shall sec,” said her father-in- law, in nowise disconcgerted by her address. little desire to wound you, and, therefore, i 1 can out your faults without doing it, somucu the better.” Point out her faults—hers—Lady Ethel Carr’s? (Lady Ethel never thought of herself by any other name). t would the vulgar, low-born old man dare to do next. She did, not say this; she only thought it, as, drawing herself up, majestically in her seat, she an- swered, with cutting politeness: “Tam sure I amjinfinitely obliged by your solicitude. Ena goon. Lam quite impatient to hear the list of my iquities.”’ ‘ r. Bainbridge, turned and looked at the petulant beauty with a strange yearning expression in his gaze— a gaze which, in its tender compassion, passing over all her attractions, and, even her faults, saw only the young spirit at war with the world and itself, and sore- ly standing in need of friendly counsel. ‘* My dear,” he said, kindly, ‘‘it-is a misfortune that you. should have been left without a father at the very time when you wereabout to take upon yourself the most important duties of your life.” : But an allusion to her father, and from Mr. Bain- bridge, was more than Lady Ethel couldstand just then. The tears rose behind her burning eyeballs, but with a strong effort she repelled them; and the violence which she thus did her feelings made her voice sound, harsh and discordant. “Iwill thank you not to-mention my father to me, sir. You, were not acquainted with him; his life or death can be esnnipes, of little consequence to you,” But Mr. Bainbri he pressed the question. er “Had he been here, Lady Ethel! Could he have heard you speaking to your husband in the dining-room this afternoon, what comment would he have made upon the circumstance ?”’ 2 : i Her mind rushed back pell-mell to the darkened chamber, with its maroon hangings; the handsome emaciated face patiently reclining on its pillows, and the dear faint voice recommending the man whom she had married to her merciful consideration. Well, she Had. married him! But what right did that give this old farmer, in his leathern gaiters and rough coat, and rougher words, to come and foreibly remind her of.one of the bitterest memories of her life? Her spirit rose against it; she was indignant at his presump- tion; and.the feeling was apparent in the tones of her voice as she replied: . ; “I was not aware that eavesdropping was considered to be a virtue at Cranshaws. I have always been taught to look upon it as a vice.” . “There was no eavesdropping, Lady Ethel! You spoke so loudly, and with the door unclosed, that the whole house might have heard you. To me, sitting in my apes it was impossible that the sounds should not reach.” 4 : “You were quite welcome to hear them, I am not x . » na ‘el ars | / oint | idge saw that he had touched her, and | ashamed of what I said,’’ she answered, with an assump- tion of indifference. “ Not ashamed! My dear, think twice of what you affirm. Not ashamed of telling the man to whom you have been married scarcely two months—who is en- tirely devoted to you, and whom you have sworn sol- emnly to honor and obey—that you hate him? Surely, upon reflection, you will retract your words.” But Lady Ethel tossed her head in the air, and was silent. “Perhaps I should not. have taken upon myself to speak to you,’ continued the old man, “were it not that you seem very friendless; and that I know you hold the happiness of my. only son—my only child—in your hands. He has been a yery good son to us, Lady Ethel. From a boy I,cannot remember that he ever wilfully disobeyed his mother or myself, and, as you may sup- pose, all that concerns him is of the deepest interest to us. He is yery much attached to you; his whole heart appears to me absorbed in the admiration of your per- sonal appearance.’’. (Here Lady Ethel, with a smile of self-satisfaction, slightly turned her head towards the speaker.) ‘‘ Yes, yes, my dear! Iknow that you are very beautiful—I am neither too old nor too vulgar to per- ceive that ’’—{at this allusion. the girl colored)—“ but your beauty will be of little avail to you in the sight of men, and none at,allin the sight of God, if it is not joined to a meeker.and more tractable spirit. You haye the face of an angel; but if you were to die to-night, my dear, do you think that would make you fit.to take your place among the company of heaven ?’’ “I. don’t know anything about, it,” she returned brusquely, ‘‘and I don’t. care. .If you have any more pleasant truths to tell me, Mr. Bainbridge, you will oblige me by doing so. at once; for you interrupted me in)my reading, and I shall be glad to return to ft.” “The reading can wait,” said. her father-in-law, as he laid a sacrilegious hand upon the number of “'Temple Bar ”’ she was holding betore her face, and laid it quietly upon the table; ‘‘ for my business is of greater import- ance, Lmust warn you, Lady Ethel—both for my son’s sake and your own—against the course you are pursu- ing with him. He possesses a noble temperament, kind, generous and long-suffering; but if you outstep your privileges—if you once, thoroughly rouse his jealousy or destroy his faith in you—you will find his is a nature that does not easily forget. At present you might do anything with him, for he loves you far too well for his Own peace of mind, and is blind to your faults; but if you repeat the game you were playing with him this afternoon, you will do it once too often—that is all |’* Lady Ethel’s cheeks were flaming, and her foot was beating an impatient tune upon the hearth-rug. ake if I do, it is my own concern, and no one else’s.”’ ‘Pardon me. It is not only his happiness, but ours, which you seem bent upon destroying.” “T was not aware that in marrying Colonel Bainbridge IT had married his whole family.” “And yet itis the usual thing, surely, when you en- ter a family, to cunsider it as your own. Lady Ethel, I have felfrnsious more tian once lately to learn what re son you possibly could have had for marrying my son ?”” Pri started from her seat, and turned upon him eyes of fire. ‘Not to be insulted by his father, Mr. Bainbridge !’” “Only to insult himself, I suppose? Well, my dear, I dare say you consider you did us a grost honor by con- descending to assume our name; but if you do not love your husband (and I cannot reconcile your words this afternoon with the belief that you do love him), all I can say is, that I would rather he had taken a dairy- maid to wife, who looked up to and reyerenced him as he deserves;”’ and Mr. Bainbridge drooped his head upon his breast in a very despondent manner. “‘T will not stand this language any longer !’”’ exclaim- ed Lady Ethel, angrily. “As if it were not sufficient that [should haye lowered my father’s noble name by marrying beneath my station in life, IT am expected to stand by quietly and hear his daughter compared at a disadvantage with a dairy-maid. I wish to heaven your son ad married a dairy-maid, sir; he would in that case have taken a wife from a condition more equal to his own’’—(with gasping s0b)—“ I have committed the irrevocable folly of linking my fate with his; Ic¢an at least refuse to subject myself to the indignity of haying the fact hourly cast in my teeth by one whose age, if not his knowledge of the Saleen tie of polite society, should have taught him better. I shall leave Cranshaws to-morrow!’ And sweeping past her fathér- in-law as though she feared he might contaminate her, Lady Ethel flew to her room, and left Mr. Bainbridge to his own reflections. — CHAPTER XXVIII. THE WEDDING VISIT Is ABRUPTLY TERMINATED. Ir was areal effort to Colonel Bainbridge to make himself agreeable during that visit to “the old f at Borthwick;”’ for while he was receiving congratulations on his marriage, and answering inquiries, all his thoughts were with the rebellious girl whom he had left at home; and his faithful heart was aching with the remembrance of the last words she had said to! him. The old coach-horses seemed to creep back to Cran- shaws on that afternoon, and the rugged road to be more tediously impassable than éver, while he ‘sat by his mother in the close carriage listening to her unin- teresting remarks on what they had seen and heard at Mrs. Hodson’s, and longing with his wholé heart that he could fly back to the presence of his wife, and read in her eyes that all was right again between them. They reached the castle about seven o'clock, just as the dinner-gong was sounding, and ‘Miss Lloyd and Maggie Hsnderson, dressed for the eyeuing, were pass- ing shegugh the hall, *: oo a * 3 > * . >" Colonel Bainbridge, having handed his mother out. of the gerringe. hurried up the staircase to Lady Ethel’s. room, éxpecting to find her in the midst of her toilet. But what was his astonishment, on opening the: door, to see her clothed in a white dressing-gown, with. her long hair rippling down her back, quietly seated. by the fire; while Louise, surrounded by her mistress’ traveling-cases in every stage of preparation for a. journey, was receiving and obeying the Girections given. her. “My dearest Ethel!” he exclaimed, stopping short upon the threshold, and forgetting everything he had. intended to say to her, * what does this méan’?’’ “It means that I am going back to town to-morrow,” she answered, curtly. ‘‘ Do come into the room, Colonel. Bainbridge, if you are coming, and shut that door be- hind you; you.are letting a most horrible draught blow right upon my feet!” He did as she desired hini, and: took up his position: on the hearth-rug just in front of her. “Going back to town to-morrow ?’’ he repeated; ‘‘you, must be joking, Ethel, surely.” “T consider it anything but a joke to be insulted.” | “TInsulted? Who has dared to insult you in this house ?”’ is i ; “The owner of it!” and then turning to her maid. with afew words of German, she her from the room. ; Colonel Bainbridge could scarcely believe that he had heard aright. “My father, Ethel! You must be mistaken.” “Mistaken! When I heard him with my own ears. I tell you that he has insulted me most grossly, ané that without the slightest provocation, and I.refuse- to remain in’ this house an hour longer than is neces- sary.”” She looked so beautiful, with her heated face and im her simple undress—so like Colonel Bainbridge’s mun- dane conceptions of an angel, and his affections were so- entirely hers, that even though his father were the. supposed effendér, all his sympathies were enlisted om her side, and he replied, warmly : “Tell me about it, dearest. T am not going to have er ara this manner for all the relations in the world!” He threw himself down upon the hearth-rug as he: spoke; and clasped his hands about her waist; and Lady Ethel suffered it. It would not have been politic in her to repulse him now, for her pride demarided she should. be permitted to quit Cranshaws, and she knew she could not do so without his consent. “Your father has insulted me most bitterly,” she: went on quickly, and trying to avoid the sionate. gaze he fixed upon her face; “he came into the drawing- room this afternoon as I was ape | alone, and told me: that he had overheard what we said in the dining-room (he must have been listening at the door), and that E was @ mass of faults, and not so good as a dairy-maid, and he wished that you had never married me, with a great deal more in te same strain that was equally polite. And I decline tu be subjected to such an in- divuity again!” i He nientioned you in the sam breath as a dairy~ maid |” exclaimed her husband, indignantly: “ Ethel,, my dearest, can it be possible ? he must be mad! own girl! my own noble, peerless,’ beautiful girl! JZ know, if no one else does, what an incalculable honor you did me by becoming my wife |’ : ‘ “T must leave this piace,” she went on unheeding his. address; “‘I cannot stay here, after all he said to me—> it is impossible. You will let me go back to town to- morrow—won't you ?” with more appeal in her voice than she had ever used to him before. The tone elctri- fied him, be “Let you go! Of course I will! Do you think I° would wish you to stay one hour in a house where you have been made uncomfortable?) My queen, you little know me! Ican’t imagine what my father can have been thinking of, to dare to speak to you in such a man- ow It would not have happened if I had been! at: ome.” 3 Tope He raised himself up slowly, as he spoke, wntil his: lips met hers; and as they did so, almost timidly, hus- band and wife both colored. This fact alone would have betrayed to an observer the footing om which they stood to one another. That was not the full frank caress of happy. married loye, but to Colonel Bainbridge. it was'a glimpse of paradise. ; ™ My darling!” he whispered: presently, “ tell me only that what you said—(you remember !)—those doubtful words—say they were not true—that you did not mean. them !” and his dark in mudye hers for am answer, But Lady Ethel leaned back in the chair, and closed her own. x “Of course not! Haven't I told you, lots: of times, that you are never to believe anything I say?” “They are too cruel,” he murmured; “ they r; in. my ears the whole afternoon. Oh, Ethel! you don’t half know how much my happiness is bound up by your affection! If Ithought fora moment that what you said could really be the case, I should feel tempted 8 destroy myself! Ob! what fools you wamen make of us |” : He seized both her hands in his, and carried them to his lips, and she, unknowing what to answer, and long- ing to be able to release herself without offending him, was on the point of making some unnecessary excuse: for changing her position, when to her relief, a tap came i thaw on the door, and Colonel Bainbridge, with an Englishman’s dismay at the idea of being caught love-making, sprang to his feet, and stood on the o posite side of the fire-place. But no one entered: te their invitation there only responded the cheerful voice of Maggie Henderson, with a message from Aunt Lizzie, to the effect that the second dinner-gong had sounded for some time, and that they were all waiting for Cousin. Thomas and Lady Ethel. t “Tell them not to wait,’ shouted Colonel Bainbridge *
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20 from the hearth-rug, “Ishall be down directly;” and then he turned to his wife inquiringly. ‘“And you, my darling ?”’ ' “Tam not going down, Colonel Bainbridge, They can send me up some dinner here, or they can leave it alone, just.as they please; but I would rather starve to . death than sit at the same table with your father again,’ ©» “J shall certainly demand some explanation from him of his conduct,’’ said her husband, as he walked away into his dressing-room. The small show. of complaisance which he had so un- expectedly received from Lady Ethel had completely enrolled him on her side; and when, shortly afterwards, he descended to the dining-room, it was with alowering countenance, and in a very undutiful state of mind. “Ts your wife not coming down this evening, "Thomas ?” demanded Mrs. Bainbridge in'surprise as he entered ‘the apartment alone. ‘I hope she is not ‘poorly ?” ; a “She is not quite’ well,” he replied, with grave courtesy, “and she prefers to keep her room this even- ing,” with a glance towards his father, who, consience- stricken, buried his face in his soup-plate; ‘‘so perhaps you will be kind énough, mother, to have her dinner Bent upto her,” - “Of course I will; but dear! dear! thisis sad work, “poor Lady Ethel being so often laidup. Is she always ‘80 delicate, Thomas ?’ ; “She is never robust—I don’t think any of. the women in her sphere of life are. You must take her ‘bringing up into consideration. And—and’’—after a ‘moment’s hesitation, *‘ this place is too bleak for her. Ishould not have brought her here.”’ “Oh! I hope you don’t think it has done) her any, ‘harm ?’”’ said Mrs. Bainbridge, anxiously, “Not yet,” he answered; and most people might have ween he was only making an excuse to prepare them for what was to follow; “but it would have been’ better to wait till the was more advanced; and I am doubtful now whether it will be prudent in me to keep her here much longer.” ; “ Well, of course you must do as you think best, my dear,” rejoined his mother, “for: Lady Ethel’s health is of the first consideration to you.’’ And then conversa- tion seemed to flag, for no one dared to:advocate, and no one cared to deprecate, the proposed departure. But after the ladiés had: left the room Colonel Bain- ‘bridge drew his. chair closer to his father, with whom, during dinner-time, he had scarcely exchanged two words, and plunged at once into the subject that was ~vexing him, , “Wather, I am to-morrow.” “Well Thomas, I am not surprised to hear it; fo from what you said at dinner I- concluded you had some such project in your brain.’’ “You spoke to her this afternoon in a manner which ‘greatly wounded and. irritated her.:She,is! a high- Spirited girl, who has mot been used to brook control, going: to take my wile back to town ‘and'your language appeared to ‘her insulting., After. which, it is quite impossible that I should ask her to remain in a house where she no longer feels + Ber ease,’ “Had Lady ‘Ethel been truthful in repeating to you ‘what took place this afternoon, Thomas, you would not Speak of itin the terms you do. If any insults passed, between us, they did not proceed from me. I never in- sulted a woman in my life, and am) not likely to begin with my son’s wife.’’ ‘ ; f » But I think what passes between ‘married people, father, should be sacred, Let them make up their little differences in their own way. ‘It is not likely but that Ethel would resent the interference of a third person between her husband and herself.”’ + tn) “IT spoke for my own sake as well as yours, Thomas. “The ‘little difference,’ as you call it, was.carried on so ‘publicly as to be patent to the household.”» Colonel og bit his lip. , “She is hasty, I know, but it is soon over, She ‘meant nothing.” } : “Tam to hear it; but in that case Lady Ethel ®hould be taught that others may construe her un- meaning words. I said nothing to her, Thomas, which, ‘under the same circumstances I should not haye said tomy own dauglter—that I should not repeat to-mor- row, did the occasion forit arise.’’ “Tecan take care of my wife myself, thank you, fath- r,”’ rejoined Colonel Bainbridge, hastily. \ “T hope you can, but you will find a difficulty in it.” “Of course you are set against her on account, of her ‘birth; but she is no more: responsible for that than I ‘am for mine.” ; “You are quite wrong, Thomas. Imay think you have committed a mistake in bringing a woman of moble birth into our family, but the mere act can neyer raise or lower Lady Ethel in my estimation. No,no; my objection to my daughter-in-law consists in. some- thing of far sr importance. It is that she is both careless and irreligious.” ' “Well, you will not have hor bad éxample'set before yon much longer,” returned Colonel Bainbridge, drum- ming impatiently on the table with a spoon. © “Tt would not much signify if I did; but you have foound yourself to pass your life beneath it. Oh, my ‘dear son, you refused to take my previous warnings ;. ut as ‘peace f —in all cases gently, but firmly, to insist upon her do- ing what you w to be right. Iam quite aware that ‘in your present state of d my counsel may appear unpalatable, perhaps unnecessary ; but. you know that IT have never yet payeeeree in your private affairs with- out 4 sincere desire to do you good.” Py you yalue your wife’s welfare and your own _“T know that, father, and I thank you for the interest a take in me,” returned Colonel Bainbridge, whose, art felt sorely divided between its affectlon for his parents and his wife ; “only it is not to be, expected ea -_ -wanted to give you this,” large gold cross into. her hand. mind, do not despise the advice I give you now HER LORD AND MASTER. that every one should feel the same, and—it is better we should.go ; is it not ?” “Tf Lady Ethel is bent upon going, most decidedly,” replied bis father. ‘‘ The day may come when she will wish to return to Cranshaws ; but, whether or no, this home is always open to you or yours, Thomas,” Colonel Bainbridge grasped his father’s hand, but he could not speak. With all his blind, idolatry for Lady Ethel, he believed, in this instance, she might have been the one in the wrong. The news of their intended departure did not create the amazement in the drawing-room which he had an- ticipated, for Mr. Bainbridge had related the incidents of the afternoon to his wife, and she had already pre- pared Miss Lloyd and Maggie to hear of some change. All the remarks that met his announcement were. po- lite regrets for the sudden’ termination of the wedding- visit, and hopes that when the weather was warmer they might see Lady Ethel there again; but Colonel Bainbridge missed from their voices the ring of genuine sympathy which usually accompanied all their com- ments on his actions ; and sick at heart for want of it, he urged the fact of having preparations to make for the morrow as an excuse for quitting their company eatly. The day-mail passed through Borthwick during the forenoon, and the travelers were obliged to Teave ‘Cranshaws by nine o’clock. Lady Ethel, holding to her determination not to speak to her father-in-law again, refnsed to appear at breakfast, and the carriage was standing at the door when, having parted with Miss Lloyd and Mrs. Bainbridge on the upper landing, she descended to the hall. Maggie Henderson was there, superintending with Colonel Bainbridge the packing of the luggage. Her eyes were heavy, and her face pale ; for she had been grieving not only for her uncle and aunt (whe felt the sudden departure of their son acute- ne but for her cousin, who was scarcely less distressed than his parents; and in her loyalty towards these three, so dear to her, her feelings for the capricious creature who had been the cause of all their annoyance were anything but friendly. Yet when Lady Ethel stood on the last en the | staircase and called her by her name, the oid aeioee came so forcibly upon her. that Maggie could not help | answering with alacrity, “Yes, here Il am. Can TI do anything for you ?” ** No, thank you; Louise has done everything. I only And Lady Ethel thrust a gie didnot know what to answer; but she was sure that she.could not accept it. ‘* Oh no !_-pray.don’t—it is not fit for me—I must not take it, Lady Ethel.” “What nonsense! Ifit is not fit for you, IT am sure it is still less so for me; I have not much to do with such things !’” with. a little, grating laugh; and then,.as her companion stood silently regarding the ornament with porprased expression of countenance,she added hurtied- y, “ Don’t forget me, Maggie, I feel as though I should be.safer if you think of me sometimes in your prayers.”* She was going forward then, in obedience a sum- mons from her husband, when she hastily returned, and, casting her arms round Maggies neck, kissed her three or four times upon the cheek, _ The girl looked up, half startled by the action, and saw that tears were standin in Lady Ethel’s proud, blue eyes. That fact was quit sufficient to melt.the thin ice upon Maggie’s heart, and, opening her arms, she folded her cousin’s wife in a warm embrace, “I won’t forget.you. I will pray for you every day,” she whispered. “God bless you; try to make him appy. “Ethel, my dearest everything is “ready !’’ exclaimed Colonel Balnerniee-, And Maggie fled away, to hide her wet eyes in the dining-room, As Lady Ethel passed. the threshold, Mr, Bainbridge stood upon it... . aT 2 “‘ My dear,’ he.said almost humbly, “ you will not refuse to give your hand at parting to an old man who may pare lundered, but had not the intention to offend you?” * - She was a different creature then to what she had been & moment, before, She placed her hand in that of her father-in-law, it is true, but no forgiveness shone out of the. cold face she turned upon him. “Of course she won’t, father!” exclaimed Colonel Bainbridge promptly, trying to make “up by his own heartiness for the shortcomings of wife, ‘“ Ethel knows as well as Ido that you meant it for the best.” But the old man did not -heed his son’s remark, He was still holding the small, gloved hand she had de- livered to him, and gazing up earnestly into her beau-. tiful, unmoyed face. ' “May God ge nll bless you,” he said solemnly, “and make you a blessing to your husband and your children, if you pee ee and grant that we may meet above, my dear ! -bye!”’ and abruptly droppin her hand, with a farewell grasp to his son, he turne away and walked slowly back into the house. Colonel Bainbridge, haxing watched his figure till it disappeared behind the study door, put his wife into the carriage, and got in after her, * The dear old man!” he said musingly, as they drove away; “Iamsure he didn’t mean to be rude to you, Ethel. He has a blunt way of speaking, but it is most- ly due to his country manners.” She did not immediately reply, and he thought she might have been touched by the last words of his ‘ather. ’ “Don’t you think so, my dearest? Can’t you make a few allowances for an old man who has seldom had to do with such a dainty bit of goods as you are ?” _. “It-is of no use yourspeaking to me while we are jolting over these horrid roads, Colonel Bainbridge; I can’t ae half you say, and have enough to do to keep myself from being shaken to pieces.’’ : e sighed heavily, and turned his attention to the view from the opposite window. CHAPTER XXIX. ‘LET SLIP’ THE HOUNDS: OF WAR: THE house in Curzon Street, which had been taken and furnished for the bride and bridegroom by the liberalty of Mr. Bainbridge, was nearly ready for their reception; and after a few days spent at am hotel they entered on their first experiment in housekeeping. It was now the end of April; Loudon was filling fast; and, between the excitement of meeting former friends and setting her new residence in order for the season, Lady Ethel shook off much of: her previous lethargy, and appeared more like herself than she had done since her father’s death. She had not visited: town. since that time; and reviewing old scenes and reviving old memories lent her, for the moment, a false:stimulation which might well be -mnistaken for happinéss by those who were unacquainted with the secret of her heart. She never appeared tired of running about from shop to shop to select ornaments for the decoration of her drawing-room or herself, or of returning the visite of her numerous acquaintances, while Colonel Bainbridge, delighted at the welcome change in her demeanor, per- mitted her to do exactly as sha chose. He had not forgotten—far from it—the disagreeable circumstances attendant on their. journey north; but, as the merest allusion to Cranshaws appeared to revive his wife’s ill-humor, the subject was seldom mentioned between ‘them,’ and he tried hard to. banish the un- pleasant memory, as she seemed to have done, Meanwhile, there were few a the unmarried por- tion of her female acquaintances who were not disposed at that juncture to envy Lady Ethel for the possession of one of the prettiest houses, the best appointed equip- ages, and the most indulgent husbands, in town. .The six months’ leave which Colonel Bainbridge had ob- tained upon his marriagé extended over the season, and consequently he ha@ nothing to do except to frequent his club and dance attendance on his lovely wife, though Lady Ethet thought that she would have gladly dis« eepsngaht ee the latter obligation, had she been able to Shere had been some talk at Cranshaws of his out of the army and settling down quietly at home ; rut love for his profession, and a t horror of idleness, had prevented him hitherto from ‘taking any steps in the matter. It would be time enough, he thought, to come to a decision when his present leave had expired. For Colonel Bainbridge, though he spent thousands yearly, was, with the exception ‘of his’ regi- mental pay, entirely dependent on ‘his father: April slipped ulconsciously into May, ana Lady Ethel’s moods of excitement deepened daily. She would go out driving in ‘the park every afternoon, ‘and’ return home with a bright carmine spot in either’ cheek and eyes of unusual brilliancy ; and her husband, without guessing the reason of it, saw only that it made ‘her look more. beautiful, and knew by experience that she did not like to have the alteration noticed: But attri- buting the change to her increased ‘content, he only trusted that his darling would not over-fatigue herself, nor injure her health by too much exertion. Meanwhile Lady Ethel was awaiting, with mingled dread and long- ing, an event which she knew to be imminent—the ad- vent of her step-mother in London. Would she be‘ac- companied by him? At last it occurred. Towards the middle of May the “Mornitig Post” ‘announced that the Countess of Clevedon had artived at her town resi- dence for the season; and Lady Ethel knew that, if the courtesies of society were to be aa up between them, it was imperative that she should be among’ thé first to pay the ea ofa callin Park Lane. 9°) She dressed herself most’ carefully for the. oecasion, | returning again and again to her glass to be certain that her bonnet was becoming, and not a lock or! braid’ of her hair out of place, and that she looked just asa happy bride ought to do; so that, when she descended to the carriage, her husband, who accompanied her. was loud in his approval of her general appearance They found Lady Clevedon at home, and alone. Bewitchingly attired in the faintest of halfmotrn- ing, and with her rich coils of hair arranged in the most girlish fashion, the countess did not look a day older than one or two and twenty ; and Lady Ethel, who had braced herselt up to the point of m g her success- ful rival amidst a crowd of chattering guests, grew deadly pale as she submitted her face to the undivided scrutiny of her young and radiant-looking stepmother, Lady Clevedon was loud ‘her commiseration ‘of her appearance. ; J ; . “My dear Ethel !” with ee hands ; “ what have you been doing with yourself? why, you are a perfect ghost! I declare I shouldn't have known you in the street.” : if At this remark Colonel Bainbridge became seriously anxious. “Do you really think she looks 80 il! ?’””"-he exclaimed, and fixing his gaze upon the pallid features’of his wife. “T did not consider she was at her best in Scotland, but she seems to me to have improved so much’ sifice her return to town !’’ “Well, my dear Colonel, she may have improved—I don’t deny that—pbut there must have been room for it. Rheooks quite shocking to me.” “Tam perfectly well, nevertheless,” said Lady Ethel, with all her old hauteur, for she read the meaning which underlay her stepmother’s compassionate re- marks, “and never felt better in my life. When did you arrivein town, Gertrude ?” ‘ : ’ “Tast Thursday. I ought to have been here sooner, only Victor—you remember your old friend Monsieur de Lacarras—was suddenly called over to Paris ; and his departure rather delayed me in my preparations.” Her gray eyes were staring Lad y Ethel full’in the face as she delivered this sentence, but, the blue ones which they encountered were a match forthem’; and if the girl’s teeth clenched beneath her firmly-close* lips no one was the wiser for it but herself. a * + 4
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HER LORD AND MASTER. a “Indeed! Isuppose Temple Grange has been very SaM of company this spring ?”’ «Pretty well. Oh, we managed to enjoy ourselves,” with a smile of secret satisfaction. “cAnd you—you also haye been very gay, I presume, at Cranshaws Castle !’’ “ Well, Iam afraid poor Ethel can scarcely say that,” interposed Colonel Bainbridge, smiling; “for my father and mother are a very old-fashioned couple, who live in the depths ofthe country. and have not much opportuni- ty to give their friends more than a hearty welcome.” “We did not go there for society,” interposed his wife. “Ah! solitude was no detriment in your eyes, I dare Say, Ethel. We all know that newly-married people think no company so charming as that of each other.’’ At this Colonel Bainbridge colored, and laughed, and looked shyly at his wife, in the stupid way that even sensible men adopt when twitted on their most sacred feelings; but she was occupied, apparently, with exam- ining a photograph upon the table. “‘ How is Alured ?’’ she said presently. “‘I have not asked after him, Gertrude,” “Oh! your dear little brother. How could I be so forgetful?” ringing the bell; “of course you must see him;” and then, as the servant appeared, she gave tae order for Lord Cleyedon to be rought down at once; and the subsequent arrival of his lordship, in a highly-embroidered “and blue-ribboned condition, turned the conversation into another direction. “Oh, you haye changed his mourning!’’ exclaimed Lady Ethel. She still wore mourning herself, although she did not dress exclusively in black; and that the heir to her father’s titles and estates should be permit- ted to discard it before the usual term had expired, ap- peared to her neither right nor reasonable. Lady Clevedon colored. “Well, he is but an infant, you see!” she replied bt waste “‘and, under the circumstances—and with the season coming on—my friends thought—that is,I was advised, to put off his black with the cold weather.” “T daresay it is more consistent you should do so,” said Lady Ethel quietly, as she lifted the child upon her knee. i She had never evinced much affection for her infant brother; for beyond the fact of being her’ father’s son, he did not appear to have any claim upon her—being the image of his mother, and bearing no resemblance whatever to the Carrs, : “Well, Alured,” she said, as ‘hé turned his gray eyes’ upon her, ‘“have you quite forgotten me ?” The youthful Earl of Clevedon, who, among other maternal virtues, had inherited the gift of a very long tongue, was able to make himself perfectly well uhder- stood in uit : oh, See “T don’t know who yor are.” “Why, I’m your sister, you ungrateful little crea- ture! Don’t you remember me at Temple Grange ?” “T remember Templé Grange, and Victor. Mamma,” raising his voice; “* when is Victor coming back ?’”’ “Soon, darling, very, soon !’’ exclaimed Lady Cleve- peidleas Manone fis a gonyerestion ah aylenel Bain- e; and | ‘nees which supported the little ques- tioner Teombled beneath him. © e 3 «And so you have forg Binh Ga o ‘quivering “a es, ever give mé bonbons ? ‘Victor Bint to give gue large asping bo S rosy th amusing’ earnestness; In another moment, greatly to his surprise, he found himself deposited upon the carpet. 18 Hc ' , ‘Colonel Bainbridge, I think it is time that we were going.” Be co. S os “Just as you please, my love,” he answered, rising to his feet. ea Si. Toi o il9 “So soon !” exclaimed the countess: “why, this is quite a formal visit. You must both tome and dine with me some evening—quite by ourselves, you know; and I'll get one or two of Ethel’s old friends to meet you. But you must really do vgmraghtn Ba put a little color in your face, my dear, or we shall have people ie that the Colonel hasn’t treated you well.” y Ethel turned upon her'cheeks Of fire. “She doesn’t look pale now,” said Colonel Bain- | stupid mistake when they undertake to do things they ‘Where am 1? oh! where am I?” she e in bridge, eagerly. e. : know nothing about.” the vague ——— in which always put that “No; but that is not natural. Perhaps the roomhas| ‘My darling, there is not abox on the grand tier to be} question on first coming to th VeRO? Saieerh been too warm for her. I advise you to go into the | had. This is the best procurable, I can assure yeu; and| “Here, dearest, with me; you are quite safe,” replied park, my dear, and get a little appetite for dinner. I | I had no end of trouble to get it.”” Colonel Bainbridge, whose face with was almost am sure you cannot eat enough.’ “Well, your trouble has been thrown away, then, for | as pale as her own. e : ; Her rem: ap wont home to Colonel Bainbridge; and | I’m not going to sit in it.’ “You have been ill, my dear,” interposed the unwel- thow h Lady thel stoutly denied their truth, he could| At this Colonel Bainbridge frowned, and looked | come tones of Lady Clevedon; “you in not shake ie in on pon him; and | gravely at the bit pete representing so many wast-| stall; but it is all ‘mow, and the carriage will be as soon as th y_were in the cartinge he alluded to it. ed pounds, which she had tossed to one side. He was} herein a minute to yow a8 the kal f “ Bthel, SF gabe: Lady Cleyedon has made me so | be g to think Lady Ethei’s caprice might be car-| / ‘Lady Ethel’s carriage is in waiting,” replied unhappy! itreally true that you are not feeling | ried a little too far. & voice, the sound of which through her languid well? Let me look at’ ¥ fool : “Very well, then,” he rejoined, coolly, “I will give it } nerves an electric shock; ‘and if she will ‘permit k towards him, gaz. to some one who will. Only I’m not going to buy two | me'to offer her»my arm, 1: will have: the pleasure of - : feed to yiel to aL in a season, remember.” P con her to it; and | ) up, abnost with tri ‘turn her round. | She glanced up quickly. He had never presumed be-| horror, Ethel eyes of Victor alone! You heard | fore to use so authoritative a tone toher. Was it -| de ie HOMOLL BA >* Qnortd gash. eatto Ms ever I was in my | ble he could be in earnest? In her dread of it she so| Yes! do, Victor,’" said Lady: Clevedon, familiarly; B.A far forgot her pride as to stretch out her hand and'}" thé sooner she gets home’ the’ better; sucha strange the best judges of their place it'on the paper. git | 3g ‘and 80 very sudden |” a oilt to eyationdien Pieeh i of it, you| “That Iam sure you shan’.”'she said, half defiantly; | monsicur,” answered \Lady ‘Ethel, ¢oldly, 1 do. How ;- | “it is mine, Colonel Bainbridge; you gave it to me.” as she attempted to rise from her recumbent. a” ‘ot = “id ‘smiled at her aaa ae ethene 8 ‘out Colonel and — ‘ } | | im anything was pleasure to him; and eyes’ ~ ‘nd’ she whe “amet tp gue told } Fe has oTogsiany?* | 3 capenly esponded to: the appeal:') But she: omnie- t ig be | oft Tie anes at Ethel, you know that everything I have | caloulated etrength her weakened @ yet boy Sb HH fies tt Know tnd own iw Yours: How could: f .be: olliwactsti "Hub puastle to-dustada hes. stdout further and! Oolenel Y n you used to be; and I A yon wilt potase ps an opera-box Lp died OY ope Was compelled to. demand ‘for -‘hér- whatshe ‘ ‘ fey f esti ) yes sen Dacor iene ie : ‘ MEP .widieres pitt mtondirot ; irne newe PAA Eee tie Lions dé - the ai tier: 4 a id de are 7 ve : e e P her ayes dete Tir ee: et is m age rip ear ty eal tier mobenas igo “¢ Ereepeamiyen t su! Ethe) om the other othe y, and had bitten her lip till the bloc 8, the Imidts’ may Noa’ GONE. “Bat yecnd! a and then, aa — in her endeavor to keep down the emotion which she ' exchange it for a couple of stalls.” they conducted the sinking girl dewn stairs ? : a Se ee eee felt gaining the mastery over her.. Her interview with Lady Olevedon, and the allusions which had been made during the course of it, had revived her old pain more bitterly than she had calculated on. At last her husband became alarmed at her long silence. ** Ethel, Iam sure that you are concealing something from me; and if you refuse to tell me what it is, I shall send for Dr. Chalmers as soon as we get home, and ask him to find out the truth ; for you are much too precious to me to have your health trifled with in the slightest degree.” : But the mention of Dr. Chalmers’s name was just the feather needed to overbalance the woman’s totter- ing strength of mind, and, turning quickly from the window to the center of the carriage, she hid her face in her hands and burst into a storm: of tears. “Oh, heavens!” she said impatiently, between her sobs, “ what have I done that lam to be worried—wor- ried—worried—in this way, and never allowed to have a peaceful moment to myself? I hate it—I am sick of it—this constant surveillance; not to be able to eat a little more or less, or to hold one’s tongue for five min- utes together, without being brought to book for it, like a child, You’ll kill me, Colonel Bainbridge, if you o on in this way ; no woman on earth could stand it. t’s enough to make one wish one’s self in the grave !’’ So she Geclaimed with her impetuous little tongue, while her heart was weighing a very different matter ; and he, deeply wounded by her manner, and still more by her words, sat quietly in his corner of the carriage till she should have concluded. When that occurred, she expected that at the least he would have réproached her; but still he sat silent, though his countenance was very grave. : At Test she lifted up her head, disclosing an inflamed and tear-swollen face, on which the traces of violent emotion were but too evident. They were driving, then, towards the park. “Don’t you think we had better go home?” remarked her husband, quietly. “ Yer,’ said y Ethel, in a low voice. She wished that he would fly out at her in return ; she did not un- derstand having her turbulent passions treated with so much coolness ; and she was almost reproaching him with his indifference during the course of their drive home. Yet he did not relax in any of his usual atten- tions to her; but, having handed her out of the ¢ar- riags and into the drawing-room, summoned Louise to her assistance before he ventured to leave her alone. But then he walked off té his club, and did not appear again till dinner-time, during which interval Lady Ethel found it exceedingly dull, and had occasion more than once to miss the manifold services of love with which of late her life had been surrounded. “He doesn’t care for me!’ she murmured, with fe- male inconsisténcy. ‘Noman who cared for a woman’! would walk out of the house in that way, on a hor- ribly dull afternoon, and leave her to look after hem self.. Théy are all alike’! There is not one Better than another, I wish to goodness I had never set eyes upon aman atall!’” CHAPTER XXX, A SCENE AT. THE OPERA, CoLoNEL Barnprince, far fron’ reproaching his wife for the burst of temper she had"exhibited towards him, did not even’ allude to it, but spent his evening as usual, by her side, and made no difference eitherin his manner or his words.’ He treated her that evening much as one treats a child that is 4 little out of sorts; that is, without inquiring turther into the cause of her distress, he petted and coaxed her whenever he had an opportunity; and persnading her to go early to bed, sat for a couple of hours by himself, buried in thoughts as to the best method by which he could procure her amusement and distraction, Acting on'the decision he arrived at, he sallied forth the next morning, and bought her what she had more than once expressed a wish to have—an opera-box for the season. But ‘it was a small box on the second tier, and by no means came up to Lady Ethel’s ideas of what was befitting herrank and circumstances. ; “Why couldn’t you have let me know before you got it?” she said, fractiously; “men always make some ; ‘ ee ES = RE ee ee Ee ie ee ere nee ET ee ee ee ee eee en “Would you really rather have two stalls,’ - “Yes, since this box is too mmall to admit any buteus- selves.” “TI thought it would be so cosy,” letaented Qolonel Bainbridge. -He had not been married long enough to mind being shut up alone with his wife for two or three hours. . ‘Too cosy, in my estimation,’ rejoined Lady Ethel, “Tt would beas hotas afurnace, Andsitting there alone, too‘ ie after night; fancy how stupid.” He did not answerber directly ; he was gazing dreamily at the table-cloth, “Well, Colonel Bainbridge,’ impatiently, “are you going to change this box for me or no?” “ Colonel Bainbridge will do nothing for you, Lady Ethel,” he said gently, “ but your husband will, if you ask him.’ Her persistence in calllng him by his surname had become a source of great distress to him ; for, unable to blind -himself longer to her indifference, the cold ap- llative stung him to the quick each time she used it. ut as yet he had failed in persuading her to abandon il; and as he alluded to the custom now, she turned her face away from his serutiny. “Which of us is to go, Ethel?” fully. “ You are.’ “And who am 1?’ coming round to her side. ; “Yourself, I suppose;” and then the complaint buret from him almost without his meaning it ; “Oh, my darling, why can’t you be a little kinder? You know how I am longing, day after day, to. hear you Say you care for me.” She sat down on the nearest chair and put her feet upon the fender, and was silent. He stood by her for a moment, expectant of an answer; but nene coming, he went on, ‘passionately : ; ' . **Say something, anything, to me. before I go.” he continued, play- “TI have said something—I’ve told you to change that opera-box for me; and when people profess to beso very fond of one another, they generally care to do the things that areasked of them,” ! : He seized up his hat and gloves, thrust the offending bit of paper violently in his waistcoat-pocket, and turn- ing on his heel, left the. room without,another word. He was desperately in love, but he had. some pride as well as herself. The stalls were proeured, and from that day Lady Ethel, although not particularly fond of musié, was to be seen at the opera ‘at least three times a week. Her husband was astonished at the per- tinacity with which she went there, the, excitement she betrayed in going/ and. the extreme languor which attacked her coming home, and more than once remon- strated with her seriously on the amount of fatigue which she encountered ; but Lady Ethel, as usual, was not well disposed. to listen to. any counsel that ran counter to her inclinations, She was living at.this time under a continual feeling of fear of meeting the Marquis de Lacarras! again, and yet. there was nothing. that she desired more than to meet him.: She did not how much Lady:Clevedon might not have reyealed to him of the feelings she had discovered in! herself, nor to what motive he attributed her hasty marriage;.and she longed by ‘her conduct. to niake’ him. believe: that she had grown utterly indifferént to the claims-he oncehad ‘upon her.) At the sameotime she could not be sure how far ishe might trust) her pride and courage in seconding ‘her will, and she thirsted to Hayeithe ordeal over, andfeel that she was safe. It was only the-first: sudden meeting that she-dreaded ; for after-intercourse she could depend upon herself, But day succeeded day, and neither at the opera nor in the park did she see anything of the marquis, and she could not bring herself to ask her stepmother when he was expected to return. One evening Lady «Ethel was» ly pale and: languid, so much so that her » hus- band entreated her: to. give: up» the opera and remain quietly at home; but she persistedin g, and had not been seated in the house many min before, overcome by the heat and glare, she fainted away. She did not even have any warning of what: was > mses Bg ‘while ‘happen to. her, but quietly ‘lost consciousness’ sitting by her husband’s side, and remembered nothing more until she found herself supported in his:arms, in the crush-room, with some oné standing over her with a glass of water. av, 4 2 SE ti
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22 HER LORD AND MASTER. her in the carriage, he added, “I am sure I am in- finitely obliged to you for all the trouble you have “taken; Iscarcely know ‘what I should have done with- out your assistance.” The marquis only answered by raising his hat re- spectfully to Lady Ethel, and, as they drove away from “the opera-house, the last thing she saw was his figure, standing bareheaded on the pavement. . She lay back - on the cushions with closed eyes, passively leaving the hand which her*husband had clasped in his where he had placed it, and was silent.. She never asked where ~ “the Marquis de Lacarras ‘had come from, or how he happened to be there; she felt too weak to enter wpon 4that-or any othér subject. But the next morning, when, by the advice of Dr. Chalmers (whom Colonel Bainbridge had insisted upon summoning), she kept ‘high holiday in bed, her husband came and sat beside her, and told her the whole story. “You frightened me most dreadfully, my darling,”’ he ,in his fond way, as he played with the long “tresses of hair which lay be her ‘pillow ; ‘‘for I was “occupied with the stage and what was going on there, “when down dropped your dear head upon my shoulder, ~-and you lookéd just as if you were dead. | Ididn’t know what to do with you at first, when the Marquis de “Lacarras leaped over the front of his box (he was in one on the ground tier with Lady Clevedon), and came and helped me carry you out. But you made*quite @ sen- sation, [can assure you. There was not: a man in the ‘stalls that didn’t want to help too. -I never liked de ‘Lacarras in the old days, Ethel, but I suppose 'that was only because I fancied he was in love with you, for he “+ ogeems a very nice fellow. You can’t think how good- matured and active he was last night; it was raining hard, you know, but hé went out’ in it all to look for > the carriage, were Lady Clevedon seemed to be in a t state'of mind lest he should’ come to harm. Is there anything between those two, Efhel? | They ap- pear very intimate with one another.” “You had better ask Lady Clevedon yourself, if you ana curious on the ‘subject. I am not in her confi- dence.” a “ Ah! well, Ishouldn’t wonder if there were, for it |; Jooked like it. By the way, Lady Clevedon: expressed 80 much surprise at your fainting. She said it was so ‘unlike your usual habit, and that when you entered the theater she thought you looked so well. You went off just as she was pointing you out to the notice of De Lacarras.” “Indeed! a remarkable ooincidence. Colonel Bain- ’ ‘bridge, I think if you were to leave me to myself a little ‘while that I coul sleep.” : Sleep! that was a strange sleep that attacked Lady Ethel as soon as she was left: alone, as, with a burning head and throbbing eyeballs, she turned restlessly,on her uneasy pillow, So by an unhappy accident she had failed (without ‘connivance on her part, for she bad been quite uhaware of the presence of the Marquis de Lacarras in the a house) at the very time to which she had been lookin forward to display her courage, and her pride quaile at the thought of the construetion which would be put ‘upon her conduct, both by the Countess of Clevedon, ‘and her lover. ? ' Fainted! dropped off lifeleas—at the moment when his eye was first directed towards her, when he might teasonably suppose she also had caught sight of himand in the center of a crowded theater! As Lady Ethel reflect- = on it, she thought that fate must surely be against er. x CHAPTER XXXI. THE TELEGRAM. Bur she was not a woman to sit down quietly and cry over misfortune. Temporarily worsted in the engage- ment with her stepmother she acknowledged herself to be; for physical weakness and unavoidable contretemps hhad for a while placed her at a disadvantage ; but so Jong as she had power to. rise again and renew the en- . counter, the calamity was notirremediable. | “When she arrived at this conclusion, Lady Ethel be- éame all anxiety to leave her room and return to the arena she had quitted; and, notwithstanding her hus- band’s entreaties and Dr. Chalmer’s prohibition to the contrary, she was down stairs again en the day but one After the accident had occurred. , " . The first things that met her eye on entering |the pegs nylon were the cards of those friends. who had hy —__ ire after her health, conspicuous among _ which n: y appeared Olevedon and the Marquis de Lacarras, Lady Ethel : ee contemptuously to one side, thankful only that eir owners had not reserved the expression of . their deep interest in her welfare until that afternoon, by which means she ran the chance of _ strength before meeting them es But it was: with iw that she opene ast on would be “At Home’? upon 50) the 2 yo Lady C ence what these “ At Homes ” meant, and that the famil- -yidar invitations, @ season, Be a -o- = wit of Lady Clev ye met to motte eed been amidst the clamorand ‘confusion of: such » (® gathering that her father had breathed out his soul— -» dn such a scene that he, the: a7 yher bya falso profession ‘ocolAt this pombe " forthcoming assembly. They that she w herself sic bua wilata aweb isig gcidc the names of the Countess of ining @ little. and perused the con- "mother, wish eft on hghiynen.ed pope, th le + jon: hi -scented paper, t) the Coun ‘Oleved - + Ethel knew by. experi- ; in; apparently.so off-hand a. © manner, mye gE ted. in some of the, most, brilliant, of th in. ~ (been: pistes ST 7 melee sa tciemat tae ee 7 his presence. It was there he had insulted her, and there was the most fitting place for him to hear that she defied his inconstancy to interfere with her happiness or peace of mind. : She would go. With her husband by her side, and brilliant as it was possible for art to make her, she would challenge the world to detect the traces of tears ie her cheek or a false ring in the lightness of her augh. Her heart’s language, unlike that of jealous Guine- vere, ‘‘ Tell her she shines me down,” was rather a de- termination to shine down not only her rival, but every woman she should meet that night, forcing him who had rejected her to acknowledge that she was the fairest of them all. The idea excited and lent her a new strength; it was a fresh trumpet-call to battle, and Lady Ethel was eager tor the fray. : But when Colonel Bainbridge became aware of her in- tention he was very much annoyed. It wanted but two days to Thursday, and Dr. Chalmers had warned him that if his wife were not kept quiet for alittle while she might be seriously ill. But what availed advice to Lady Ethel? Opposition to her wishes only made her more determined to follow them; and her. husband, seeing that his attempts at persuasion, were worse than fruitless, consoled. himself with the idea that he should be by her side, and ready to warn her if she went too far. ; Her bridal robes, which she had never used since the wedding-day, were prepared for the occasion; a profes- | Sional coiffeur was engaged to dress her hair; amd as, upon the night in question; Louise put the finishing touches to her mistress’s toilet, the mirror had certain ly never flashed back on any one a loyelier reflection of womankind. ra hse The soft white satin and rich lace, without power to detract from the fairness of her skin, drooped in easy folds over her slight figure; brilliants flashed upon her bosom and amidst.the flowers in her, hair, contrasting , love- strangely with the innocent and natural-lookin ened resivem which lay upon.her forehead; while a heig co both false and fleeting, added in nosmall degree to the marvelous effect of her general appearance. She was looking at herself, with interest, not conceit- edly, for she cared nothing for the weapons, apart from the use she was about. to make of them, when.a tap sounded on her door. She thought it was her husband, who after dinner had sauntered over to his club, promising to be back in time to dress and go with her, and gave the command to en- ter with alacrity. She was eager to have his opinion add- ed to her own, to receive the burst of applause with which he was certain to greet her appearance, and hear him say that she had never looked so handsome. Not because she loyed his commendation (or thought she loved it), but that it would be satisfactory to know an- other thought her armor fitted well. , , But the comer was not Colonel Bainbridge, it was only a servant with a large long enyelope in her/hand. “A telegram, if you please, your ladyship, for my master; and he’s not home yet,” she said, in a half- frightened manner; for telegrams are alarming, even when we have no reagon to anticipate misfortune—they come sosuddenly and unexpectedly, anditissucha time before our trembling fingers can open the fast-closed. end of the official. envelope—with most people, that is \to say; but Lady Ethel, at that particular juncture, was so perfectly easy with regard tothe fate of all the world, that adozen telegrams would not have had the power to disturb her equanimity. ‘ ' “Is it paid?” she demanded supinely of the servant. “Oh yes, my lady. I believe so.”’ “Very well, then ; leave it.on the table,’’ and the wo- man, having deposited the paper as she was desired, disappeared, ; At first Lady Ethel seemed supremely indifferent as to what the envelope might or might not contain ;. but after a while, having turned from one side to the other to afford Louise readier access to the upper portion of her dress, she moved -her hand slowly sgyrancs the ta- ble, and, taking up the paper which was directed to her husband, deliberately opened it and read the message it contained. It wasas follows: rf « From Mrs. Barnpringe, Cransharws, ** To COLONEL BaInpripeE, Ourzon Street. “Your father is seriously ill; come to us as soon as ‘Borthwick to-morrow morning.” f message sent, all her indifference vanished, { rare: flushed deeply, knit: her, brows, and, finally > in the ears of her d call him a gh fellow,” and steady aust ry: Sh tot ha ing broken the heart a'ruined the Babp pd pang 18 and ed. § of her |‘ poor, pretty stepdaughter, her dear Clev vetg., etc.” : ‘such an. er name, 2 she glanced at her reflection , fo or on her cheeks and brilliancy in her eyes, though” ossible. The carriage shall meet the mail-train at |; : _in. the mirror, and. con- ‘the’ sidered it were possible, that she could waite all, the | negle trouble she had taken, or consent to throw away the opportunity for wliich she thirsted. , And that it should be her father-in-law who. tlus threatened to interfere witli her plans was an aggravation of the evil in-her mind, for she had never forgiven the old man for his plain speaking to lier. She had not men- tioned the fact to her husband or anyon’ elge; but it was quite sufficient for Colonel Bainbridge'to allude to Cranshaws or his own family to stop all conversation on his wife’s part, and consequently the subject wap sel- dom mooted between them. Yet she felt sure that if he received the telegram in time, no entreaties from her lips (even if she stooped to entreaty) would preyent his obeying the summons of his mother. ~ And Lady Ethel, with a heaving breast and.a heart not entirely at ease, told herself that he was her property, not Mrs. Bain- bridge’s, and that his’ first duty lay towards his wife, and crushed the unwelcome messenger more and more between her fingers as she did so. She was still un- comfortable, still undecided, still flushed and ‘palpitat- ing with uncertainty, when a second tap upon the door was followéd by the intrusion of her husband’s head. * Lots of time, darling!’ he said, cheerfully, in ‘an- ticipation of a reprimand for being late; ‘I shan’t be ten minutes dressing,” and then, struck by the appear- ance of his wife, he came farther into the room. _“ By Jove, Ethel!’ he exclaimed, as, with eyes glowing with admiration, he surveyed her from head to foot, ‘you are asuccess!. Inever Saw you look so wellin your life—you are a. perfect picture. I pity ‘the poor wretches. you dance with to-night,” with a happy chuckle over his Own. good luck, “you will’ take ‘the room by storm!” and then he stooped down, like a foolish lover, and kissed the white arm which hung by her side, in the white hand of which was crushed the ‘telegram entreating him to fly to the bedside of his poor old father, oe a he qe enc “You will be late,” she answeréd, “if you do not go atonce.” ..,. int ene ie : “as “If you only. knew how hard it is to tear one’s self away from you, you little witch!” he said, laughing, as he left the room. Engg His fervent prayer, which had given hér proud heart, more pleasure than it would acknowledge, decided the fate of the telegram from Cranshaws., No, she could not give up the prospect of the evening before her—it was impossible! If there were any real danger, which, with a fat, red-faced old man like Mr. Bainbridge, was most improbable (so Lady Ethel argued), they would be sure to send again, and then it would be quite time enough for her husband ‘to go to them; meanwhile, what should she do with the Souorictis paper ?, There was a fire burning in. the grate, for the evenings were still chilly, and, without further thought, she.threw the telegram upon it. Her conscience did just give her an uneasy twinge as she watched the ready flame seize, scorch, and shrivel it to nothing; but she had been too.much, used to have her. own way in everything to feel much alarmed at the thought of the probable consequénces of what she had done. CHAPTER XXXII. LADY CLEVEDON AT HOME. Marquis DE LACARRAS lounged listlessly around the Countess of Clevedon’s, awaiting Lady Ethel’s advent that evening with unusual eagerness; and when, in all pride of youthful beauty, she entered the room leaning on the arm of her husband, and: he heard every stranger asking who she was, and all those who knew her. re- marking how beautiful she, looked, he started forward to demand her hand for the dance, as though, above all others, he had a right to claim her preference. Lady Clevedon advanced, to, meet her ste uughter with an affectation of welcome and congratulations on the re- storation of her health which ill-disguised her envy. Her quick eye, taking in at a glance every detail of the bride’s costume, noted: how admirably it suited her, and how much handsomer it was than the gray moire antique and black lace that she wore herself; and she became Jealpun RegoEain gly and with her jealousy a little tarter than was quite politic. Victor de L noticed the change in the countess’s manner, and, smil- ing insolently to himself, resumed his attentions to the new-comer; while Lady Ethel, opposed to both her an- tagonists at once, felt ss though Sea, joint and buckle of her rss had been sete . Bagh bur studied shee her part before venturing to. ap: sfore , an the Posult at credit to hee Siwars of acting. “How blooming you look, my dear!” cried Lady Clevedon, as she saw the bright smile with which Lady Ethel. greeted her, “I pe Bie no one would suspect you of mysteriously fainting away at inopportune mo- ments,’ » , Flos per dey 4 £5 ; ; “So stupid of me, wasn’t it?” replied the girl, as she | placed one, hand cordially in that of her stepmother and am ended the other to the Marquis de Lacacrags “and to ty Ethel ground her teoth over the probability of | ious: of he and th m=
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HER LORD AND MASTER. 28 though she had not.a.carein the, world. The circum- {round the room; “she seems to have perfectly recov- Stance piqued him ; he felt unaccountably injured by the liveliness with which Lady Ethel carried on a con- versation over his shoulder on all thatshe had seen and done since quitting Temple Grange. It was not what he had expected of her; and the higher her spirits seemed to’ rise the more silent did he become, until, as, after the third or fourth round, they stopped to breathe them- selves, and, scanning the crowd, she said, with amused anxiety: + “Where is my husband?. Can you see him any- where, monsieur ?’”” The only answer that he made her was: “That seems a strange question for you to put to me, Lady Ethel; at least there was a time when I should haye said so.” At these words Lady Ethel’s heart gave a great thump —a thump of excitement and agitation rather than. of love, although she may have mistaken it for the latter feeling. It was so familiar to her to hear the measured tones of his voice, and meet the meaning glance of his dark eyes, that, on being for the first time brought again beneath their influence,she may be pardoned for haying mistaken the ghost of the past for the spirit of the present... Yet,she restrained herself, and answered, lightly: “Time ,change, Monsieur le Marquis, and indeed it ig almost longer than one cares to count since you and I last danced together.’’ ** Too long for you, perhaps,’’ he whispered; “ bunt, as e myself, it has been counted for me in days and nights ofpain,’’ But here, remembering what she had witnessed be- tween him and her stepmother, Lady Ethel frowned, and slightly drew herself up. The man must be cau- tioned not to go too far. “Shall we proceed, monsieur? I am quite rested.” And as he passed his arm round her waist again she thought she heard something like the word “ crwelle.” “While we are on the subject of marriage,” she said, with an attempt at a laugh as they continued their dance, ‘‘ will you allow me, as an experienced person, to recommend it to your notice, monsieur? I hear that for some time past you have been shivering on the brink, but you do not appear able to make up your mind to take the final plunge. But, as an old friend, let me advise you not to waste any more time,’ It is like measles—one takes it so much more fayorably when young.” _ “J shivered on the brink too long, Lady Ethel, and the bank gave way beneath me. I shall never take the plunge you speak of now.” or 3 Was it possible she had heard him aright, or did he date a second time to dupe her? Lady Ethel believed it was the latter case, and made a desperate attempt at an indifferent reply. : “What nonsense! You cannot deceive me, for I know all about it, excepting the day fixed. And did I question Lady Clevedon on the subject, I dare say she could tell that too.” There was no balcony to retire to on that evening, for the season was not sufficiently advanced to leave tho windows open; but as Lady Ethel made this bold asser- tion, her partner suddenly stopped dancing, and, plac- ing her upon a sofa,sat down beside her and looked her in the face. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded in a low voice, and s} g his own language, which he always used with intimate friends. “Just what I said, monsieur; it has been made no serrPhat tara about ¢ th t YY am about to marry the countess, your ste mother?” Bante aia Te “‘That you are engaged to her,” replied his compan- don, turning away her head. ; “And you can believe that, Lady Ethel?” he re- sponded, earnestly. Her heart was throbbing violently, her head confused, her thoughts flying at a tangent anywhere, and she _ upon the point of crying ont, “No, no; I might have known it was false! Oh, Victor, we are lost to one an- other !’’ when the remembrance of the night on which she had seen those two together, the attitude and look of her stepmother, flashed again upon het mind, and, turning fiercely round upon the marquis with eyes brilliant and replete with scorn, she replied firmly, “Qf courseL can. Did I not see Pi sitting upon the sofa together at Temple Grange? How easily you think Iam to be deceived.” } _ “At Temple Grange he repeated, musingly. ‘Yes, I Temember it—but too well. Jt was about a month be- Sore your marriage, Lady Ethel.” Bi She colored, and was silent; thén felt that she was dosing ground, and resumed the attack vigorously. “It was, but that matters nothing. I understood from Lady Clevedon at the time that you were engaged; ae sidering the circumstances, I was not surprised “Ah, the circumstances! But who was to blame for them, I wonder? It is a delicate matter to handle; but has aman the option to refuse attentions which are ie nl him igheesn . Ve ; Bhat : ; sigur, pray of what you are saying. You . are paring ip question the Charades ying _ and your betrothed.” "tee . » Of my hostess—yoes; anc, as such spenyon.: Of my betrothed, no. eeome gee Feo id Ethel, I _ tradict i i So with the conversation, . ; ae i "Meanwhile Colonel Bainbridge, leaning over his ami- " able hostess, was being instructed im the secret of true | Ty ry Om. Suto cf A : A 1 our deat Bthel: is 100 ‘ er they watched ‘the: gracefu ushed face of the girl gyrating as Aigure and lovely, a ered from her little attack of the other night.” “Well, I am afraid a great deal of it is excitement,” replied Colonel Bainbridge, gravely; “for she was so weak this afternoon, I was quite alarmed at the idea of her coming here.” «Dear me! She would have been much better in bed, I dare say.” “So Dr. Chalmers thought, but she was determined to come.” ' ‘Tam surprised at that, for there is not much attrac- tion for her, one would think, to-night. What does Chalmers say about her fainting?” “He considers it entirely due to the lowness of her neryous system. He says she is weaker than she ought to be and must be kept quiet; but he does not appear at all anxious about her.” “And she wouldn’t stay at home to-night? How foolish of her! It was curious, her fainting just at the time she did.”’ “Just as we entered the theater?” he said, interroga- tively. _ “ Well, just as I had pointed her'out to the notice of my friend there, Monsieur de Lacarras..: He is an old flame of Ethel’s,; as perhaps you know, and I: had but that moment said to him, ‘ Look,. Victor ’*’’*— But Colonel Bainbridge did not appear to be listening to her words—he was craning his neck to obtain a view of what was passing at the other side of the room. “She is-going to dance again,’ he said, in reply to Lady Cleyedon’s look of inquiry. “‘I wish she would sit down this time; I am afraid she will be so tired.’ ' « Why not tell her to do so, my dear colonel?’ sug- gested the countess, as 'though, in herideas of a wife’s duty, to be told was to obey. “Tt is too late,’” hé said, langhing, ‘‘ she is off again !’’ and, as he spoke, Lady Ethel passed them in the mazur- ka. She was dancing, for the second ‘time, with: the Marquis de Lacarras. Lady Clevedon watched them with a frown. “T really must speak to Victor,’ she exclaimed ; ‘‘ he knows how delicate she is: it is wunreasonab!/e in him— and” (after a Blight pause) “not the best thmg in the world for her. By-thé-way, my dear colonel, while I think of it, don’t let that dear girl make herself at all conspicuous this season ;- for she is very thoughtless, you know ; and a young woman gets so soon talked about, and ”’— “Well, I hardly know; my dear lady, how I am to prevent her being either ‘conspicuous’ or ‘ talked about,’ ’’ he replied; with ‘a glowing smile, “ while she continues to be the prettiest woman wherever I take her—present company excepted, of course.” ** You foolish fellow !”’ said the countess, playfully ; “TI do really believe you are in love with your own wife. But, jesting apart, I mean whatI say. Ethel is a dear creature, as we all know ; frank, and high-spirit- ed, and generous ; but she is not over-fond being con- trolled ; and the marquis, though an excellent fello anda great friend of our family, is apt to be rather careless about such things. “He will let her overheat herself—yes, that is just what I am most afraid of,” replied Colonel Bainbridge, innocently; “If you will permit me, 1 will go and fetch her cloak.” And he left the room for that purpose. “The man’s a fool,’’ thought Lady Clevedon, as she watched his retreating figure; “and there’s that girl flirting under his nose as though she had never been married at all. It’s perfectly disgraceful; I will not have such things going on in my houso, and shall take good care to let Victor know my mind on the subject.’’: Only one other opportunity had the marquis of speak- ing to Ethel privately that evening, and he made good use of it. tt was in the supper-room that they found themselves alone together. “I don’t think Lady Ethel Bainbridge half credits what I told her,’’ he said softly, as she was engaged in taking the refreshments he had brought her. ' “It is difficult to do so,’’she replied, as she turned her burning face away. “Where is the.difficulty, Lady Ethel—to believe that no woman can ever again engage a tithe of my atten- | tion, or to comprehend how a man could commit so fatal an error as to fear to speak his mind? Fatal, be- cause defeat could not have placed him in a worse posi- tion than he stands at present; and success, ‘Lady Ethel,” in a low yoice, and looked quickly away from her, “would haye turned this life into a’ paradise for him.” ; She could not profess to misunderstand his meaning. “You must not speak to me like that,” she com-- menced, in an agitated voice; and her husband enter- ing thé room at that moment in search of her, she ran up to his side with great relief. ' “Yes, yes,” she said hurriedly, in answer to his in- quiry if she were ready to gohome, “I havehad quite ‘enongh—I am tired out ; let us return/at onee ;” and with a nervous bow in the ‘direction of the Marquis, she suffered Qolonel Bainbridge to lead her. to riage. the car- | _ HE SECOND TELEGRAM. Lapy Eraet Bansrings réached her own home in a hia tes which she had trampled under foot (as she he eae iitarserne to disturb 2 bal id ju tor de shad permitted 7 its ri were her whole being, by their | bed. mnexpec: ce. Was it po she asked her- |. +] Self, as, rebaaae from the Kattonthotieod ee she re- foetal ts Sanat ; o- D ” t ts v aad ad judged him Hoe mae rypoo Sealine setuiont 7} her to slip through his fingers from sheer want of bold- ness to declare his wishes? Profoundly wrapt in some such reverie, her pretty face supported by her hand, and her eyes mournfully fixed upon the fire, Colonel Bainbridge found Lady Ethel still sitting up when, hay- ing finished his last cigar, an hour or more after their return to Curzon Street, he soughtyhis bed-chamber. ““My dear Ethel!” he exclaimed; ‘‘ not yet in bed? Why, do: you know what’ time it is, darling? past six o’clock! What would Dr. Chalmers say ?”’ «Oh, don’t tease me,’’ she answered fretfully. “JT did not:mean to tease you, dearest,’ he said, gently : ‘but this fire is nearly out, and you will take cold. Shall I make it up again? or would it not be better if you came to bed? You must be very tired.” She was very tired, and her musing had been inter- rupted ; so Lady Ethel resolved for once to follow the advice given her; though long after her husband had fallen asleep she continued too excited to close her eyes, but. lay awake, believing herself to be the most unfortunate and miserable woman in the world, as with false sympathy, she pondered on the revelations which had been made to her. When at last she fell asleep, it. was to slumber pro- foundly for a few hours+so profoundly that, on being roused agajn, she /sat straight up in bed with a start, having forgotten everything that had occurred the night before. “It was broad daylight then ; the sunshine was streaming through the closed blinds of her win- dows; and, as she rubbed .her eyes, she became con- scious of a gentle tapping on the bedroom door, which had been the cause of her awaking. “Colonel Bainbridge,” she said quickly, “there is some one knocking at the door.’ : Her husband did not, answer, and she turned to where, flushed and warm, with one arm beneath his head, he lay beside her, wrapt.in a deep sleep. “What a Goliath!” thought Lady Ethel, as sho re- garded him; and yet.a proud feeling of possession ran through her as she aid her little hand upon his broad shoulder. It lasted but a moment—that feeling— though it-endured to all eternity. * Colonel Bainbridg#'!”’ she repeated; with as yehem- ent a pinch as her fingers could accomplish. *‘‘ there is some one at the door.” Hie : “Ts there, my Rorting ?” he replied, as, with a sudden movement, he, jumped out of bed, threw on his dress- ing-gown, and turned the key in the lock. _ “What do you want?” he demanded of the servant who was waiting there. “A telegram, if you pléase, sir. re thought it best to bring it up to you, in case it should be of import- ance.” - “Oh yes; of course—all right. Thank you!” and, without stopping for further inquiry, Colonel Brain- bridge closed.the door, and, walking to one of the win- dows, pulled up the blind, and tore open the official envelope. As he did so, there rushed back upon the mind of Lady Ethel, who was still sitting up in bed, all the circumstances of the previous evening; the telegram which she had destroyed ;-‘the buzz of admiration which had greeted her entrance to Lady Clevedon'’s drawing-room; and then the Marquis, with his sad, reproachful eyes, and his assurance that he had not, and never had hed, the least intention of marrying her stepmother—of marrying anyone except herself, whom, by ill-luck or treachery, he had lost. ’ And as all this came back on Lady Ethel’s memory, she sank down on her pillows with a deep-drawn sigh. She had just remembered that her heart and the heart of Victor de Lacarras were both broken, and that there remained no happiness in this world for either of them again. The reception of this telegram seemed greatly to disturb Colonel. Bainbridge, for he read it more Yhens once; and had his wife been watching him, she would have seen his hand tremble. : _ “There must be some mistake here!” were the first words he uttered, as he violently pulled the bell. “What is it about?” said Lady Ethel, with affected languor, though naturally she guessed the news it must contain. se , “My. poor father is ill—dangerously ill. I deubt if T shall ever see him again alive,” he ed, in a broken voice; and then, as the servants kn resounded on the door, he put the question: ot Poy sth ‘» “ When did this telegram arrive?’ = 9 “ Row, sir—not ten minutes ago; I brought it up “ But it is the second that has been sent me ; at least $so. Have you seen anything of another?” “Not since last night, sir.” 9 we aEhSL. aad you receive it?” ‘he’ Asked f Papo a 3° . ees te st \ y, | ng to his ; but'she had ‘turned aw: “her face from.o vi: amor a rw & 3A wetter . “Oh. yes, sir,” interposed the woman; who feared to ye from the transattion. “I itinto h hg ahaa, gore tents be 9 That, will do,” said: Colonel ‘Bain j;who saw ere somethin, ron,” “Ten sues ) take the aw desing-toom at ce, an@ look out shi he ‘north as soon.as it is possible to do so;” and then he shut e door again, and came round to the other le of the and why aia’you not Hit had ost all tho , #} not 19 ; and
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a HER LORD AND MASTER. “I’m sure I can’t tell you where it is; in the dust- hole, I conclude, as I put it on the fire; and I didn’t give it to you because, if Thad done so, it would have prevented our going to Lady Clevedon’s.” Her non- chajlant manner roused his ire. ' “ But do you kmow whatit contained?” he said, in- dignantly. : “Of course Ido; I read it!’ Colonel Bainbridge took a step backward. “You read it !read that my father was dangerously ill—that my immediate presence was required at Cran- slaeear tty purned the message? Ethel, how dared you ” “Darel” she exclaimed, springing up in bed; “I dare everything; I would burn it over again to-morrow. if I thought fit to do so. Itis you wh res too much in speaking in this way to me.” * “Come! come! Iam not going to have any nonsense of this sort,’ replied Colonel Bainbridge. “If you were aware ot the contents of the telegram, you did a very cruel act in destroying it, and one which may never be repaired. My father will most likely be dead before I reach Cratishaws.” She was a little shocked at the idea of what she had Nand then, but still she carried it off with a high hand. : “Tt’s not my fault!” she murmured.. “If they had made themselves alittle more agreesble to me while I was under their roof, I might have felt better disposed to give up my amusement to satisfy their whims.” “Whims! you call it a whim in a dying man to wish to see his only child again ?”” “How could I tell he was dying ?” “You ikmew that he was seriously ill,and that he wanted to see me, and you were unwilling to relinquish a few hours’ pleasure for the sake of permitting a father and son to meet for the last time upon earth. You are heartless—cruel—unwomanly! Ethel, I thought. bet- ter of you!” and, sitting down upon the nearest chair, Colonel Bainbridge covered his face with his hands. -The action, instead of softening, seemed to irritate her. “Who told you to think better?’’ she demanded, sharply; “and what haye you ever seen in my beha- vior to lead you to supose that I°was so particularly in- terested in your father’s feelings or your own ?"’ “ Nothing—God knows!” he answered, bitterly; “ your conduct while at Craushaws was 4 source of the great- est pain to me; but since you are my wife, and my fa- ther has become yours, a sense of duty might”—— But his speech was interrupted by her shrill iaugh, _ “Duty! Is it not sufficient that I tuld have con- sented to marry ou, without bang e ed upon to show filial duty towards a man, ng "-— ‘ Colonel Bainbridge rOSe from his seat with a lowering Tow. AWE ; eit Qu _- ‘Have. care, Ethel! You had better be cautious what you say to me just now!” ry “Oh! you, don’t frighten me, I assure you. - Noone juld have -behayed more rudely to me than your father ” . r .” #No one could have taken. your rudeness to him’and my poor, mother in a spirit of greater patience and charity,?! por RS ages we phat ‘is your opinion, perhaps. Isay, I did you enough pant by accepting the offer of your hand, without being expected to adopt all your relations into ,the bargain. And if I had known—if I had known” — growing suspiciously: hysterical. ’ “If you-had known what?” he asked sternly. ‘Do you mean to insinuate, Ethel, that you were unaware before, our marriage that my family was not on an equality with your own?’” “Oh yes; 1 knew that,too well! : “What then? Have I been fool enough to marry @ woman, who does not care for me ?”’ . “J ghould think you. might have answered that ; weep. for,yourself. You have received ample proofs of as he spoke, Colonel Bainbridge took her two hands prisoner in his, and forced her to look him in the face. She might as well have tried to struggle against a pair of handcuffs. “T shall not detain you long,” he said, solemnly. ‘*You, have but. to speak the word, and you are free. What is his name ?” The influence of his glance subdued her eyen more than the powerful grasp of his hands. “You know. it,” she answered, sullenly. ‘ Victor de Lecarras !” ‘And you care for him |” She made no reply, but her eyes flashed up at him in- dignantly, and were cast down again. “And married me because you could not marry him ?” continued Colonel Bainbridge, “ Yes 1’ with.a desperate effort to get free; “if you will have the truth, and nothing but the truth, there it is for you.” He let her go as she spoke, and she twisted away from him, and buried her head in her pillow. But once more his hands—those kind, strong hands, that had never handled her before but with the tender- est, gentlest touch—came about her face, and turned it to confront his own. Turned it to meet two hungering, despairing eyes, the gaze of which haunted her for many a lonely day and ot pe succeeding ; and asad, drawn mouth, which seemed to ask what he had done to be requitted by such treachery. He looked at her, perhaps, for a full minute, which appeared, to her guilty conscience, like an hour; and them he dropped his hands, turned suddenly away, and left the room. The iron had entered into his very soul. As he gained his dressing-room he was greeted by the intelligence 'that there was no train by which he could travel north before eight o’clock in the evening, “Very good!’’ he replied, with easy indifference ; “then there is no hurry. Pack my portmanteau, and tole ce with it at the King’s Cross Station at a quarter 0 eifht,” And having dismissed his valet, Colonel Bainbridge dressed himself, and left the house before Lady Ethel had appeared down stairs. — CHAPTER XXXIV. WHY IT WAS SENT. Tunes had been going on very quietly at Cranshaws between the time that Colonel and Lady Ethel Bain- bridge left the castle and the occasion for sending that first telegram to Curzon Street. One afternoon in May, the same day on which Lady Ethel destroyed the telegram, Mr. Bainbridge, to ‘the |: consternation of the rig senna br fcanaal he te with a stroke of paralysis, found prostrate ari elpless:| *", 1 : : on his stud Hoek, ait unable to articulate more than |. ae Bebe pi Mag = want wekbeehiine Kemi the word “Thomas,” as he was carried to his bed.’ In SC¥00Ce ian ee eae tom Fee err t "which both Mrs. Bainbridge and upon it. Then there was the silence of a minute be— Mise vioed 7 pees overwhelmed Maggie proved the tween them, during which the clock upon the mantel- guaran sngel of the family. It was she who dis- Sea aay as though it had been the only living thing: atched a messenger post-haste for medical aid } who-| +"; +; Bee. venaie pee etn the teleg ram to Curzon Street, and then | he t gtr tt nish wrong Cousin Peeeettt, took up her station at the sick man’s side, ready to} + PETA EDD hie 35 veatta navn e appeared with the interpret to her. aunt. each feeble action by'which he}! .o0 f0 00? 3 it is quite ready now. agh strove to make his wishes understood. ig a yee, - have bo appetite. Ae The. doctor came, and stayed all night, during which } and ho, ahd | Sect iow. anuch tere wit he tor yu to do and keeping them in miserable suspense ; and by the morm-} tiny of Aunt’ Lizzie ‘will depend on you to do every~ ing Mr. Bainbridge was so much weaker that it was thing.” . , . — Well, a cup of coffee, then,” replied Colonel’ Bain- considered doubtiu bridge, though he made no attempt to leave the arm-. ul whether he could survive to seé his son again... But he was still alive when’ the carriage chair into which he ‘had thrown himself and approach. the table, -Chirott [e “He suffered no pain,” continued the gitl, softly, as: face from view. : “All over!’ he muttered, hoarsely 5“ all—quite— expected. When did it happen, Maggie?” “This morning at four o’clock,’’ she whispered. He Had you been here, you could. never have forgotten it. He said he had but one wish left umgyratified.” . “And that was ’—— “To see yourself. Oh, cousin! why did you not come as soon as you received the telegram ?” “TI did not receive it,’ he answered, ‘brusquely ; “TI was at a party that night, and still asleep the following morning when your second message came to hand. I started as soon as it was practicable.” . “And your servants never gave it to you on your re- turn ? How very careless of them! If they had only known the consequences involved in their neglect!” “It is of no use talking of it,’ he said, moodily. 7 oh is my mother, Maggie? How does she bear all is “Oh, she has been in despair, cousin ; and when the carriage came back from Borthwick yesterday without you, [thought she would have gone wild with fear. She imagined something must be wrong. But since— since this morning, she has been much quieter, and when I went up stairs about a half an hour ago was fast asleep upon her bed, Poor soul! she has not closed her eyes once before since uncle was taken ill ; and she is unused to fatigue, you know. But shall I tell her you are here?” “By no means, Maggie. Let her sleep while she can ; and, to speak the truth, I don’t feel equal to encounter- ing her just yet. I fear to read revroach for my tardi-. ness in her eyes.”’ “‘ Oh, cousin! you will never do that, she loves you too fondly. She will feel at once that it could only have arisen from a mistake.” _ “Tt is an awful shock,” he continued, presently. “ Your message did not prepare me for so sudden a ter- mination, Maggie,” AAG ‘* Not the third one?” she inquired. : : “Was there a third one ?’’ he replied, indifferently. “Of course there was. I dispatched it about three o’clock. It must have reached Curzon Street before: you started, The first was necessarily worded’ with some uncertainty, but, directly Dr. Mackenzie pro- nounced him to be sinking, I sent another, to prepare: you ior the worst, Did you not receive that, either ?” “ (i i * But at. wht hour did you leave town, cousin ?’”” * By the eight o’clock train.’’ 4g oY ore it had not reached your house before that me ”” - » “TI do not know—I was from homé,”’ he said, uneasily ; and then, after a pause, ‘‘ the fact is, I left Curzon Street at one o’clock, and did not return theré again.” : went to Borthwick to meet the mail-train, and returned to them—empty ; no Colonel Bainbridge having arrived by it, His mother was almost in despair. She insisted that Thomas must be ill himself, unable to quit the “eae ef nt mnt you | ome ans ts rahe ote an ea aig a Bw or at pa ” e' ; ; "| hav.co “J ; J een - hi my for pom 9 dian” I to lose both of them. at coos, Tt was in Yain that Mag- et ap oye sat ar errand a ie L pes pS “lige _ helt mers; to nano ome edt, | le Semen Bo ls Suh» 2 | ho ge flee hoa, tal, i oul, idy Hthel. gow that every one of his’strong Panbe | Te pry ~ | had never seen & more peaceful death-bed ;° and that: vas vad bitiom of sim. AO FOE WSe La aaah wee thought ought to be a comfort tous, cousin.” — Ethel. were away from home. Mrs. Bainbridge was quite certain that she was to be rendéred childless as’ well as widowed, and divided between her desire to “Yes! Iam thankful to hear it!” ” “ And in seyeral conversations that dear uncle and 1. had together, previous to his being taken ill, he’ told. DBs, fing ” ue Som insinuating the truth to me—or a lie?” he ie Seis htened at his manner; she knew that she nea pike too he ‘ pasty o eatd ; : lf, and the ; " ‘one + and yet, with a bravado with which rush off to town to see after her son herself, : mmo whet a consolation it was tohim to leave ara ‘weakest.of her sex is. at times familiar, she threw duty which kept her at the bedside of her husband. ee, gavunt Letty: and Aunt Wier a the + 1b-ia, useless to attempt anything Bke, me nmens rapt Sh he ane of one who felt would lok ‘after the apple of discord in his face. ee ee ea shakin ch Gash Wary wavpoes any thing else ? motive on lo you suppose anavid pew induced me—mé, the daughter of earls, _and.connected on every side with the purest blood in England—to lower myself by marrying into the family ofa tradesman—yes; you needn't look at me ‘in that for von. imam pertectly, ell that your father was’ noring ut a —u with your good aunt,” observed the doctor, confidenti- ally, o Maggie, ‘but if Colonel Bainbridge is to see his father again alive, you must send another telegram rer th ond telegram, which was still more : so the sec e@ > we strongly worded than the first, reached London about noon, and the same evening saw its recipient on his way to Cranshaws. them just in. the same way he should haye done bim- f. “a nels 2—what?—I beg your pardon !’” exclaimed Col- Poly Name oN star prom a reverie, 7 He was evidently not listening to her ; and presently Maggie tried if another subject would rouse ‘him’ from ood of despondency, pe! idee ness there had ‘been some mnt ape ”_she began, with some sa hésitation “se reason, some deep and miserable reason,” with a sob, ws od —fo: e had not learned to speak the name Bo freely “het Tenouid’ try tof ME ua teal ened hee .. CHAPTER XXXV. ae she should have done—“I hope, Cousin Thomas, . ; Sarai ea ‘ TOO LATE. Buy ha she been prepared + the electrical effect of miserable teason,’ madam? Iam her words, che nowch would have mattered them’ Col- Cbrower. Barprmer alighted hurriedly from the “hired vehicle which had conveyed him to his father’s |: } door, and, without inquiry, pases. once into the din-'} |ing-room. There was no one there but 3 gic Hender- |: gon. She was looking pale and tired, fors 16 had sat up : for two nights ben uncle's hedelde + Wey eee pene |, Arete 50 nee ‘and placed her hand in Colone sridge’s; | tion her to me seheutteats? te eabebgmeecnt) fae: arta be he: 0 late. “You will think me @ great fool, d, presently, vdebted to yon. he quateaba shone adil be 84 arriy pk are come | | passin a handkerchief over his clammy brow igand so word m A U @ will be giad to. see you—but it’s all over !” | amuthe' test fool that was.ever 4 rnb! /) (man in the, f Lizzi ym power to make her blush or | rather any subject but that o any Mie ap pree- ee et aah ! ‘tkemble then ; but her sad, compassionate eyes rested | ent. And now,” returning te er ee ve oan en Tet % | calmly upon bis, as. th erro nad indeed been the: ‘the oup of alles YOu Deemer ya, teal er which, ae RF into which at | Stnge te her whicl he called bimeclf, ">| Kana not to.see my mother yet, twill, go up to my oe t I intend to Colonel Bainbridge broke away from her kindly grasp, | TOOmM.” © itt E ¢lovel data eutgh * e , . &. nit and sinking into a chair, for a moment con éaled bic: quite over! It seems too hard—and yet it is:but what I. went so happily; so fullof faith, and hope, and love..
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Perceiving how he had alarmed his cousin (for Mag- je’s hand shook as she poured out the coffee tor him), e thought to conyers: more calmly after that, and en- ‘tered into several details concerning his own journey cand his father’s ilimess ; but she was quite unable to imitate his affected ease. She could not shake off the wemembrance of that sudden ejaculation and the tone in which it had been uttered; it penetrated even the sad subject om which they were en- gaged; and full of forebodings tor his happiness, and dread of forthcoming revelations, she sat almost in silence, until relieved by the entrance of the doctor, who had been informed of Colonel Bainbridge’s arrival, and on whose appearance she slipped out of the room. “How do you do, my deur colonel? very glad to see you ”’—with a prolonye. «.aing of hands—‘“ though ‘you have only come in time tv hear. bad news.” “TJ was prepared for it, doctus, and have, at all events, the comfort of feeling that, since you were here, noth- ing further could have been done tor him.” “You are very good to say so, my dear sir, very good,”’ -was the doctor's reply; “and I think I may affirm that no amount of skill could have saved your father’s iife. His constitution received so severe a shock in the first seizure that, had he not been a remarkably hale man, he could not have survived to have a second, which he did yesterday atternoon. Itwas a pity you were not here—a great pity!” “It was impossible,” said Colonel Bainbridge, broken- Vy. “Ihave been explaining the circumstances that detained me to my cousin, I would have given worlds 4o be present.” ; “Well—well ! we must look upon the bright side of things. He died easy in mind and body, and we shail ‘be lucky if our friends can say as much for us, by-and- ‘by—eh? Cranshaws is looking very pleasant, sir, just mow.” , “Very pleasant,’”’ was the mechanical reply. “You will find plenty of work up here, colonel, both “for hands and head. It’s a fine estate! I suppose you'll ‘be for selling out of the army now, and settling down as a county gentlemen, eh ?” : “JT don’t know; Ihave had no time to think about it.” But here the colonel, who had been on thorns for the last ten minutes, and looking round wildly for some means of escape, opportunely heard the voice of Mrs. ‘Bainbridge on the staircase. “My mother!" he said quickly; ‘‘I must go to her;” and.in another moment he was folded in her arms. i CHAPTER XXXVI. COLONEL BAINBRIDGE MAKES UP HIS MIND, Ir was so sweet, so good, to have him there, and to ‘ave him there alone, that, though he came in an hour of deep distress, Mrs. Baimbridge felt as though half her , eg were lifted off her shoulders as she gazed into his ace. “My son! my dear, dear son! my own Thomas!” she repeated over and over again, clinging to him as the weaker clings to the stronger, and pouring the story of her sorrow into his sympathizing ears. “Oh! if you had but: been here, my dear! He asked 8o,o‘ten for you. The only word he uttered, upon being Seized was your name ; and, afterwards, I am sure the door never opened but what his poor eyes turned in that direction, hoping it was you.” “@h, don’t! mother, don’t!” he urged, imploringly. “‘T cammot bear it! I wish to God I had come sooner.” And then he placed her in a chair, and. sat down by her ‘side, while she sobbed for a few minutes in her handker- chief. ; “You see, my dear,’” she continued, presently, through her tears, “it is best that you should hear all thie. It may be painful now, but it will be a comfort to think of hereafter, Your father loved you very dearly, Thomas; he was a good father to you, and a ee tome. We have sustained a great loss in “Heaven knows we have !”" her son replied. “But we need not make it worse by unnecessary self- be Sa Maggie has told me all you said to her this morning on the subject, and of course your absence could not have been helped. It was an accident, and mo nore.” , me did he think itso? That is the doubt that will ‘haunt my lifetime.” “We must hope he did, my dear! At all events, he ‘knew your. circumstances and how much engaged you are; ant doubtless made allowances for the delay.’ He eure never haye thought you would refuse to come to rim. “Thope not. He little knew me, if he did.” “Oh no! He had perfect faith in your affection, Even of late—during tha last few months—since your marri- age, that is to say, (you know, my dear, without my tell- ing you, that he was just a little disappointed at your choice)—he bas always expressed himself as completely satisfied with all you did, or were likely to do, after his decease, I think now that he must sometimes have had akind of inkling he was not long for this world. Oh, Thomas ! what are we to do without him ?”” And Mrs. Bainbridge relapsed into a natural but very distressing exhibition of fecling, which made her son thankful of an excuse to quit her presence, for the pur- pose of procuring the refreshment of a bath and chunye of linen after his night’s journey. It was a melancholy meditation that he indulged in as soon as he found himself alone. There he was, master of Cranshaws and the bulk of his father’s prodigious fortune—the richest man, perhaps, in the army—as a rich man, certainly, as is, ordinarily speaking, to be found there ; yet the poor est, he felt, shuddering, the poorest wretch that tra- versed this wide earth ; in comparison with whom a beggar clothed in rags, but warmed by love, lived in affluence, Qh, Lady Ethel! what a ruin you have HER LORD AND MASTER. created here! He threw his thoughts back to that time last year, when he had first seen and become enamored of her; and remembered, with set teeth, how that man —the one whose name she had mentioned to him—had been alwsys hovering about her, and he had felt jealous of him even then. He was crushed as he sat there—unmistakeably crushed, body, soul, and spirit; and he did not care to deny it,even to himself. He acknowledged freely that the world, or what constituted in his eyes the world, was over for him. ; He was a tradesman, it was true (and here the son, re- garding the figure stretched upon the bed, involnntarily drew himself up), but he had given him life, and no one who despised him er his honorable cal‘ing should fatten on the produce of his labor. ‘ From that moment Colonel Bainbridge’s resolution was fully taken. CHAPTER XXXVII. “MAGGIE, I WANT TO TELL YOU SOMETHING.”’ Tae next few days passed much as such days usually do under similar circumstances. The funeral was over; the will, by which, with the exception of acouple of thousand a year to his mother for her lifetime, and trifling annuities to Mise Lloyd and Maggie Henderson, Colonel Bainbridge was rendered sole possessor of his late father’s fortune and estates, had been read, and, the castle’ being cleared of lawyers’ clerks and undertakers’ men, the blinds were drawn up to admit the cheerful sunshine, the windows thrown open, the rooms set in order, and the family reassembled to look each other in the face and ask what they were to do next. “T suppose, my dear Thomas,”’ remarked Mrs. Bain- bridge, ‘that you will not take possession of Cran- shaws before the summer is over; or shall you move into it at once? Either plan will be equally convenient tome, you know. And, with respect to the house in Curzon Street, shall you retain that asit is? Iam afraid you will find no room for the furniture here, for your dear father disliked nothing so much as a half- | furnished room. But I suppose you will require to be in London until you have settled something with re- gard to resigning your profession ?”’ Such questions Colonel Bainbridge hardly knew how to parry. It was after some such conversation as the above that Colonel Bainbridge called his cousin abruptly to his side. ‘ ; ay Come here, Maggie; I want to tell you~ some- nl. dy Tt a a bright, beautiful morning, the day after the funeral, and they were sauntering on the terrace whith ran round the castle. * Well, cousin, I am all attention.” “ My mother seems to imagine (you heard what she said at breakfast just now) that Iam about to throw up the army at once, and settle down at Cranshaws. Now I am not going to do any such thing, and you must break it to her.” Maggie’s face fell; she guessed his resolution had something to do with Lady Ethel, and knew how great a disappointment it would prove to Mrs Bainbridge. “But, Cousin Thomas, if you don’t live here, and Aunt Lizzie goes away to Birmingham, who is to look after the place ?” “TI don’t know: the bailiff, Isuppose; he can man- age if much better than Icould. I am totally ignorant ot farming matters. “But the house, the garden,’’_ said Maggie, as the tears rose to her eyes, ‘‘all the little improvements which dear uncle took such pride and pleasure in, be- cause they were for you—are they to go to rack and ruin for want of use and supervision, cousin ? “Tfthey must, they must,” he answered, moodily; “for Iam quite resolved not to live here at present.” “Tf it is only Lady Ethel’s wishes that you are con- sidering,’ continued Maggie, timidly; ‘‘1do not think she could object to Cranshaws as asummer residence. It is very pretty in the summer, you know, Cousin Thomas, and you will always want to shoot over the preserves. And residing here for half the year would be better than not at all.” “Tt is my profession that stands in the way,” he re- plied, evading her question, as they turned into the shrubbery together. “I have no wish to leave the army; and while I remain in itI must work. It is not improbable that I may have to go out to India again.” In her astonishment, Maggie, with clasped hands, stopped short before him in the path. “Ts it possible? oh, you cannot bé in earnest! What reason should there be for you, under present circumstances, to return to that horrible climate ? Who would do so, excepting of necessity ?”’ “ Well, J would,” he answered, with a short laugh. “Any place appears preferable to England, in my eyes, just now.” : “But Lady Ethel,” urged his cousin ; “would she accompany you? or could she bear to be left here all alone? and so shordy after marriage, too! You must consider her.” i? “Oh, I think she would prove amenable to reason,’ replied Colonel Bainbridge, with an affectation of indif- ference. But Maggie was not to be so deceived. “Cousin Thomas!” she exclaimed, eagerly, as she laid her hand upon his arm, “Iam sure that some- thing dreadful has happened between you and Lady Ethel! oh, what is it? Do tell me the worst! It is terrible to see you suffer thus.” Her plain speaking, no less than her earnest manner and that pathos in her tone which the French call larmes au voix, touched the over-strained chord jn the man’s heart, and 3anapped it. Receding from her, he threw himself upon a bench coiled round a tree hard by, and covered his face with Ifis hands; and in another moment the girl who stood beside him was shocked tv see the tears trickle through his fingers. * Oh, ccusin! cousin !’’ she pleaded, in a voice which trembled with emotion; ‘‘ what have I said, what have I done, to cause this? Pray, pray, forgive me; but | cannot understand how anything short of her death or her desertion should make you teel like this.” “It is worse than death, Maggie !’’ “Worse than death ?”’ Maggie could only repeat his words, and attend their explanation. “Yes, a thousand times worse! She doesn’t love me, pan git she never loved me! and I have been but as a tool in her hands.”’ “ And she dared to tell you so?” The indignation of the heart which could have loved him so truly and faithfully, had it fallen to its lot to do so, was too great to check the exclamation. ‘‘She would dare everything! she has no more fear of me than she has of breaking my heart. And, Maggie, Iloved her so. God is my witness how I loved er.’’ And how you loye her still,” replied the girl, with trembling lips. ‘Cousin Thomas, this is but.a quarrel; you will make it up by-and-by. All will be right again between you.” « Never, Maygie; it is kind of you to say so, but it is | quite impossible. Ihave made up my mind we shall never live together again.” ‘Never live together !’’ she echoed, in her consterna- tion; “ but she is your wiye—cousin, think of what you are saying.” ‘ “TI have thought of it,” he replied, “ bitterly and often enough, Heaven knows. Would you haye me go back to the arms ofa woman who has told me to my face that she never cared for me; that she lowered her- self by marrying a tradesman’s son, to accomplish her own revengeful purposes; and that she despises me Do — for my folly and short-sightedness than for my irth |” “She could not have intended it,’’ said. Maggie, earnestly; ‘she could never be so cruel; she is sorry for her words now, depend upon it.’’ “ Sorry!’ he repeated, with a gesture ot incredulity; ‘you have not seen her as I have, or you would not say so. And I have not told you the worst yet, Maggie, though that shall remain locked in my own breast.” She did not know what comfort to ere him then it seemed too dark and terrible a grief to be meddled with, hae ag hands as loving as her own; So she remained silent. “The long and the short of «it is,’ exclaimed Colonel Bainbridge, after a moment’s pause, as ho jumped up from, the bench and stretched himself, | “that I intend to serve Her Majesty for some little time longer yet, under which circumstances, if my mother declines to live at Cranshaws, the dear old place must consent to be shut up for a while and look after itself. And what I want you to do for me, Maggie, is to bring my mother gradually round to the idea. As soon as Lam gone—I return to town to-morrow—let her know positively I have no intention of selling out | of the army at present ; and when I have left En ‘tend, you may tell hey the reason why. It will reconcile ber to my absence maore than anything else would do.”’ “But when. you haye left England, cousin? Surely that is only acoutingency.”’ ; “It is: more than that, Maggie,’’ he replied, in a low voice. ‘I hava wlready effected an exchange with one of my brother offivers, andI start to join his Nie a next week,” 5 She answered nothing, but her tears fell fast upon her somber mantle, ; CHAPTER XXXVII. Is IT TIME YET ? “WELL, I must say I am disappointed in your Cousin Thomas—very much dnappointed !” said Miss Lloyd, shaking her head in amethodical manner. It was about a fortnight after the conversation detailed in my last chapter, and she was sitting with Maggie Henderson in the library at Cranshaws. ‘ | Colonel eae te a was, a3 he had anticipated, on the sea, and hundreds of miles away, and it was in cor- menting upon this subject (after having received a few extra particulars concerning it from the mouth of Mag- gie Henderson) that Miss Lloyd gave vent to the exclu- mation with which this chapter opens, and ex- geenger: haved, very much disappointed in Colonel n ge. as nn aha i “It is not so much his faultas hers,” said Maggic, warmly; for she felt hurt that every one should be in league against her cousin. “I was, sure she did not love him when they were down here together. Oh, sale : foolish thing it is for people to marry in such a urry ” 9 “He was blinded,” replied her aunt. “ If ie bad not been, he would have thought twice of his dear father s proposal to him. Ah, Maggie! he would have had a dit. ferent kind of wife in you.’ ; Maggie blushed, but only-to hear herself praised. “Perhaps so; yet it does not follow he would have had a better one.” “My dear! but you would always have loved him.” “Thope so, Aunt Letty ; but it is impossible to tell. You see, I used to think so very much of. him ; and it | has struck me more than once, lately, that on a nearer view he might not have come up to my expectations.” “What used you think of ea ieaaeis at 1 | ‘Oh, at one time—about a year ago, you know, Aunt Letty—I really thought there was no one in the world to compare with Cousin Thomas. He seemed so brave, so honorable, so wise ; I believe I would have trusted my very soul in his hands, in those days.” j “And you would not trust it now ?”’ . Fie 2 shores ee a, FS eee ig “Good he is—that lam sure of ; it would be strange if, coming of such a father and such a wee he could - \
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26 HER LORD AND MASTER. be otherwise than good; and honor ie involved in goodness. But is he brave or wise, Aunt Letty? Is it bravery to run away directly he is attacked by disap- pointirrent? or wisdom tc leave hic young, beautiful wife alone, without evem the safeguard of her love for him? to say nothing of his poor mother, who needs his help so much just now I could hardly have be- lieved it of him !” “Then you have quite altered your opinion with re- spect to him, Maggie ?”’ “No, I don’t think that so much as that my opinion is altered with respect to myself. I was not competent to pass judgment on my cousin He remains the same as he wag then; but I can see more clearly. Heis a dear, good fellow ; he will always be very dear to me; but he is an ordinary man, neither better nor worse than she generality of his fellows.” At that moment their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Bainbridge. “IT could not think where you had got to, Maggie,” she said,in a complaining voice. ‘They say that old Hetty is worrying to see me, and that Mr. Dobson has come over from Borthwick with an authority from your cousin te look over the stables ; and really 1 have not the heart to speak to them. 1 wish you would’go and see what it is all about 1am sure,” sinking into a chair as she spoke, ‘it people only knew what an exer- tion itis te me te give my attentien to business, they would be a little more merciful. it ail falls upon me ; there is no one to de it but myseli.' “There is always Maggie,” said her sister, pointedly. * Ah, true! and she is the greatest comfort a woman ever had. Well go, my dear, and getit over quickly ;” and, as her niece Tet the room, she ejaculated, audibly, es = bless her: I don’t know what we should do with- out her’” In a tew minutes Maggie reappeared, naving executed her commissions eatidia stutter and then Mrs, Bain- bridge asked her it she would takeaturn in the grounds with her. “It seems quite an age since I have been round the flower-garden, and I think it would do me good, Thank you, my dear,’’ as Maggie readily acquiescedin the pro- posal ; “you are just like a daughter tome; you are all L hove left in the world. I will be ready to accom- pany you in five minutes.’ As Mrs. Bainbridge quitted the library to put on her ane attire, Miss Lloyd looked Maggie Henderson in | we face. “Well, my dear, do you think the time has come yet?” “No aunt,” replied the girl, meekly ; but there was a shade of sadness on her countenance as she spoke. * You are disappointed, darling,’’ said Miss Lloyd af- fectionately : ‘ but were you to follow your inclinations | in opposition to your duty, you would be more so. | Remember what you preached to your cousin, and | don’t fall short in your own practice. The path of duty is generally straight betore us; but we are too fond, even when most in earnest, of looking for it in the far distance or some impractical by-way. It is so hard | to convince beginners that grace is not always where | most sensibly felt.” _ Maggie did not answer. She was standing by the window, with something very likea tear in her eye—it war so difficult to believe that any one could go wrong in a hearty an‘1 sincere effort to please his Master. _ “You think that Aunt Lizzie won’t want you at Bir- mingham_ Maggie,” continued Miss Lloyd; “that in a Strange house and place she will not miss her hus- bans voice and her son’s kind attentions so much asit she stayed at Cranshaws; but I think you are mistaken. I think, were you also to propose to leave her now,that she would feel as though she were bereft of all for whom she cared at once. But you are your own mis- | tress, my love. and must therefore take my counsel for | just as much as it is worth.” “Tam not my own mistress, aunt,” replied the girl, | “and I never wish tobe. I see that you are right; the time has not yet come.” “ And suppose it never comes, Maggie ?”’ “Then I must be content.” } “Content to do the will ot Him that formed you: | Were it to Jive crippled in a garret for the rest of your | life, child, it would come to the same thing in the end. | Our love to Him is not shown forth in what we do, so much as in what we suffer !” “Oh, aunt, yon are such a blessing to me !” cried the girl, enthusiastically ; “you seem to put everything in the light.” “J more a blessing than you are to me, my dar- ling. Ihave often prayed, Maggie, that I might be en- abled to counsel you aright in this particular; for it is vel'y selfish pleading, my dear! I can’t yet think what home would look like to me without you.” “You shall never see it so, dear aunt, without your free consent, Idon’t think I could gomyself, unless you promised to go with me.” Miss aated Heng tied, at the idea, and, shaking off a few bright tears that had gathered on her eyelashes, releas- ed gie from an effectionate embrace, just as the door opened to admit Mrs. Bainbridge. —_ CHAPTER XXXIX. THE WIDOWED BRIDE, Lapy Ernet Barxpriper did not feel very comforta- ble after her husband had left her, on the morning of their Y Sin Ea There was a cold. sickening, palpitating sensation about the region of the heart which bore a strong likeness to’ remorseful fear, though she would not have acknowledged the feeling. She knew that she had gone too far—much farther than she wished or in- tended — and believed the probable consequence of her gratuitous information would be an entire sep- aration between herself and the Marqui< de Lacar- ras; but, strange to say, notwithstanding the interest | only he’s so selfish he wen’t let Colonel Bainbridge re- she still professed to take in that gentleman and his proceedings, the prospect of never seeing ihm again did « | parently, to the very highest pitch. not give her nearly so much uneasiness as the idea that Colonel Bainbridge would revert to what she had told him, and reproach her withit. Surely, if she promised never to speak to Victor again, it ought to appease his anger. ‘“Men are always so unreasonable,”’ she thought to herself, as she lay coiled up in her luxurious bed, with rather an anxious face pressing the lace-trimmed pil- lows, ‘‘so jealous, and exacting, and fussy; it is only necessary to mention the name of another man to have them looking drawn daggers at you at once. As if a woman could be expected never to speak to any one but her husband. Such nonsense! Or to marry her first love—particularly when she’s—not bad-looking. Does the man imagine no one thinks me pretty but himself? Absurd! And then to stare just as though he were going to eat me! Scottish manners, I sup- pose, And after all, what did I say that was so yery atrocious ?”” But here a faithful memory, bringing two or three expressive truths back to Lady Ethel’s mind, caused her to turn restlessly upon her pillow, while the uneasy sen- sation at her heart proceeded with redoubled violence. Pooh! what folly it was to think twice about the mat- ter; she had much better go to sleep again, and it would be all right by the evening. But she could not sleep; she had been too thoroughly roused ; and after ineffectually lying with closed eyes for a longer time than was agreeable to her, Lady Ethel vacated her couch aad rang for Louise to assist her in dressing. When she descended to the dining-room, it seemed very bare and empty ; breakfast was laid upon the table, but had not been touched ; and three unopened letters ad- dressed to her husband, and which, in the anguish of his gpirit, he had overlooked, were placed beside his plate. Yet he did not appear, “You had better tell your master that breakfast is ready,” said Lady Ethel to the servant in waiting. “The colonel has gone out, my lady,” was the reply. “He left the house about a couple of hours ago.” “Oh, very well !”’ in a querelous, discontented voice; “remove the covers, then.” And the covers being removed, disclosed their re- spective dishes in precisely the same condition in which they recovered them when the meal was concluded, her ladyship attributing her want of appetite to the fatigue she had undergone the night before. A weary r- noon upon the sofa,then a solitary drive round the park, which she accomplished mostly with closed eyes, and Lady Ethel returned to Curzon street in time for an eight o’clock dinner. For this meal she waited rather more than half an hour, before she rang the bell to inquire if any thing had yet been seen of Colonel Bainbridge ; but the only answer she received was, that he had not re-entered the house. “Where is Russeil ?’’ she demanded, sharply, allud- ing to her husband’s valet. ‘He is gone to the King’s Cross station, my lady, with my master’s portmanteau and hat-box. He started rather better than an hour ago. I believe he expected to meet the colonel there.” “Very good!” replied his mistress, flushing, never- theless, with disappointment; “I shall not wait any longer. Let the dinner be seryed.”’ The dinner did not prove a much greater success than the breakfast had been, and after lingering in the drawing-room till nearly midnight, Lady Ethel betook herself to bed, in a highly excited and indignant frame of mind. She had forgotten her fears of meeting Colonel Bainbridge again by that time, and only felt greatly injured by the slight put upon her. And here Lady Ethel shed a passing shower of hot, smarting tears, which she brushed away proudly, call- ing herself a natural and an idiot to care two straws if | the man went and hung himself or no. If he left her. and in peace, so much the better. Thank Heaven she was not entirely destitute of friends, and wouid man- age to enjoy life as well without him as with him, per- | haps better—who knew? Vive la bagatelle! And so, when the next day and the day snccene and the day after that came and went, without bringing her a let-. ter from her husband—not one line of entreaty, re- proach, or explanation—Lady Ethel’s spirits rose, ap- Whenever she could go alone, she showed herself in public, laughing, talking, and flirting, just as the fancy took her, and but too often, to the disgust of Lady Clevedon, with the Marquis de Lacarras in her train. The sober portion of the fashionable world shook their heads, and began to ask each other where was Colonel Bainbridge; but Lady Ethel lightly disposed of all inquiries by the an- nouncement of her father-in-law’s illness, and her de- termination to take a littie more out of the season be- fore she retired into crape and bombazine. The countess of Clevedon appeared to regard the mat- ter in a far more serious light, and it was edifying to hear the prudent cautions she thought fit to adminis- ter to her volatile stepdaughter at this juncture, and the sudden and deep interest she evinced for the feel- ings of Colonel Bainbridge. f “LT really do think, my dear Ethel,’’ she said, in her most maternal manner, ‘‘ that you should keep at home during the melancholy period of uncertainty respect- ing old Mr, Bainbridge’s health. Why, he may be lying dead at this very moment; and just consider what your dear husband’s feelings would be were he to return home to-night with the mournful tidings, and find you dancing at Lady Taunton’s ball. It does not look well —indeed it does not.” “I do not care one straw about looks, Gertrude: you you are so over-prudent that you see these this in too prudent alight. Please to remember that Lam a married woman, and supposed to be competent to judge for myself. And as for my father-in-law being dead, he is much more likely eating a hearty dinner; turn to London.” Bainbridge was actually gone; and in the face of the an» nouncement of his death, which appeared in the Times shortly afterwards, Lady Ethel, unable longer to deny the truth, was compelled, in decency, to remain in. oie until suitable mourning had been provided for er. But still she received no intimation that the husband. thought of, or regretted, the misunderstanding that: had arisen between them ; and, in spite of her affected. gayety, her heart was daily becoming heavier beneath. the influence of a suppressed longing to see him again, and a growing fear that her conduct might produce more serious consequences than she had anticipated. it was but afew days after her reappearance in so- ciety, that, as she was reclining, a most fashionable. mass of bugles and black crape, upon the cushions of her open carriage, the block which usually takes place in the Row every afternoon during the season brought her to a standstill alongside of Lady Clevedon. ‘* Well, my dear; so you have got your husband back again. I congratulate you !’’ exclaimed that lady, who, with the baby earl, got up in a manner regardless of expense, by her side, and more than a suspicion of rouge on her cheeks, was attracting, as she desired, universal attention. Lady Ethel’s heart gave a rapid bound: but no one would have guessed it from her manner. “* Where did you see him ?’”’ she demanded, as though. she had just parted from him herself. ‘‘Down by the Horse Guards, about an hour ago. I stopped the carriage to speak tohim. You find hima little altered, do you not? Ithought him looking re- markably dark and thin. You should have persuaded him to drive with you. The air would do him good.” “Colonel Bainbridge does2’t like the Row,’ mur- mured Lady Ethel, evasively. “Few men do—married men, that is tosay. I wonder when we shall be able tomove. Haye you seen Victor to-day ?”’ with a searching glance. ‘* He looked in for half an hour after breakfast.” ‘Ah! very sociable and friendly, but not always so safe. He'll have to give up some of those free-and- easy little habits, my dear, now that your lord and master has returned. Well, here we are actually mak- ing progress at last. Good-bye. Ishall look in upon. you in the course of a day or two;” and the next mo- ment, to Lady Ethel’s infinite relief, the carriages wore separated, He had come back, then—was in London, most likely in Curzon Street, at that very time ; and sick with im- patience to meet him again and have an explanation re- garding her conduct and his own, as soon as she was satisfied that her stepmother was no longer wituess to her proceedings, Lady Ethel pulled the check-string and gave the order to be driven home at once, Arrived at Curzon Street, she had hardly descended the steps of her carriage before she put the eager in- quiry, ‘Any one called ?” to the servant who received. her, and an answer in the negative made her spirits sink to zero. : 1 ‘‘ He was trying her too far,” she said indignantly to herself, as, without waiting for the assistance of Louise, she tore off bonnet and mantle, and cast them impet- ously upon the bed. “It was all very well for aman to show he had some pride; she knew that she was esteemed rather proud herself; but when it came,” pulling a glove inside out, and flinging it to the other endof the foom, “when it came to treating her with utter contempt—walking about the place openly, and speaking to her friends ge he had even advised her" of his return,” here flew the second glove after its: fellow, ‘‘she would let him know pretty plainly that. she was not going to stand such behavior.” And, sit~ ting down upon the strength of it, Lady Ethel fanned: her heated face, while she impatiently tapped the,car- pet with her foot. ‘ But, notwithstanding her ire, she took care to make a most becoming toilet for that day’s dinner, and to issue an inrmediate command that she was ‘‘ at home ’”’ to no one for the afternoon or evening. At length, it was nearly ten o’clock, and the last. postman commenced to give his double knocks all up the street. Ashe stopped at their door, Lady Ethel thought little of it, for her co dence was, like: that of most ladies, voluminous; but when the ser- vant, bringing up the tea-tray, handed her a letter in her husband’s handwriting, all her demeanor changed. ** He was not coming, then—he og a night in town, and not at his own house—he chose to write instead of speaking to her—well,” with a heaving breast and something which felt very uncomfortable just at the top of her throat, ‘‘ we shall see, Colonel Bainbridge, which loses the most by that proceeding.” “No, I don’t want any tea; you can take it away,” she exclaimed, with such uncalled-for energy, to the servant in Mone that he beat a hasty retreat again, and she was left alone with her unwelcome messenger. The door had scarcely closed before she had torn open and devoured it. _ CHAPTER XL. TWO LETTERS. Bur as she did so, standing tremblingly beneath the gas-light, her cheek paled and paled until it was as. white as the flowing robes she wore. “How am I to address you?” (so the letter ran) ‘after the bitter truths with which you have acquaint- ed me? You know by this time that my father is dead ; that, thanks to you, he died without the small consol- ation of seeing me again—but for which now I feel almost thankful. If would have been too hard, per- haps, for me to stand face to face with him and death, and so coneeal what all the world must soon guess— that you haye destroyed my happiness. - “TL have no intention of reproaching you. T ascribe the error to your artificial rearing, and the sanctity Though at this moment, as I have. related, old Mr.' with which, in these days, marriage is invested, more
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than to yourself; but you must forgive me if, under the circumstances, I find it impossible to live with you again. Could you have loved me, if only with a friend’s affection, I would have labored to procure your hap- piness to my life’s end; but my spirit rebels against being further subjected to the avowal of your scorn. Ihave thought it better, therefore, both fur yourself and me, that we should not meet again, and with that intention, have made arrangements for joining a bat- tery of artillery in India. “IT start to-morrow, and, if fortunate, may never re- turn to provoke unfayorable comparisons in your mind again. But do notimagine I have forgotten what I owe to you, or neglected to make arrangements for your comfertin my absence. There is norivalin my thoughts of you, nor will there ever be. “‘Cranshaws is ours, as you will surmise; and if at any time you have a fancy to spend a few weeks there, ou have but to write to the steward, and give orders hat itis prepared for your reception; but, as a resi- dence, you will prefer the house in Curzon Street; and the management of your income (which will be the same as it is now) I have placed in the hands of my so- licitors, who have advices from me to give you all the assistance in their power. If, in my hurry, and the confused state of my mind, I have overlooked anything which is necessary to your well-being, you need but to apply to those gentlemen in order to procureit. I met our step-mother to-day, and spoke to her; and, fear- ‘ul of the gossip that is certain to arise from my sud- den departure, Lhave written, for your sake, to tell her that Iam unexpectedly ordered back to service in India, and, not having yet made up my mind to resign the army, we have: decided upon a brief separation. Whether tocarry out or deny my pious fraud, I leave to yourself, I had not the courage to confess the truth. And now I must close this, for I dare not trust myself to speak to you of what I have lost in losing the con- viction that you loved me, You married me (I had it from your own lips) for your convenience, andimy fatal money was the means of bringing down this curse upon me. Well, then take my money. I shall never bear the sight or touch of it again; and thank me for re- moving myself out of your presence. However unwill- ing, I could never prove anything but a shame and a reproach to you. « THOMAS BAINBRIDGE,” So the letter ended. She stood with it in her hand, shaking—shaking like an aspen leaf—feeling as though she should fall upon the ground, and yet too proud to cry even though she was alone. But an hour later she was still standing there—still gazing at the letter in her hand—still slowly apt it over and over again, and trying to comprehenc all the consequences that it involved; to extract all the ey oy insult that it contained, and to fortify her pride by the conviction that it had been penned with the hope of making her suffer in return for the suffering she had entailed upon im—of giving her back indifference for indifference, scorn for scorn. an] slight ior slight. And it was. t.ts self-deception that or a wile sastained her. Woanu- like—because the ian had ielt su ikcsonly in the con- struction of those sentences that he u.{ sof dared to trust himself to use one affectionate expression—she judged that they had emanated from a spirit heartlessly cold and severe. She had no power to interpret the proud, despairing toné which breathed in every word which forbid his making any fresh appeals to a love which he did not believe existed for him—which be- trayed that, although mortally wounded by her cruelty, he was resolved to die and make no sign. She only searched eagerly from one sheet to another for the familiar forms in which he had been wont to tell her he adored her, and, disappointed at failing to find them, assumed, or choose to pretend that she Sennen that her husband had never really cared for er. “No more than I have cared for him,’ she exclaimed, as, ashy pale, she started from her reverie, and, tearing the paper into a dozen pieces, scattered_ them upon the floor. “So much for your letter, Colonel Bainbridge. You hope, perhaps, that I shall not enjoy my life so much without the protection of your presence. You will live to find yourself wonlerfully mistaken.’” And she was about to quit the room. Butasshe stood upon the threshold, she turned her head, and two weary eyes | rested lingeringly upon the morsels of paper cast upon the ground. Was it advisable to leave them there, for any servant, who was curious, to place together in their original position and peruse’? The credit of her name was involved in such an accident. So, slowly retracing her steps, Lady Ethel gathered up the fluttering frag- ments and conveyed them to her room. And when Louise had left her to herself, she drew out needle and thread, and carefully stitched them together again. It would be as well, she thought, to preserve a written re- cord of the man’s barbarity. Could she have read a hurried scrawl from him, which about the same time reached the hands of Margaret Henderson, Lady Ethel would surely have altered, if not her whole opinion, at least that final substantive. “TI write to you on the eve of my departure,” it com- menced, “and in great distress of mind ; so pray for- give all but the intention with which these words are written. Maggie, at this moment, when there is no possibility of changing, I am haunted by a miserable doubt whether, in deciding to leave England, I haye ated either wisely or well. To live again with her un- der present circumstances appears impossible to me ; but perhaps I ought to’ have sacrificed my own feelings in order to afford her the protection of the love which she has trampled under foot. Sheis so young, sc beau- tifu?, and so admired! Ifany harm comes to her, I shall never forgive myself. Dear Maggie—my sister more than my cousin—I entreat you, by the memory of the affection of our childhood, to befriend my darling, should it ever be in your power to do so. She appeared to like you. Ithink you are the only person in our Lan See ee ee ee eee eee eee SS ee ae ee eee ee 7 LOXZD AND MASTER. HER family she was ever intimate with; and, though it seems improbable, a dread oppresses me that the day may dawn when she will look round for a woman-friend and find none. Should she be sick or in trouble (though I pray God to protect her from every ill), and express the least desire for your presence, depend onyou to gotoher. Thisis my last charge, Maggie ; and should it be the last I ever make, I shall be a happier man than Iam now. Cheer up my mother by every means in your power, and be, as you have always been, the good angel of our household. I have no sweeter mem- ory to-carry into exile than that of the affectionate so- licitude which in your person is associated with every incident of my lifeand every individual of my family. This letter, scribbled during the last hour that Col- onel Bainbridge spent in England, was marked “ pri- yate,’’ but Maggie had no secrets from Aunt Letty. “What do you think of it?”’ inquired Miss Lloyd, as she returned the epistle to her niece. “It is much more than I deserve,” said Maggie, with glistening eyes. “We won't argue about that, my dear, and it was not what Imeant. What do youthink of the prospect of new work carved out for you? Ah, Maggie, and you thought you would be so idle |” “Te is scarcely a prospect, auntie.” “My dear,” said Miss Lloyd seriously, ‘‘it is more than enough for prayer to turn into a certainty, and something tells me it will come to pass, Lady Ethel is very willful, Maggie, but she is not utterly heartless. It will be a grand thing to bring those two together again |" “Oh, if one but could!’ exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands; “it would make him so happy !”’ : «And half repay you for the past, my child.’’ “ Half, Aunt Letty!, It would be full measure— —— down and running over,’’ replied Maggie Hen- rson. CHAPTER XLI, OPEN WAR. WHEN Lady Ethel rose from her bed upon the follow- ing morning, she was quite convinced that she had been much ill-treated by her husband, and resolved to let the world see his absence had no power to affect her happiness ; to which intent, it being the day on which she usually received her friends, she attired herself with the greatest care (for she knew a woman’s dress is taken as index of her 1ind), and was in her drawing- | room, lovely, languid, and complacent-looking as ever, ready to receive the first visitor who had arrived. | The first was Lady Clevedon, who, red-hot from the | receipt of Colonel Bainbridge’s letter, appeared full thirty minutes before the hour of reception. “My dear Ethel !’’ she exclaimed, “I have come early on purpose, that I might speak to you alone. What is this extraordiuary freak on the part of your husband ? Is he mad, or have }ou cuarrelled with each other? We shall have al. .ou.cu mnging with the scandal Le- | iore anotner ..) is over.’ “Wot ) wudal?” demande. Laty Ethel, | ‘ay usar, you know what I isc.u us 1c) as I do. Why, Colonel Bainbridge running uway .-om you in this manner before you have beck muricd jour months. What on earth is the reason of it?’ “IT understood Colonel Bainbridge to say that he had informed you, Gertrude.” ‘He wrote me a few lines to say he was ordered at once upon foreign service, but I want to know why he went. He has money enough to buy up half the regi- ments in England, Why did he not sell out of the army when you first married him?” “t should think that was his own business. A man may surely be allowed to judge for himself in such a matter.” “But to leaye you here alone so soon after marriage, and in the height of the season! I think it is perfectly improper; and if your poor dear father had been alive, Colonel Bainbridge would not have dared treat you in so nonchalant a manner.” . Lady Ethel flushed. “ Dared, Gertrude! what daring is there in the mat- ter? One would imagine he had gone without consuit- ing me.”’ “You should not have let him go; you should have persuaded him to stay at home,” said Lady Clevedon, hotly; for she was by no means pleased to see the way payed so completely for the attentions of the Marquis de Lacarras, , “That is a subject for argument,” replied her step- daughter, as she played with a fan. “No one will believe but that there is something wrong between you.” ‘Is that the case whenever a married officer has to join his regimeswt? It must cause a good deal of awk- wardness,’’ was the laconic reply. “Don’t talk nonsense, Ethel. You know how widely Colonel Bainbridge’s circumstances differ trom those of most people. He has no need to remain in the army at | all ” | “Not from a mercenary point of view perhaps; but he dislikes a country life, hates an idle one, and is fond of his pro‘ession. I should think that was reason sufti- cient for his doing as he pleases.” “People will say he ought to be fonder of his wife,” remarked the countess, in a tone of malice. “People always say so much more than there is any occasion to do. They might leave that question to be settled by his wife.”’ “But how do you like the prospect yourself, Ethel ? You will have to keep very quiet during Colonel Bain- bridge’s absence, you know.” “Yes? In what way?” “Why, you can hardly go about to theaters and balls as-you have beén doing, surely ?” “My husband has laid no restriction on me.” | “But I suppose you will go into the country—to | hushand—and, if she went. too far, even to make x] Cranshaws, or to his mother, will you not? You would never think of staying in Curzon Street alone.” . Lady Ethel opened her blue eyes. ‘And why not? Is there any chance of my being de~ voured by the natives ?”’ “Colonel Bainbridge could never desire you to reside- in town and mix in the gayeties of the season without the safeguard of his presence !”’ exclaimed Lady Cleve~ | don, with virtuous indignation. The idea of her step-- daughter reigning there in solitary, unprotected beauty, and throwing wide her doors alike to simple and noble (Victor de Lacarras included), was gall to her. At any risk, the scaudal must be prevented; and the rapid ad- vance in property and morals which the thought occasioned in the countess’s mind was almost as wonder-~ ful to behold as the Indian juggler’s mango-tree, which: grows as you gaze upon it. ‘ “Did he tell you so?” demanded Ethel. “No; how should he be aware of the customs whick. obtain in our sphere of life? But modesty, and decor- um, and a womanly sense of what is right to be done, Ethel, no less than a knowledge of the world (owr world): warn me that you are contemplating an act which will be ruinous to your character, both for propriety and at- tachment to your husband.” “Dear me! I had no idea it was so much as all that |’” said Lady Ethel, with provoking coolness. ‘ But, if the: world knew that Colonel Bainbridge had especially de- sired me to remain in Curzon Street, perhaps it would alter its opinion, and give me instead some credit for conjugal obedience.” ‘Tt is not possible he can have done so !’’ “Tt is more than possible ; it is true!” “Well! Icould not have conceived he had so little | Sense !”” replied Lady Clevedon, who was trembling witb. vexation, “and you must forgive me ifI cannot uphold his decision. I confess that 1 have been reared to see things in a different light, and I should not think I was: | following the wishes of your dear lost father if I coun- tenanced his daughter ina step of which I am certain he would have disapproved. When your husband was. with you, Ethel, Iwas always glad to see you at my house, as you well knuw; but without his protection,, Ishould not consider 1 was doing my duty in asking, you there, Balls and parties are not fit scenes for a young wife separated from her husband; and it you can- not see that for yourself, I am the proper person to- point it out to you.” “How extremely obliged lam to your ladyship for the tender solicitude you show for my good name!" re- plied Lady Ethel, Treppeen “ To “be excluded from your rewnions will be a terrible trial to me; but I will try to bear it with all the fortitude of which Iam mis-- tress, sooner than cast the slightest slur upon your: hitherto spotless character,” “ Ah, you may laugh!” exclaimed the countess, who had risen to her feet; ‘‘ but what I tell you is the truth. You have chosen to make a thorough Mesaillance—to lower yourseli to the level of a tradestaan’s daughter- in-law—and it Lehooves you, in consequence, to be more: particular thin © ..1s \ at you do or say, lest tue world should tuin. tua. .o.. ave lost the powcr of ris- ing abeve your surroundizs, At this sitter taunt Lady buie:, Whe had alse risen to her tect, turned deadiy paie. She could cust asneerx herself at the family ot her adoption, but it was net in human nature to take it quietiy from stranger lips, and those the lips aeher stepmother. he flew at Lady Clevedon with her own weapons, ; “A mesalliance? Ana it [ nave hasten its fulfillment » who urged me onto it, by goad and taunt ? who tried wo take my .over Irom me’ There are no secrets between us, Lady Cleyedon, though we may not have: had the opportunity to give them vent,” t ; ee me Phe olen you Prins. ot ?”? ay ‘ “Yam tarking of you and the Marquis de Lacarras,who wil? never be more to you than he is now, for all the trouble you have taken to ensnare him.” “IT shall not stay hereto be insulted!” exelaimed Lady’ Clevedon, as she moved towards the door, “IT haveno wish that you shou!d stay at ail, There has: been'war between us long enough, Letit be open drom this. time nencetorward,” “TI believe that you are mad !” replied her stepmother, too angry to know what to say. “Tdare say thatIlam, said Lady Ethel. “Four month's: close companionship with a tradesman’s son must be cause sufficient, in your eyes, to turn the stro. bres, And, therefore, perhaps you will the more readily excuse the ec- centricity of my avowai that I have litt.e Poa to see you nere again, though X conclude that the customs wnich obtain in your sphere (l have quitted it myself, please. He eat would prevent your visiting the tradesman’s daughter-in- jaw, whom astern sense of duty prevents your inviting to veka witha tning eourteny, Kady Babel Batnbrd , With a sweeping courtesy, bridge bowed her indignant stepmother out of roomy, Who Gould have guessed, that saw her half aw hour after- wards sipping chocolate with her numerous visitors, and dis- pensing small talk on every side, that jus’ ht so sharp a battle in her husband’s cause? Victor de arras. was among the number of her guests; Lady @levedon had passed him inthe hall, and, to her great bee seni been quite unable to persuade him to turn baek and drive in the: with her instead. Here he was, lounging his easy,. alf insolent fashion, over the sofa of her stepdaughter, by: look and manner daring any one to take his place. Regarding him‘as the proximate, though unconscious, agent: in her present trouble, Lady Ethel would have felt most dis- inclined to make him welcome, had it not been for the in-- terview through which she had just passed. Each glance or word from Monsieur de Lacarras, recalling, as. they did, the: anger and the coldness of her husband, made her feel un- comfortable ; but Lady Clevedon's insolent truths were ring-- ing in her ears, and she could not afford to give the Marquis: his conge just yet. not. have it in her power (sorshe: who did ail in her power to» Her stepmother should Non gio to point at her for being deserted by lover and hus- band at the same time; she should not say that she had: at- mr to number Victor de Lacarras am satellites, and failed to do so; but she should live to see bis attentions—those attentions for which the countess would. give all that she possessed—pressed on her, and cast away as less than worthless. For that was the estimation at which she had learned to hold them. Pride and the love of revenge: were still pects at work in Lady Ethel’s heart, prompting her to trifle with her eharacter—with the good name ofi pes f Ck of the happiness which still remained to her. But it was am her ring of +
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B @zultemont—a distraction from the troubles which, though wmeacokaowledged, pressed hivavily upon her heart; and Lady Téthel went in for it as hoc dlessly as the soldier, rushing into ‘batide, shuts his eyes to the probability of being wounded, or ‘eft dead upon the field. She iaughed and talked, that after- noon, in her soft rippling way (one of her great charms was, that, unexcited, she never laughed or talked in a loud voice), _as though she had been the most contented creature in exist- -ence; and when guests alluded to her husband’s sudden de- parture in terms of pity or surprise, was ready wiw an answer calculated, in scoming, to set all shinies right. His absence was not to be for long; Colonel Bainbridge _re- quired change: his father’s death had been a shock to him; ,and, for her part, she was glad to know he was not compelled to remainin London. ‘so pass through the remainder of the season would have been an aggravation of his trial, and he could return when he chose. ~ : pins. ““But did you not long to be able to go with him ?” inquired sone lady, who considercd separation from her husband to be diving eath. *“Colonel Bainbridge would not allow me,” was her hos- tess’s ed “the climate, the hurried journey, and proba- *bility of his early return, were all against such an idea.” **T suppose so. But how you will count the hours until you «see him again,” : Lady Ethel turned her face away—the old sickly sensation shad crept over her as. she listened to her friend’s remarks. “What wonld she not have given for such happy confidence. “Must we resign ourselves to miss you at the opera?” be et ey Victor de Lacarras. Z * Vhy should you?’ I shall probably go oftener than:be- ore. ‘What a pleasure to hear you say so! You donot intend, then, to shut yourself up from all society ?” 7 ) “Most certainly not! Do you consider me addicted to soli- ‘tary confinement ?” “And your friends may sometimes claim the honor of being ~admitted,here ?” : ““My. friends are always welcome,” replied Lady Ethel, though she thought, a moment afterwacds, that she might thaye made him a more prudent answer. he And, accustomed to be courted by insinuations and innuen- «does, the Marquis de Lacarras took her words for.much more than they were intended to convey. CHAPTER XLII THE MARQUIS DE LACARRAS HEARS THE TRUTH. __ IT was June when Colonel Bainbridge started for the East. London was as full as it could be, and the season considered -atits height. Dejeuners, botanical fetes, ‘*at homes,” din- P pe na and dancing-parties, followed each other in rapid “succession; every hour of every day was filled up by the fash- ionable world, with some fresh scene of folly; and wherever mirth was loudest and youth and beauty most abundant, was to be met the bride and. belle of the season—Lady Ethel Bainbridge. Everywhere, that isto say, with the exception -ot Lady Clevedon’s reunions; and as the two ladies had re- fused to speak to one another since the day of their quarrel, it was not surprising that the countess rigidly adhered to the resolution which had been the primary cause of it. Her firmness had its drawbacks, however; for she found, to her annoyance, that the Marquis de Lacarras could be as obsti- nate as she was, and, because her fair stepdaughter ceased to grace her assemblies, too often absented himself from them also, in order to spend the evening hanging over Lady Ethel’s stall at the overa, or dancing attendance on her at a ball. ' _ Indeed,the constancy with which he adhered to her aeety had provoked comment from half the town. People talked. All the women of her acquaintance (and especially those who had set their caps at the marquis and failed to at- tract him) were properly scandalized at her behavior; and seven men—those lenient judges when a pretty woman is put into the prisoner’s dock—began to say it was a great pity that Bainbridge should have no hint given him of how aftairs “were A ke on at home. And if the “opie: was impertinent upon the subject, the. «Countess of Clevedon was perfectly furious. ‘Still, the object of their solicitude was not anxious about ‘herself. She knew that she felt ill at times, and was oftener ree tay than not, but she attributed the unwelcome change ‘to the heat of the weather and the life of excitement she was Aeading, and often affirmed that assoon as the season was vover she should be quite well 1 She was accustomed at this period to keep her bed till about noon, a cireumstance -which was not entirely attributable to the late hours she in. -dulged in, The fact being that, when down:stairs, Lady Ethel missed, and sometimes to a degree that was insup- rtably painfui to her, all those little fond cares and atten- ‘tions by which, since the moment of her marriage, her life v-had been surrounded. She missed the bright genial glance, too often disregarded, tthat had welcomed her at every fresh meeting; the chair and foot-stool set for her convenience; the news, political or otherwise, which she was too idle to glean from the papers for herself; above all—oh, remorseful, bitterly remorseful amemory !—aboye all, the kind arm around her waist, or hand ‘upon her shoulder, and the warm kiss laid upon her lips. On -how many occasions had she jerked that hand away, or ‘turned her own face to one side; and how much would she ‘have given now to feel herself a prisoner in his grasp. She edid not say so, bfft she felt it; and it required but one more ‘turn in Fortune’s wheel to make her openly confess she was -enamored “f her husband. And Fortune’s hand was on the tire. It ws a warm, hazy, sleepy afternoon towards the lose of Juno; the heavy air that stole into the house, laden with the scented breath of flowering stocks and mignonnette had no power to stir the smallest atom of the canvass-awn- ings stretched across the windows; the whole town seemed salumbering; the noise of wheels had ceased; the dogs even found it was too hot to bark; and the pleasant dripping of ‘the water ¢irts upon the burning pavements was the only ‘sound which made itself apparent. Lady-Ethel, having de- mied herself to visitors, was lying, clad in a white muslin “wrapper, upon a sofain her drawing-room; but neither book sner work was in her hand. She had been up late the night ‘befere, ata brilliant entertainment given by somo of her -aristocratic friends, where she had looked so beautiful, ana achieved so great a triumph, that one of the highest person- ages im the realm had nse her from every woman there, and, dancing with her half the evening, appeared unable to tear herself frém her society. Yet it could scarcely have been of this flattering circumstance that Lady Ethel was dreaming now; for, as her head Jay back upon the cushions of the sofa, two tears had stolen from under her closed e;o- lids, and were standing on her cheek. How silent everything appeared—how solitary! She wondered what o clock it was in India, amd if the sun could possibly shine brighter there ‘than he was shining over London. hat nonsense! As if ‘it signified !—Colonel Bainbridge had been gone. a month; by “that time he must be in Bengal. What a distance! They -could have no legitimate reason theneeforth for complaining ‘that they troubled one another, 5 She had received no communication from him since he quitted England; but she had not expected it. What could ' the have to say? She supposed he wonld never writc to her If she died (and she often wished that she were dead; ere would be an end of trouble then, and all this fretting HER LOBD AND MASTER. jealousy and suspicion), he would read it in the Times,” if the servants Were sharp enough to putitin, ‘* ila, ha!—and if he—and if anything were to happen to him—if they were never to~to—to—’”’? And here the twin tears, fluding them- selves dislodged from their position by a couple more, rolled slowly down her cheek and settled in the corners of her mouth. At this juncture the drawing-room door was ¢cau- tiously pushed open. “Pray don’t let me disturb you,” said the soft voice of the Marquis de Lacarras. Lady Ethel sprang to a sitting posture. She had consider- ed herself secure against all witnesses, and the present in- trusion did not seem to please her. “T told the servants to say ‘not at home,” she uttered, hastily, the tears glisteuing on her eyelashes. “Not tu me, Lhope,” replied the marquis, who was quick Lo notice the traces of her Bg gan “but if my presence is 0.” unwelcome to you, ees Ethel, I will sire tar smiss him. Common courtesy forbade she shoul “Tt does not signify, monsieur. hardly expected that any one would take the trouble to call on so oppressive an afternoon.”? “You cannot be in earnest when you talk of trouble to me,” he said, as he drew his chair beside her couch; ‘‘ but what I must have are those tell-tale drops I see upon your cheek? interrupted a reverie, Lady Ethel.” “*Perhaps you did,” she answered, dashing her hand across her wet eyes. “ A pleasant one?” an ate Cela depend! Pcople have such different opinions, mon- sieur.’ “Shall I divine its subject?” “ Tf you can.”? ** You are dreaming of the absent. Lady Ethel colo really guess her meditations. “No harm if I were,” she answered, lightly, as her thoughts flew to Bengal. “‘Harm! who says 80? Ethel.” “Indeed! Have you become an advocate for constancy, then, monsieur?”’ He bit his lip. “Tteel that my own unfortunate mistake will never be our eyes, hor assume a differant coloring to forgiven in that with which it was first invested by your fancy.” But this was a topic which had become distasteful to his hearer. ‘*Excuse me, monsieur! There is no oceasion to revert to it.” ‘* And yet it has left its sting behind it, Lady Ethel.” “If so, it is a sting totally unconnected with itself,” she ex- swered proudly, ‘‘and one of which you probably know more than I do.” ““You cannot deceive me thus! he exclaimed, eagerly. “Ethel! you know that you are not happy—you cannot de- ny the truth to me.” ‘*T have no wish to deny it.”’ ‘‘ And that. I am the cause, the base unpardonable cause.” “T am glad you have come to view the past in its true light, monsieur, But I have sufficient reasons for my unhappinest (if you will have it that I am unhappy) without laying the blame on you. My present position is attributable to my own fault.” *“ But from the consequences of which I would rescue you at the peril of my life. Ethel there must be no further mis- understanding between us. We have missed our happine;s once; let us secure it for the future. For your sake. and ia order to retrieve my folly, I would brave everything an. dare everything. Only say that you will accept the protec- tion of my love be gis the horrors of the pit in which my blindke.ss plunge you,” Herc: t to gai® xr side; but she rose also, and, as he coneluded and his eyes met hers, he read at once that he had made an error. Lady Ethel was strongly agitated; but it was the emotion consequent on anger rather than on love, and by look and gesture she forbade him to approach her nearer. . ‘Monsieur de Lacarras,”’ she ejaculated at last, “<I think that in this matter you have made a slight mistake.”? er tone of irony galled him. “ You may say so, Lady Ethel,” he replied, ‘but I am not bound to take your word against my own interests, Mis- taken, when I have had opportunity to interpret your every word and look for a month past, and the knowledge that no one among your numerous admirers has been so honored by your open preferance as myself.” She covered her face with her hands—trembling hands, that almost refused to be held in that position. **Oh, you are right,” she answered, mournfully; ‘‘ you are uite right; Ihave nothing to complain of—I have brought this on myself.” “ How could love err?” he said enthusiastically, “ or fail toread the heart that beats for it? It is no such easy mat- ter to conceal our féélings, dearest; spite of ourselves they shine out of our eyes. I knew you loved me.” “Oh, no, no, no!” she exclaimed, retreating farther from him with each word. ‘Indeed you are quite wrong. I care for—for no one?” “Except myself,” he answered, with a smile of confidence. “Come, my dear girl, you have teased me long enough. My memory is not so short that I have quite forgotten a certain balcony in Park Lane, where the only woman that I ever cared for told me she loyed me in return. You have but to repeat the same words.” ut th? sacrilegious hand he tried to lay on her was ar- rested by the expression of her face. “How dare you mention it?” she said, indignantly. “Ts it so bitter a romembrance, then?” “The bitterest I have,” was the quick answer, ‘ though not for the reasons you attribute tote. Listen, monsieur. Ido not blame you for the insult of to-day, because I ac- knowledge I have brought it on myself; but you shall not leave this hc<o until you learn the motive that actuated my behavior.” She turned very pale then, and for a moment almost seem- ed as though she would faint; for to humble herself before another was a new and difficult position for Lady Ethel Bainbridge. ‘J confess,” she went on, presently, while silently he waited for her explanation; ‘‘ I confess that in my desire to triumph over Lady Clevedon, and for—for one other reason, I have permitted you to associate more familiarly with me of late than I should have done; but I never dreamt you would presume to go so far as this.” “You thought, in fact, that Iwas made of stone, or any other substance, not generally considered inflammable,” he said, sarcastically. “T am afraid I thought very little about the matter; or, if I did, it. was not in the direction you imagine, monsieur.” “ May I ask in which, then?” She did not immediately reply, and from the rapid man- nerin which her bosom rose and fell beneath the flimsy materials of her dress, he understood how great an effort it was to her to speak. : “Tam going to tell you,”’ she said Le penat tf “ When— when you deserted. me, monsieur; yes, deserted—there is no other word for it—and I rushed heedlessly into my destiny, I took as much misery to scatter broadcast in the family I en- a . a 1 = Pray, be seated; but I ; She had not imagined that he would Not. myself, most certainly, T should be the last person inthe world to blame you, Lady It has been both forgiven and forgotten long ago, and we have agreed to be good friends, rom his chair as he was speaking, wa coe intent 5 ne — ~~~, tered as you had endowed, me with—and that was no small amount, as I have little need to tell you.” “You loved me then,” he exclaimed, triumphantly, think- ing he perceived his advantage. “ Excuse me,’’ she replied, ‘‘ I despised you then; the love died on the evening that I saw you with my stepmother.” “Ten thousand curses on her’’—— he commenced; but Lady Ethel went on without heeding the interruption. ‘“ What treatment should you say that under such circum stances I deserved? What treatment would you have given me haa I become your wife in order to revenge the shght cast on me by another? The treatment I have received, Monsieur de Lacarras, is unmitigated love and tenderness.” “You call it love that leaves you by yourself—alone and unprotected—to be the subject of scurrilous reports, and the object_of universal admiration! Love guards its treasure, pac Ethel, in a better way than that!’ “ But it is my own fault I am so left,” she eagerly rejoined; “T dared him to it. Igoaded him on_by sneers and im- uutations ; I said I did not love him—that I had married him or mere convenience. I said that—that— Oh, my God!” cried Lady Ethel, as, suddenly breaking down, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears, ‘I have lost him —my dearest and my best—forever; I shall never, never’ see him any more!” and for a few moments there was no sound to be heard in that apartment but her unrestrained and choking sobs. Victor de Lacarras seized the hat which he carried in his hand, and vigorously commenced to smooth the nap beneath the influence of of his kidded palm. + “This is deeply interesting,’’ he observed, pregranly when, Lady Ethel's emotion having partially ae ded, he thought he had some chance of being heard. ‘“T had no idea that monsieur votre mari had made such an impression on your heart, or I might have hesitated to convey the sentiments of my own to you. But you are doubtless m the right, Lady Ethel; to profess devotion to the man she has married is al- ways the most respectable, if not the most pleasant, course for a woman to pursue. And in your case I should think respectability was as much as you could aspire to.” e coarse insinuation did not escape her notice, and love made her equal to the emergency of meeting it. “If your conduct is noble, monsieur,” she exclaimed, an- filly. ‘* Heaven save from more than that which is respecta- le! But if your words are intended to convey a reproach towards that man—in whose presence you are no more worthy to sit than my footman is to take his ease before me in this drawing-room—I tell you that I-would not change my husband, little as you think of him, for the bluest.blood that runs in Christendom. He isnot noble in your acceptation ot the word—looking on you, and on my stepmother, and others like you, I can say, thank God! he is not noble—but he has the noblest body, the noblest heart, the noblest soul, of any man who ‘walks the earth this day.. And I love him! Heaven is my witness that Ilove him as much as ever he loved me! and:I have wronged him, and driven him away; and J am the most miserable woman that God ever made; Fancy how much I love him!” she exclaimed, in a sudden torrent of eagerness, as with clasped hands she started for- ward and regarded the marquis in the face; “fancy to what a pitch: of despair this parting has reduced me, that I can humble myself before you to-day, regardless of everything but to preserve my faith to aim!’ Yes; it was true; Lady Ethel had humbled herself at length ; and from that hour she commenced to rise. “Tam sure I am only too glad to hear it,” returned Victor de Lacarras, in a voice of the most studied politeness; ‘‘ but, under the circumstances, what cam I do but offer you my heartfelt congratulations? I could scarcely be expected to pursue and bring him back again.” “But you can remove yourself from my presence,’ she said, nettled at the continued sarcasm of his “tone; “and I reerihe alone, monsieur! Your visit has agitated me, and eel ill. “T have no pleasure except in miowne our wishes,’ he answered; ‘‘and for the same reason, Lai thel, I shall not ey you again;’* and with a courteous inclination he left the room. ; “He is gone!” she said, in a hysterical manner, as the slam of the hall-door reached her ear}; ‘they are all gone now— there is not one left!” and then, with a bewildered look, and the sharp ery, “‘Oh! my love! my leve! will you never come back to me?” Lady Ethel, after making one or two feeble pe SAN to maintain her equilibrium, sank fainting to the ground. : CHAPTER XLIII. A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. Ir was fortunate that Louise, desiring to learn her lady’s wishes with respect to the trimming of @ ball-dress, knocked at the door a few minutes afterwards, and, receiving no reply to her appeal, ventured to pass the threshold, and found her mistress stretched upon the floor. Else Lady Ethel’s illness might haye been attended with yery serious consequences, for though the German maid quickly procured assistance and conveyed her to her room, unlike her former attacks, she did not regain consciousness from this till Dr, Chalmers was sit- ting by her bedside. ¥ : cf The first things which became patent to her returning senses were the pressure of his fingers on her wrist, and a gen- eral perception of strong odors, and being very cold about the head and breast. ‘ “What is the matter?” she said, in a frightened manner, as she opened her eyes and attempted to quit the recumbent osture, r ‘* Nothing—nothing,” Oe ge thé calm tone of the physi- cian, as with gentle force he replaced her on the bed; “you have been a little faint, that is all; but you must keep quiet for an hour or two.’ Lady Ethel threw herself back upon the pillows with a sigh. , vi I feel terrible weak. Have I been worse than usual, octor? ‘Not that I know of; but you should have told me of these attacks before, to which your maid says you are very subject Why, what have you been doing with yourself ?”” “lm sure I don’t know. Just the same as other people.” “Tiaye you been dancing much?” “Ves, pretty well.” “ And keeping late hours??? “Of course. Who keeps early ones in London?” “ And exciting yourself in other ways?” “Perhaps so. Pm ut what has that to do with my fainting?” se i and I am going to lay sirict orders on you to give it up. : Lady Bthel’s eyes opened to their widest extent. “Give up balls, and ainner-partics, and going out alto. gether! hat nonsense, doctor? Itisnotthe end of June et, “Tf it were the beginning of May, my dear Lady Ethel, it would be the same thing. Your health requires perfect rest,’ and you must observe it.” ‘Tt is impossible,”’ she said, querulously; “you might as - well tell me not to eat at once, It would kill me to remain shut up here all alone ” 4 “Tt may kill more than one if you are obstinate,” replied Dr. Chalmers, gravely. “More than one! What do you mean?” F “IT mean, Lady Ethel, that if, against my advice, you pers
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- we Gst in pursuing this constant round of gayety, you will be ®iswerable, not only for your own life, but that of your en?” ““My O@1LD!” Tie motherless girl, who had never known what it was to hear that sacred title from a womuan’s lips; who had been de- Lied the blessing of brothers and sisters; and (with the ex- ception of the Countess of Clevedon’s son) not even brought in contact with the holy influences of childhood, did not seem at tirst as though capable of comprehending the prospect opened out before her by the doctor’s words. “My CHILL?” A picture rose before her mental vision ot tiny hands to clutch and cling to her; pure eyes to gaze mto her own, and trembling feet to toddle by her side; of something very in- distinctly traced, it is true, yet helpless, loving, and depend- ent, which should belong to her alone, and call her by the | huly name of “*mother;” and at that thought the evil spirit | thay had so long possessed her heart spread wings and flew AUP and the woman shone out in her true colors. ces of true?” Springing up in bed as she spoke, with crimson cheeks, diated eyes, and patved lips, she seemed to demand some ee proof of this wonderful revelation at the physician’s oands. “ Yes, quite pure,’ he answered, soothingly; ‘have you aot suspected jy? Come, Lady Ethel, you must lie down ain, I cannot allow you to excite yourself like this.” ut to his surprise she turned upon her pillow and ofurst into a flood of tears. Oh, where was he who would have been so proud to hear this news; who would bave encompassed her with solicitude and care, supported her courage when it drooped, and nursed her with more than woman's tenderness? where was the father of her child? She sobbed so bitverly as the wide gulf which stretched be- tween them, mentally and physically. became apparent to her Pepe sieee yaa that the véry center of her being seemed to be stirred by the violence of her emotion. And mixed with the hopelessness of their reunion, there came another feel- ing, a lower, narrower, yet still ratuiai sense of profound snrinking from the trial which inevitably awaited her; for, born and reared in sensuousness, Lady Ethei had never yet peen taught that self-control is virtue, and was a very coward in the face of pain. Dr, Chalmers had had too much experience in the treat- ment of feminine weakness to attempt to check her tears; but as soon as they yee yao place to low, gasping sobs, an she had turned her paillid, stained face to the light again, he held a cordial to her lips and bade her drink it. “That’s a good girl!” he said in a paterna! manner—(he had known her almost from her birth)—as she submissiveély swallowed the contents of the wine-glass. “and now I must have you lie quiet and try to go to sleep, or you wil be ill.” “But, one word, doctor,” laying her white hand on his: * will it be-very soon? I feel so horribly afraid.” The question made him smile. ‘“Pooh—pooh! there’s nothing to pe afraid of, and it’s a lon: while tolook forward to yet. I shall have you as strong an sauce’ ain as ever “before 1t happens. I see that Colonel Bainbridge has arrived in Calcytta. Is any time fixed.for his return?” “. aon’t know—I believé not,” she answered faintly. ‘We shall have him home fast enough when he hears the good news, I warrant. And meanwhile, I cannot allow you to tive any ionger by yourself. You must have some-woman to stay with you.” - ‘*T have Louise; no one could be kinder.” “ Kindness is all very well in its way; but you want com- pany, Lady Ethel, and you must ask some lady—one that is young and cheerful, and will keep up your spirits, to come end remain here until your husband joins you again. Now, who shall I send for?” ; “Oh, Im sure I don’t know??? with a despairing little sigh, cs Lady Clevedon?” suggested the doctor “Most decidedly not. We never speak to each other.” ‘Never speak to your father’s widow?—that’s a bad sign, Lady Ethel. Your aunt, then, Lady D’Eyncourt.”’ eS have not seen her for years.”” ; “Has not Colonel Bainbridge a mother living?” ** Oh, yes!—but I could not ask a favor of her,” returned his patient, with a sudden shrinking that was very patent to her hearer. “No sisters, then, or cousins ??? ““No!—yes, though, stay! there is one—but I am not sure if she would come to me,’ said Lady Ethel, as her thoughts ughted upon Margaret Henderson, ‘Wecan but ie and the need is really urgent. Let me nave the lady’s dress, and I will write to her at once. If we are expeditious, we shall save the country post.” “Miss Henderson, Cranshaws, Bortliwick; but Dr. Chal- mers, [really don’t feel justified in putting her to so much trouble. I dare say I shall get on very well alone, and—and —it is. all my own fault that.I am left 0,” in a lowered key. Dr, Chalmers looked upon the fair, sad face laid upon the illows with intense compassion. He had known Lady Ethel ainbridge, proud, wilful, and determined, from her very childhood, and had more than once suspected that her mar- ried life was once a happy one; but her present mood was quite a new phase in her character to him. He could not understand the subdued tones of her voice, the foftened ayy in her face, the tears standing on her eyelashes; she did not look like the same girl whom he had been accustomed to attend; and his heart warmed towards her, so young and fragile and beautiful, and left so utterly _ alone. Could it be, as she affirmed by her own fault? “‘ However that may be, my dear,” he answered, ‘‘ I alone am responsible for the step we have in contemplation. You are under my charge, and [ consider the presence of a female wiend to be compere to you; and if Miss Henderson can not come, we will find some. one else. Meanwhile, you must try to go to sleep, and I will look in again this even- ing.” . Br. Chalmers did not write to Cranshaws; for, his object being, as soon as possible, to convey relief to his patient’s mina, he telecraphed the news that she was ill and in imme- diate requisition of 4 woman’s presence, begging her hus- Pare hapeetd ead ping know at once if Miss Henderson cou spared to nurse her. And when he visited Curzon Street at ten o'clock the same «vening, and found Lady Ethel free from emotion, but still very weak and sorrowful, and languid, he showed her the answer which had reached his hands an hour before: fs Most glad to be of use; will travel by earliest train to- morrow. ‘ 4 When my heroine fell off to sleep that night, the telegram Was underneath her pillow. . — CHAPTER XLIV A SISTER OF MERCY. i : at Cranshaws; for various delays on the part He sg ptt Hs re in Bien) _ th ‘ rthe Castle as ) ated, and for the moment there divided opinions on the advi ity ot answesing it in the affirmative. , Dr. Chalmers! are you quite—gquite sure that it is | | | | | a 8 telegram found Mrs. Bainbridge, her niece, ‘ HER LORD ANxt MASTER. That Mrs. Bainbridge should fee: rather unwilling to part with Maggie Henderson, who was her right hand, at the very time when she most needed her. and tor the sake of her son’s wile was not unnatural. She bore no malice towards Lady Ethel, but she could nov forget the haughty manner in which she had treated her husband’s family; nor that it was due to her misconduct that Colonel Bainbridge was at that hour an exile from his native land, And it was hard to believe the message had been dictated by the wishes of her daughter-in-law. She bad not cared for them in health, why should her thought turn in their direction when she needed a sick-nurse? and, surely were the case emergent, it were far more reasonable to expect some member of her own family should go to her assistance. Mrs. Bainbridge did not like the idea that Maggie should be or- dered from one place to another to suit the convenience ot her cousin’s wife; ‘and perhaps to meet with insult or indit- ference for her pains. She had halfamindto say she could not spare her, But gentle Aunt Letty saw the matter in a very different light. Dr. Chalmers was a physician of high repute, who would not have needlessly alarmed them: and it the neces- | slty could have been met nearer, what reason had he for ineurring the delay consequent on an appeal to them. . She was quite sure that it was Maggie‘s duty to go to Lady Ethel’s aid at once: but if her sister felt she could not spare her, why she would go herself, They never could look in Thomas’s face aintul one. They were stiil engaged over their meal, when Dr Chat. mers, peeping into the room, was so survrised to hear the —.- tered tones of his patient’s voice, tnat he jestingly aeclarea. that he should discontinue his visits, now @ At De Hgndareon, had urrived. ‘AL that you have to do with this rebeliious supject,” ne- said in allusion to Lady Ethei, *tis to keep her quiet, and. make her eat as much as she can, And the sooner you can persuade her to pe wack with you te Scotland, Miss Hencer- son, the better.” But at this suggestion the subject of it colored so painfully’ that the doctor saw that he had made an error “We must neither ef us sit up late to-nigat,” sala Maggie,. when he had departed, “for you have excited yourse more: than usuai, and Iam very tired. ShailI read to you before: T go, or wiil you do that for yourseaf !?” “Read ? * repeated Lady Ethel, interrogativeiy. _ “The Bible,” said her aiend, as she iooked around for-one “Oh, my dear ! don’t give me any ot that, for goodnes# sake |. 1 don’t believe I have Jooked into it for years.” “ Maggie Henderson stopped short and earnéstly regarded: er * Not for 7ears—not when you pray ?”? *T never pray.” : . The assertion was so defiant that was met in silence : but: aiter the pause of a few minutes, Lady Ethel, glancing up at. her companion’s face, saw that it was bathed in tears, ‘Have i said anything co hurt yo 2? ‘* Not to hurt me,”? said Maggie in a broken voice. She was thinking now patiently. One must have stood for- years at the door of that, little careless neart, knocking for: admittance, and im vain. “ “Who then ?” ‘You mnow. Lady Ethel! You know as well as I de. There is no need to tel! you.” She was right; and in the interval tnat followed there came no refutation of her words, “Tt you don't pray to Him,” Maggie went on presently “ifyou never t#ke the trouble to ask Him for what oe want, or thank Him for what, He gives, 1 don’t wonder chat everything goes wrong with you. How could it be othcr- wise,)”’ This appeal was made so simovly, and with suc air of interest that it carried no offense with it: but use. did ie gain.an answer, except such as was convevea by tota) silence. “Oh, Lady thei.” cried Maggie, petit as mh threw both arms around her ; ‘‘try to speak to Him, Try tor that He iz here, close ba you. ready to listen and to sympa- thive, and ail the remainder wili come easy.” nist “ont call me ‘Lady? Ethel ony mors, ‘whispered the other, as she embr: her in return, ‘I want to be ' thet ee bo Maggie. I feel somehow as ifasister had been senv. ae. And Maggie felt that met pulse wat Bn Monge = Bp to Hare met with ne re —s CHAPTER XLV. INSTALLED IN OFFICE. Lavy E1 lept so much ne fo..owing mot unin the Had Senta ay Sat SOE aa to return to Scotland without taf U asian ° “It is just as well, perhaps, my dear,” she observed, 4°
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HER LORD AND MASTER. 30 fearing Maggie’s account of the glowing welcome which’ she shad received ; ‘‘my presence could have added nothing to Lady Ethel’s pleasure, and might have been the means of weviving disagreeable recollections.” ; . Then you won’t stay in town another day?” said Maggie, wistfully. “No, darling, don’t tempt me. Aunt Lizzie was very good sto let you come, remember, and I am sure she cannotsparer both of us at once. Has Lady Ethel made no mention of he *husband ?”” . ‘* Not the slightest, after having once spoken his name, in asking ifhe had told me of their disagreement. Is it not strange? And yet she seems so to shrink from any approach ‘to the subject, that I am sure her silence is owing to the pain it gives her’’, “She will speak by-and-by, my dear, but do not try to force her confidemce, With a proud nature like Lady Ethel’s the Jeast encroachment would cause her to retire within herself again. You must wait, and watch, and hope.”’ ‘And write all the particulars to my Aunt Letty.’’ “Oh, yes, keep us well informed of everything jhat goes on ‘here ;.and if she manifests the least inclination to visit us again, remember how glad your Aunt Lizzie and myself ‘would be to receive her. And don’t overwork yourself, my little Maggie ; we can’t afford to have our right hand laid up ron the sofa.” Maggie laughed at the idea. ‘Fancy me upon a sofa !”’ stretching out her firm round arm. ‘No, aunt, if I fall sick of anything it will be of too Aittle exercise, like Mrs. Appleton’s old spaniel. I shall be afraid to walk out in this crowded place alone. It would tire ame so to be always trying to keep out of other people’s way.” “You will have the carriage, my dear.” ee _ “Oh! —with a shrug of martyrdom—*“ fancy driving about in a state by myself, and all the swells wondering who that red-cheeked, countryfied-looking creature stuck up in Lady Ethel Bainbridge’s barouche can be ! ” ie Maggie! Twill not have you speak of yourself in that fashion,” exclaimed Miss Lloyd; ‘‘ besides it is not ghe truth. You heard what Dr. Chalmers said last night—that the Lon- «don belles would give half their fortunes to have such a bloom as yours. oan talk, aunty, particularly when they can buy it ready made. And really a natural color does look coarse. You should see my skin beside Lady Ethel’s, now, aunty,’? with sudden. seriousness, she is very lovely: I don’t wonder at Cousin Thomas haying had no eyes for some one else.” ‘*Nonsense,’”? my dear,’ replied Miss Lloyd rather 1mpa- tiently, for she had not yet recovered from the pain of seeing ther darling rejected for another; ‘‘looks had nothing to do ‘with it. Beauty is proverbially skin deep, and I am sure it thas proved so in this instance. I-dare say your poor cousin hes often regretted his headstrong choice.” “Oh, no!” exclaimed the girl peg D **indeed, I don’t ‘believe it. Whatever she is, Aunt Letty, he loved her; and chow could he have done less than ask her hand.in marriage?” _.And if Iam not mistaken,” with a light smile, ‘‘ Lady Ethel is coming to the knowledge that she loves him too; and when that occurs it will be all right again. What a happy «lay, oe Letty! We shall have no more talk about regret- ting, then.” " Aunt Letty turned and regarded the dear honest face that ‘wis beaming on her for a few moments without speaking. “Oh, my durling,” she exclaimed, at length, as she took the girlin her arms, ‘‘God bless you!” ; If was not much to say, but the three words spoke volumes from one heart to the other. When Miss Lloyd was gone again, Maggie felt at first a little lonely. Breakfast was on the table, but she had no inclination to sit down by herself, for her ladyship was still asleep, and the large house seemed si- dent and deserted. So Maggie sat down to think indeed. She Gicnen of her cousin: banished from this pleasant home which had been prepared for him by his father’s bounty: of hhow much he might be suffering: how much be called upon ‘to suffer before the discord which had separated him from all ‘he loved was reduced to harmony again. Yet she felt that, with so determined and resolute a character as his, that happy end would never be accomplished until his wife re- ealled him of her own free will. It was she who had inflicted the wound; from her hands alone could come the remedy, And to effect a reconciliation between them was the great ‘wish of Maggie’s heart, the aim of all her present actions. As she sat there that morni in the very arm-chair ‘her cousin had been used to call his own, she determined ‘to leave no stone unturned that pe advance the cause ‘tor which he labored: to bring all her efforts to bear upon that end, and to be patient, watchful, and trusting as her aunt desired her to be. She pane lead to the subject as much as she thought fit, but Lady Ethel must be the first to roach it. All she had todo was to invite her confidence cand pray to be enabled to advise her Hind when she received at: ith this intent it was a happy loving face she took into the bedroom when Lady Ethel’s béli was heard to ring; so much so, that the other asked, with an eagerness that did mot pass unnoticed, ifshe had heard any news? “None. excepting that the clock has just struck half-past ten, and therefore I hope your ladyship feels refreshed by ‘your el rest.” Lady Ethel looked disappointed. “Oh, yes, I feel much stronger, thank you. But isit really so late? I hope that you have had your breakfast.” “No, I waited for you, though I am not quite sure T shall bet eee another morning. May I help you in your vile “Oh, Louise will do it, thank you. Tt will be such a trou- ible, won’t it ?? with an ap ealing glance that seemed to beg for an answer in the negative, i “Of course it will be, a most horrible trouble; but all chil- dren are that to their mothers. Ishall be your mother till ‘you are well, you know.” “You are the first I ever had,’ said Lady Ethel, despond- ntly. “That is a bond between us,” replied Maggio. .. “Isthere no other?” asked her friend. ‘Oh, M el 1 «dreamed last night I was alone again, and it was such a bless- ing to wake up and remember you were here }” “Well, let me prove Lam a blessing, by combing through this long hair without making you call ont. You must let me plait. it for you, Lady Ethei ’?—— let,’ bl See the other, quickly, “ Ethel, then—dear Ethel, if you will.” “Dear M e,” said her cousin’s wife; and then the girls «both under twenty, remember) threw their arms round each other's necks and exchanged a hearty kiss. The day passed happily, Magpie taking up her station altogether in the sick- room, and whether she worked, read, or wrote, carrying on her be Lady Ethel’s eye, so that she was con- company. ‘ dotldved ths patient's pulse to be much stronger, iaid a few Animations pita peepee to her in Maggie, in whom he seem- to have implicit confidence, and” disappeared until the following day. ith this exception they saw no one ; and aggie, who had heard so much of the constant round of gayety in which her cousin’s wife engaged, and the large cir- ‘cle of her Legion a acquaintance, was surprised to find that no lady came to sit with her fora few minutes, or to cheer Pp. prognostications of a quick re roy: itl a ays, every farm ond sale s ers ’ c Dr. Chalmers looked in upon them once, |) noon Louise brought up a salver full of visiting-cards, but the unflattering comments with which her mistress turned them over, did not seem to intimate there were any she termed friends among them. ‘“Lady Kitchener! and about time she did call! it’s a month since she dined here! Mrs. Carmichael! a disgrace for any one to have her carriage standing at the door! Mrs. Fuller! of course sie must know the why and wherefore of Lady Rosa Vokes! oh, the old scarecrow! everything! Mr. and Mrs. Trevanion! What a mercy I escaped her! Thank you, none of that tribe for me! Colonel Marshall! What effrontery! {only danced with the man once! Here, Louise, take them all down stairs and put them in the card- basket. I expect it will be a long time before I trouble my- self to return them.”’ **Tt must be very unsatisfactory work paying calls alone,” said Maggie, innocently, Lady Ethel blushed. ‘*T think it generally falls to a woman’s lot, though, Men always shirk visiting.” “Ts Lady Clevedon in town, and your little brother?” “Ves,” hesitatingly, ‘“‘ but I don't often see them,” “He is quite a baby still, is he not?” “‘ About three years old.” “Oh, what a nice age! Aren’t you very fond of him?” “Tean’t say lam. You see, his mother and I are not the best of friends, Maggie. Do you know why I am ill? Has Dr, Chalmers told you?” _ f “*From over-fatigue, is it not, and perhaps a little worry combined with it?” said Maggie affectionately, as she laid her hand on Lady Ethel’s. Z Pi but that is not all. aby. Maggie had been looking earnestly in her face the while but at these words she rose, and dropping her hand, turned suddenly away to the window. “Indeed, dear!” the words were cheerfully delivered, though the yoice was rather strained, ‘“‘that is grand news! How pleased you must be.” “T am not sure about being pleased,’ said Lady Ethel in answer to her last observation; ‘‘it came on me as a great surprise, and I think I have been rather sorry since than otherwise.” **Oh, don't. say that!” replied Maggie quickly, as she thought of her cousin’s feelings, when he should hear the news, flashed across her mind. ‘‘It will be such a blessing when It comes! Think, Ethel, of a little creature——” here she taited for a moment, but only for a moment—‘“ all your baie to love you and look up to you; there could be no great- er Happiness!” Lady Ethel’s breast heaved; she was not insensible to the prospect laid out before her, only she was still a little too proud to confess it. ‘Well, I don’t know! Tt will be an immense trouble, and I feel very nervous; and—and——” with a quivering lip, ‘I am all alone, you see!” “But you will not be alone, then,” fidently. Lady Ethel looked away. _, “* At all events, it is inevitaple!” she replied, after a pause, * so it’s no use npn about it, Maggie! Is it not nearly time for tea? Tam so thirsty!’ and her willing messenger flew to give the required orders. The days slipped tranquilly one after another. Maggie had nothing but good accounts to send to Cranshaws, and Lady Ethel progressed in strength and devotion to her husband's cousin; yet she was selfish in her gratitude. Reared in an atmosphere of self-pleasing, and accustomed to regard everything and body exactly in proportion as it min- istered to her gratification, she seemed to imagine that Mag- rie’s constant attendance in her sick-room was amply repaid y thanks and multiplied caresses. She could not go out her- self, and therefore it never struck her that her nurse was suf- fering for want of exercise; and that it was not until Dr. Chalmers had eee to her on the subject, that she asked Maggie if she did not think a walk would do her good, Mag- gie was enduring a slight headache at the moment, for, used to an abundance of fresh air and exercise, she had felt the close confinement to a London bed-room more than she cared to acknowledge; but she declined to avail herself of Lady Ethel’s offer till the morrow. Sa “To-morrow will be Sunday, you know,” she said with a smile, ‘‘and then, if youcan spare me, Ethel, I should be I am going to have a said Maggie, con- lad to go to church. I have a friend belonging to the sister- sp of Saint Ermenilda’s, and I want to attend service nere. “Saint Ermenilda’s!” repeated Lady Ethel, ‘‘why, that is our church! we always go there.” “Ts not the service very beautiful?’ “Oh yes; there is splendid music; and a boy in choir with a voice like a thrush. But horrible hard chairs; I advise you to take a shawl or something to sit down upon. And you have a friend among the sisters—those women with black hoods and things ? how funny! Ido not know any of them; but f will order the carriage to be ready at a quarter past ten to-morrow, to take you there. But not twice a day, Mag- gie! Tcan’t spare you for more than the morning service, and I’m sure that’s long eneugh for anybody,” And Maggie smiled and promised not to be encroaching; while her heart beat faster at the idea of worshipping in the same church as Sister Ni Yet, all this while, she had been unable to say a word about her cousin Thomas. A score of times, his name had been be yk her very lips, but something in the face of Lady Ethel had restrained her. They had spoken of Cranshaws; of London; of the house they lived in; of the child that was expected; and yet the owner, the master, the husband, and the father, was a forbidden subject. Maxpie felt sometimes as ou she could not bear it; as though she must trans- ss all bounds to plead the cause of him who could no onger plead his own; as though she must tell Lady Ethel either to give him her affection or withhold it from herself. It seemed so cruelly hard that of all topics spoken of between them, his name should be the only one forbidden. But the remembrance of Aunt Letty and her last advice restrained her. Maggie had the utmost faith in Miss Lloyd’s good sense and counsel. She had told her not to force Lady Ethel’ con- fidence, and so she waited, patiently and in hope, —_— CHAPTER XLVI, ' SAINT ERMENILDA’S, **T suppose I may ask for your next morning, a8 she stood by Lady Ethel’s bed, drawing on her gloves, and waiting for the carri to come round. “ Pew, my dear child} yowll get nothing so comfortable as @ pew at Saint Prmenilda’s, I can promise you. Go and sit down in the first rush-bottomed chair you see, and consider yourself lucky if you have not a dressmaker on one side of you and a house-maid on the other. That's the worst part of these high churehes; they let every body in, without the ‘htest regard to rap feélings, and you never know next Phe said Maggie, the to whom you may sit. a vi oe . vatie veh and the poor are met together,” said Maggie, * Just 40,” replied Lady Ethel, without the least conception of the meaning of that smile, ‘‘ and I assure you I haye some. times had the shabbiest peogle possible put next to me, But if you.go atjonce, dear, and get into the front seats, there will not be so much fear of it.” : “Tam not afraid,” said Maggie, as she kissed her friend and went down stairs, * * * * * The happy look that shone upon Maggie’s face, when she returned from church, did not escape the notice of Lady Ethel. “You like Saint Ermenilda’s |’ she exclaimed, as Maggie went up, to her side. “ [ike is no name for it,”? said Maggie, enthusiastically; *‘] am charmed—delighted. I haye had such a happy time |” “T thought you would, every one admires itso. Are not the windows lovely ?” Maggie started, “T don’t think I saw the windows, Ethel.’ ‘Not the painted windows with the history of Saint Erme- nilda? Why, where were your eyes? They are considered the best things there. And the carved screen, too.” “The screen? Is that the part which divides the chan- cel from the nave ?” “Of course; it is all in marble, and came, I believe, from Italy. What color did the altar wear to-day ? ” “What color ? I do not understand you, Ethel.” ‘Was it vested inred or green? Red is for the martyrs, and saints, you know, but green means nothing. It wears green every day.” ‘‘T am sure I can’t tell you,” replied Maggie. “What aqueer girl you are! I thought you were sucha devotee. I suppose you never looked at the altar at all?” “Oh, yes, I did,” said Maggie, eagerly, ‘and at the paint- ing above it—the Blessed Virgin holding out the infant Sav- iour to the people. How beautifully it is done! the child seems almost to stand out from her arms; and the expression of His face, too! I could hardly take my eyes off it.”” ‘‘The lectern is generally considered to be a very fine piece of workmanship.” r ‘‘T don’t think I observed the lectern.” c “What anthem did they sing to-day at the Consecration?” **T do not remember,” said the other. ‘‘You haven’t seen anything, and you don’t remember any- thing. Why, what were you doing all the time?” Maggie was going to reply; she struggled to get out an an- swer, but she could not manage it, so she stooped down and kissed Lady Ethel on the cheek instead. “You might just as well have been at home with me,” ob- served her ladyship, pouting. “TY must go some other day,” said Maggie, *‘and see the things of which you speak. They would give me infinite pleasure, I can assure gion Only, this morning—it was all so new, you see—and—I was thinking of something else.”’ “What else!’? demanded Lady Ethel. Maggie lingered fora moment by the bedside as though qnacran what to answer, and then, without speaking, left e room, es CHAPTER XLVII. _THE ICE BEGINS TO THAW, THE rest ofthe day passed very quietly, for Maggie was more thoughtful than usual, and Lady Ethel dozed, or pete to doze, away the greater part of the afternoon upon ner bed. It was dusk when she fully roused herself again; a soft air was creeping in at the unclosed windows, and the figure or her friend was but just discernible in the dim twilight. Lady Ethel turned upon her heated pillows with a deep- drawn sigh. Something had affected her; she was more low-spirited than usual. “How long the days are, and how horrible and silent everything appears! hy don’t you tat the candles?” ne foo soon, sit not? and I thought that I might wake “Thave been awake for hours! What are you doing, Mag- aay You can’t be reading, though you have a book in your and. ‘‘No! itis too dark. I was thinking, Ethel!” “ Of what?” ‘The sermon which [heard this morning at St. Ermenilda’s Cathedral.” ‘ ‘What a lively subject.” “It was yery interesting. as you would acknowledge had you heard it. So short, and yet so practical, and to the point. It was on charity, and the erroneous manner in which some people translate the word. The preacher said that, doubtless thera were many women present, who, in a moment of excitement, would throw a bracelet into the of- fertory-bag or bestow the shawl she wore upon a ar, Who would be incapable of reslgping the enjoyment of an hour in order to seta good example or gratify the wishes of another’ So true; is it not?” ‘““T dare say it is,” with a yawn, “only I have not much faith in all that self-denying usiness, and people pretending that it gives them pleasure. ? “Taye you not?” The remark struck bp bre ainfully, re membering as she did how often her cousin given up hi will to Lady Ethel’s, and sought no return, ‘' But you mug, often have seen and admired it, Ethel! There is nothing so lovely as unseltshness!?? © “We were not addicted to practising the virtue at Lady Cleyedon’s.” é ** And I have'seen so much of it!) said Maggie musingly. “Tbelieve my dear uncle was one of the most unselfish creatures that God ever made.” To this remark there was no answer, “T have been thinking so much of him to-day,” she went on, presently, ‘I wanted him in Saint Ermenilda’s. He had never attended any but country services, you know, and fancied nothing else would please him: but he was so thor- oughly good and unaffected, so ready to believe that, in re- ligion, everybody must be before himself and so anxious to romote the glory and honor of God, that I am sure he would ave altered his opinion. He could not but have acknowl+ edged the fran leur of what I heard to-day, asa fitting trib- ute to the King of Kings, and his heart would have thrilled and melted under it as mine did. Dear uncle!” Still there was no answer to her observations, but Lady ang turned restlessly about, until her face was hid from Sy, : “ Of course I can’t expect that you should follow me, con- tinued Maggie; ‘you saw so ttle. of him, but?— “I wish you wouldn’t speak to me of him!’? The words came so abruptly and so vehemently, that her Gompatroet started. ‘ ‘Not of my uncle? Oh, Ethel! surely you are not cherish- ing resentment for him still. Remember where he is—and that he can never vex you more!” “Tt is not that!”? The voice which spoke was broken. “Not that? Dear Ethel! what have I said to make you cry? You cannot believe that A has not Pie setae he who forgave | you over and over ggain. before he died.” “Did he? Oh, ie!” and round came the penitent | upset my calm- arms to clasp themselves about her neck. “Don’t sob so! dear, don’t sob so, or youll ness too. The occasion for it is all ae He will neyer feel ; er Se a or poseinn packs ata f Ethel : : ut ever shall forget,” Led . 4 «His last look, his last words, they haunt me day and wore, } Do you remember what they w: “Gi you—and~and—your children—if you have any}??? .
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“Well, dear’ and they ought to comfort instead of dis- ! tressing you. He never mentioned that name lightly. It was a prayer he prayed tor you; and you must have belief in its fulfillment.” “But IT made him so unhappy! I was so—so—rude—and —uncivi] to him! And then he died without my haying seen him again. I did not think he would.” ** But not without having forgiven you, darling! He talk- ‘ed so often of you during the last few days, it seemed as though he intended you should hear how entirely he had for- 1 gotten your behavior,” ** What did he say??? “That he was sure you had so much sterling worth beneath the crust of pride raised by your artificial education, that it dépended on your husband’s judiciousness whether you turn- el out a good wife or a bad one,” “How little he knew of me! frat.” “And that the greatest blessing God could send you woula be children—baby hands to pull down your reserve; baby voices to-distract your attention from yourself; and baby wants to make you grow less selfish. I speak plainly, dear, as he spoke; don't let me offend you.” | I am not teachable like There seemed little fear of that, if one might judge from Lady Ethel’s low continued weeping. “ But, Maggie—do you know—did he ever tell you that the reason oe Was too late to see his father, was—because—be- cause—fI }—_ “He did dot tell me, Ethel, but 1 guessed it. It was very, very sad; but you could not fortell consequences, and it is al right now.’? “ All right now?” In her surprise at the assertion, Lady Ethel stayed her tears to lift a flushed face of inquiry to her friend. “With regard to uncle, He knows now why his son was absent from his dying bed, and such things have no raore power to vex him.’’ “But he cannot know that I am sorry.” ; “Why not, dear? I believe he does; and thanks God tor his death, if it has been the means of changing your state of mind. Dear Ethel, you don’t half know what # toying soul he was. He.neyer had an unkind thought for any living creature: is OM df he would begin now? Why do you cry still? You will be ill if-you can’t control yourself, and then Dr. Chalmers will be angry with me.” é ¢ Yet still her face was bowed upon the pillow, while her trembling frame gave evidence of her emotion, and Maggie felt the time to speak had come. - ’ “Ethel, there is something further. | Your self-reproaches are not all for your careless speeches to my uncle. A deeper wound than that is troubling you. Why not give it vent?’ “Oh, Maggie! you must guess what itis. He was angry with me—justly angry: and in my resentment 1 insulted him upon his tenderest point. I said what was not true, and drove him from his home: and now—now—” with a failing voice, ‘‘I am so miserable!” “But, dear, I thought you did not care for him.” “Not care for him! not cae for him!? exclaimed Lady Ethel hysteriealiy, as, starting up, she fhrew her arms above her head. ‘care for him as my life! £ would die to bring him back again! I am thirsting to hear the sound of his voice or feel the touch of his hand: but I have driven him from me, and ! know that I shall never see him again as lon; as I live. And the child, too—the child—I shall never -put. i in its father’s arms. Oh, Thomas! Thomas!’ and with hid- den face she rocked herself backward and forward in her Sed. “Thank God!" said Maggie solemnly. **¥or what? For utter ehioney inquired Lady Ethel. “For the dawn of hope,” replied the other, ‘If you love nim, everything is easy. A word will bring him back to you. “Oh, no!” despairingly, ‘‘you do not know what passed between us, Maggie! told him that I cared for some one else, and he will never rorgive it or forget it. I said { hated him—I hated him!—him, whom } would have diea in the same hour to serve; but it was all my wretched pride, and I am rightly punished for it, Oh, Maggie, my heart is broken! T shall never, never be a happy woman again!” “Hush! hush! noone can say so much as that: no one should dare say it whilethe lives.” “ But so far off, and in that dreadful climate: he may ney- er return.” ; * [f so, you will not be left alone ” % i may never have the opportnnity to tell him T am sor- “It will be told him for you, Ethel.” “7 may have to pass my life without seeing him again.” ‘But not without One who loves you far more than Cousiu Thomas does; who suffers with every pain experienced by your heart, and echoes every repentant sigh you heave. Oh, Ethei, with ciasped hands falling on her knees beside the bed; ‘do try to believe that He is by you this very moment, hearing every word, reading each thought, and able by a ate to tufill your dearest wishes if you make them known m, A “*T have forgotten Him so long,” said Lady Ethelin a low wworee, ‘He has never forgotten you, dear,”? “ But that makes it somuch harder. How can 1 go to Him ust because I want something; when i never remembered ‘im in my happiness? It seems so mean.” “Nothing can be mean, dear, that brings us to His teet. And itisso sweet while kneeling there, to think that He ‘Knows everything. There is no occasion even to speak to }, our tears are all the explanation that he needs.” d then seeing that they still streamed down the cheeks of Lady Ethel Maggie bent over the repentant girl, and took her in her arms as though she had been a little child, and ‘sweetly kissed them all away,” ; ‘ Dear Ethel, don’t ery any more. Everything will come right. in time: Tam sure it will. And now you must let me wy 3 for candles and your tea, or you will have a headache and be unable to sleep. And assuming a bright, cheerfin countenance, she coaxed the invalid to eat and ging, until her former composure was ! restored, and she saw her ree tranguilly to rest. But the ‘next morning, as soon as Lady Ethev’s tollet was completed Maggie came dancing to her bedside with pen, ink, an paper, and placed them all before ner, “For what?” she asked in genuine surprise, “To write.to him, dear. You must write at once to Cousin ahem and tell him to come home. A word from you will he im back again. a . , - But Maggie had beeu too precipitate, and I, ‘Ethel shrunk from the promen!. In a soft moment she had ac- ‘knowledged both fault and her repentance, but she was hardly prepared to put a seal to the confession, and a remnant -of the old pride rose to hinder it. “Oh no! indeed T could not.” M e’s face fell. ' ‘ “You will not tell him what you told to me? , “Some fox erhaps—when he has written to me: but surely it is his part ® write first.” Do'you imagine he will think you care to hear from F a fies not sabed me yet. And we have not even received 2 ws of oo “ he nev is arrival in Calcutta.” “T know the address « fetter to him.” But still Lady Ethel did is agents, who will forward the not attempt to take eibher pen or | HER LORD AND MASTER. paper from her hands, and Maggie saw her errand for the time was fruitless, “May J write to him, Ethel??? she inquired after a short auUse. “Ofcourse! What has my leave to do with it? He is your cousin, .* Yes! but you know whatI mean, May I write and teli him you are ill, and lonely, and in bad spirits, and that he must come home??? “Tf you like,”—after a slight hesitation but nothing more, remember, Maggie! Now, promise me.” **You shall read my letter,”” was her answer, “* and send or tear it up, as seems agreeable to you. That is a a fair bar- gain, is it noty And now I must go and write it, or it will not be ready for to-morrow’s mail.”’ In another hour she returned. “There is my: production, Ethel,” placing two crossed sheets of paper in her hand; “a fearful scribble, but I dare say you will be able to decipher it; and there is the envelope ready stamped and directed. If you don’t like my letter, tear it up; but if it meets with your approval, you had better | send it to the post at once. I am just going round to see Sister Margaret, but shall be back before your luncheon- time. Good-bye,” and with a kiss she. left be. * * * * * *“Is it gone?” cried Maggie, when she returned from ner visit; and being answered in the affirmative, told Lady Ethel that she would lay her a thousand pounds, if she had them, that in two months’ time Colonel Bainpridge would be back in England. f “I don’t believe it,” said the wife, RespAnOenHy: **it takes more than a letter to make upa quarrel like ours: besides, two months! just fancy, Maggie, what a time to wait! It beeomes an eternity in prospect.” Nevertheless, she was much more cheerful after the letter was posted than she had been before, and that evening, when Maggie was bidding her good-uigh*, said rather awkwardly, but with evident sincerity: ‘Tf you are going to read—you always do so, do you not ?— you may just as well read here as in your own room.” So Margaret Henderson sat down again by the bedside, and read a certain gracious promise to the intent that though a woman may forget her sncking child, there is One by whom we can never be either forgotten or forsaken. “T cannot remember my mother,” said Lady Ethel, thoughtfully (she had alluded more than once of Iffte'to the same subject), ‘* but [ have heard my father say that the last word she uttered was my name. A mother’s love must be a very holy thing.” ““Yes*or it would not have been chosen as a type of His, But, I thank Heaven, I have never known the loss of it. Aunt Lizzie has been my mother.” “Is she so good to you?” : - “Oh, very good! so sweet, and patient, and forbearing! She has never made the least difference between me and Cousin Thomas, although he is her own child, and she dotes on h‘m. And in sickness and trouble there is no one like her* except, indeed, Aunt Letty, who is my peculiar property,” Lady ™thel sighed. ‘It must be very sweet to have a mother,” she repeated; ** You have one, Ethel.” The blue eyes were fixed inquiringly on her face. | “Aunt Lizzie. Who could be more a daughter to her than her dear son’s wife? And I am sure that no one would be readierto act a mother’s partto you. She would love you {ost one same as if you were her own. For hls sake, if for no- ng else. ‘And Lady Ethel fell to sleep with those words sounding in her ears, and a smile upon her lips. CHAPTER XLVIII. HOME At LAST THE time went on, until Magme had nearly been a month in Curzon Street. and Lady Ethel had so far regained her strength as to be allowed. to move about the house and take | carriage exercise But she never cared to drive out in the ; Park. nor would she go anywhere without her friend. Maggie | seemed to have become indispensable to her, and the old | haunts distasteful so, by mutual consent. they made daily excursions into the surrounding country. and spent as little time as possible in the crowded thoroughfares, But Mrs, Bainbridge was getting clamorous that Maggie should return to Cranshaws. She was desirous to remove thence, and would not let a case be packed until she had the assistance of her niece. Her last few letters had been filled with plaintive incuiries astothe probable duration of her absence, and Magegéi had experienced no small difficulty in concealing her demands from Lady Ethel, by whom she telt the ! news of her impending departure would be received with the deepest lamentation. But the country letters generally | arrived about the time that they had breakfast: and one | Leer as they were ween in the dining-room together, the inte ligence conveyed to e by her aunt was too im- parent not to be inferred from the rapid change of her coun- enance. f “What is the matter?” exclaimed Lady Ethel; “you have had vad news.”? ? ‘Oh, no, [hope not,’ said the other, trying to speak cheer- fully, ‘“‘ but my aunt has had a letter from Calcutta,” ‘From Calcutta?” : “Now don’t be frightened, darling! really it is nothing, only Aunt Lizzie is so nervous, and so easily alarmed. She has heard from Cousin Thomas: he was quite well when he wrote: (remember that), had made a good passage, and ar- rived in Bengal safely; but he found orders youns for him to proceed immediately up the country, and could not stay in Caleutta ie Rah to receive our letters,’ “But why—why go up country?” “Why, his battery is up country, you little goose, and they wanted him. There had been a slight rising among some of the hill tribes in the north provinces (they are always rising up there), and cousin Thomas wrote that he was likely to | have some skirmishing, at which Aunt Ligzie says he seems } uncommonly delighted; but of course, like most mothers, she is horrified at the mere name of fighting, and fancies all sorts of coming trouble. But that arises from her overween- ing love for him.” : They are going to fight 7” The voice seems so unlike Lady Ethel’s yotce that Maggie looked up quickly. There she stood, having risen from her chair, gray as ashes, and trembling in every limb. “Ethel, you will never be sc lish as to 7 yourself for a little thing like this. Would you have a soldier for a husband and not let him ply a soldier's trade? What non- sense! Rouse yourself, my dear! You are worse than even. poor Aunt Lizzie.” took her roughly by the hand y { Ll “Oh, do not leave me! and just now too, I could not bear | yo pe myself; it would kill me!” - i What can I do, dear? I don’t wan't to go; but Aunt zie has Ftd claims on mu, and I have here a month, ‘and she is anxious that I should return. Do you think I like to leave you, my dear sister?” _ ; Ethe “Take me with you,,” whisper y 1. ; rome tks toan3? “To Cranshaws ? Would you rea e to at “ H fpe sale tite mother will receive me. Do you think 1c Ww t v and neither of them here to boy spoke sharply; and ph up to her as she spoke, and | the **T do not think, Ethel, I am sure of .t.”” The physician caught at the idea: country air was all his patient needed to restore her to her usual health, and he could advise nothing that was likely to do her greater goou The only stipulation which he made was that the long jour ney should be broken by a night’s rest at York, which gave Maggie time to prepare her aunts for the reception of their unexpected visitor; and though she had kept them well un- formed of all that had occurred mn Curzca Street, and the love which Lady Ethel had evinced for herself, it must be confessed that the proposition of her advent struck Mrs. Bainbridge with dismay. “Lady Ethel coming with her! and when I wanted Maggie ie Fe help us 1n the packing! This is very awkward, Letty; t will turn the house all topsy-turyy again.” *“Oh, I hope not, Elizabeth, Maggie writes of Lady Ethel; agree together, the better.” ** Maggie 1s always enthusiastic, particularly where her affections are concerned,” said Mrs. Bainbridge ‘ Well, of course, I must always feel kindly towards any one whom my dear Thomas loves; but I must say, I should have been better pleased 1: Lady Ethel had delayed her visit till we were set- tled in our new home.”’ ““Perhaps she wants to come and help you, lizabeth, as Maggie does,” suggested Miss Lloyd. “Now, Letty! {st think of that girl, with her delicate min. cing ways, and all her Beery fashionable fal-fals, and say if that 1s probable Help me, indeed! she is far more likely to meee the whole house (myselt included) waiting upon her ” ‘‘ Here they come!” cried Aunt Létty, as she pursued her sister to the library: ** the carriage has just passed the brow o1 the hill, and I can see Maggic’s dear round face »ut of che Parad Come Elizabeth. let us meet the children in the all.’ But Mrs; Bainbridge, to the spot. “Oh, Letty! 11 she should speak and look as she did before, stand between us! I don’t think I could bear 1t—I don’t, indeed!” % ““ Nonsense!’ oxclaimed Aunt ae i * you are trighten- ng yourself with shadows, Lizzie. Why, thero is Maggie's te is Rae in the hall. My darling, are you really here at ast? ““*At last,’ you ma You see how affectionately and how well they seem to I hope we may find her much changed for trembling with anxiety, stood rooted ; 1 Say 1udeed, .untie. Poor Ethel 1s tired out of her life; she is not yet strong enough for such long joumeys.”’ And then she was embraced by each 1n turn, Maggie pushed Lqdy Ethti torward *‘ Aunt Lizzie, I have brought your daughter to you, who wants all the love that you can spare from Cousin Thomas to console her for his ab- scence, and all the care and petting you can give her for the sake of a little secret of her own. There Ethel,” as she placed the hand ot her companion in that of Mrs. Bainbridge, “ there is your mother, and here is mine,” ‘turning to Aunt Letty; “and now that we have one apiece, we shall) not quarrel,”’ Mrs. Bainbridge glanced timidly at her daughter-in-law, but one look at the pale harassed face raised imploringly to hers. was sufficient to make her kind maternal arms fly oven. “My dear girl, you look very ill! what has been the mat- ter with your Yow miserable my dear Thomas would be to know it!’ “Oh, mother!” whispered Lady Ethel, her, ‘do you—do you think there is any come home sgain?* ; clinging close to fear that he will not “Not come home, my dear? what—Thomas; God forbid! But Lam very anxious, naturally, and so must you be. uutil we hear that he is safe and well again at Caleutta,” “IT thought I could not bear it away from you and all he cares for,’ murmured the girl feverishly: ‘3 should have seen faces that were not there, and heard voices when nobody was talking, It seems so long—so very long—since he went away, and there is so much before me, I don’t think we shall ever meet in this world agaim,” a Meggie ” exclaimed Mrs. Bainbridge, in a voice of alarm, chy wie Joes she talk so strangely? My dear, you ought to be in bed, ‘ : *‘T think she is very tired, Aunt Lizzie; but nothing would do her more harm now than to be silent. Let her Say all she has to say, and then carry her up stairs and put her to bed in your own dear, comfortable way.” “Yes, let me speak,” went on Lady £thel, hurriedly, “just a few words; 1 anighe not tive to “e them till the morning. Oh, mother (if I may call you mother)! I behaved soill when Iwas here before: 1 was proud, and selfish, and Promerning I did not know how necessary love is to life: and now that Iam stripped of everything I come home to ask it at your hands.” ‘““M7 dear daughter, you have no need to ask, it has been iar ready for you. You had but to stretch your hand and ake it, “And may I rey here until he comes back to me—or I go to him? I feel as though I could not live now except in places with which he has been familiar.” iy My dear, Cranshaws is yourown, You are the mistress here. “Oh, no, no!” shrinking backward, ‘Y cannot feel that: I would rather be pe daughter and your guest. And if—if —anything should havpen—it he never comes in, you will let me try to be Phe child instead of him, I coull not live—indeed, indeed, Z could not live without him. My heart is breaking now,” and bursting intc tears, Lady Ethel tell up the homely breast of the .woman she had so de spis Mrs. Bainbridge, powerfully affected, could only strain her to her heart and cry with her, and had not Marci» interposed her authority, the invalid might have been ren dered seriously ill. “Come, Ethel, try to calm yourself. What would Dr. Chalmers say to such an exhibition? Aunt Lizzie, make her go up Stairs, and then vou can wait on her, and cosset her to your heart’s content, until she go«s to sleep.” Acting pe ee Met oars advi ie, Lad Ethel was’ per- oa suaded ow herself to be ma... much of (a proceeding to which the young woman was atn> p»riod averse), and Mr:. Bainbridge, seeing her eat her dianer and made comfortable for the night, had a very happy tearful time of 't untii she fe called down stairs again by the ringing of the prayer- rs A “Only to think,” she observed the appearance of the servants, sh wiped hor. moistened eyes, ** that that poor ve Hoa 3 is ‘rotting for Thomas even more than I am, and would give her right hand not to hayc offended him, And I darc’say he was partly in the wrong; men are so difficult so deal with.”? “Ido not think Etel would agree with you there,” said M e soiling, Ae snore fi all weetnen. 1 te Sapecteg heb Wh , and of herself, and of her ; ji Se anew eoowe she would be so altered t She is not like “Let us thank God for it,’ said train of domestics filed into the room ‘CHAPTER XLIX. AND LAST. “PEACE ON RARTH cppeniag in, Buea, Co , WHILE these events were happening in England, Colonel Bainb: , in a very ess and un PR mn jeg Bey was wandering about the north-west provinces of fo ny For that which, on the eve of his departure, he had tohi to Aunt Letty, as, waiting Aunt Letty, as the long
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SS EE SS PT ES PO ERE WEST ESS = — iF: HER LORD AND AITASTER, cousin Maggie was the truth. Scareely had_he con- cluaed tie icrims of his exchange, and paid down his passage-woney to the East, before he repented that he | had been so rash. _By the time Colonel Bainbridge had reached his des- tination, therefore, he had a thousand excuses read hatcheu for Mp4 Ethel. She was so young, so beauti- ful, so much admired. He had proposed to her too hastily, and without sufficient encouragement; she had never told him that she loved him; he had no one to thank for his gross error but himself. And then, she was quite unimpressionable, that fair, soft, girlish creature—that instead of attempting to provoke her love, he had deserted without giving her due warning, and left the field open to his rival! Fool! idiot! mad- man! The only remedy he could think of was to re- turn at once. But when he 0+ to Calcutta, Colonel ree hehe te experienced the r-- icasant fact that when aman is bound to his profess . saving and doing are two different things. Despuic.ucs waited for him (or rather for the officer in whose stead he appeared there) demanding his appearance with his battery up country where a disturbance had broken out among some 0 the hill tribes; aot unable to do more than write a few hurried lines to his mother (when it came to the point his courage failed him to address his wife) and leave directions with his agents to forward all his letters, he took the speediest means to reach his destination. Ar- rived there, he found the mutiny more important than he had imagined; regiments were ordered out in several directions, and he was immediately placed in com- mand, and sent to do duty somewhere in the jungle. Here Colonel Bainbridge remained for several weeks, seeing no service, with the exception of a few skirm- ishes and night surprises, which he called child’s play, and receiving no hurt unless a cut across the head with a glancing spear, which he declared‘too trifling to de- mand the doctor’s aid, could be called such. Colonel Bainbridge, however, (always the last person to look after himself) in this instance prared too careless; for, though the wound was not dangerous, the weather was $0; and a sunstroke supervening on exposure threw his already heated frame into a state of fever, which threatened his existence. For weeks he lay delirious on his bed, raving of things t, present, and to come; and when his malady was at last abated, and conscious- ness restored, he was s0 feeble as to seem desirous of one thi only, and that was, to die. He appeared to have lost memory, interest, curiosity; and the onl occasions upon which his medical attendant coul rouse him to anything like energy, was when he. men- tioned the desirability of his proceeding immediately to Kagland, and then Colonel Bainbridge, with all the rmuess of which he was inaster, would declare his willingness to go to Australia, the Cape, or the Mauri- tius—any where, in short, but to his native land. “No country but England will set you up again,” the doctor urged, ‘Pen fa will die here,” was his patient’s answer. For daring his Ulnmess all the softened thoughts which he had entertained for Lady Ethel on his voyage out had faded into the far distance, to be replaced by one idea the indisputable conviction that she hated him—tha she had said so—and that he must never see her more. With strength had vanished his powers of discernment, and he could only lie quiescent, and, in his feeble way. rehearse over and over again the last sad scene he ha gone through with his wife; until he convinced him- self that the best thing for her, for him, for both of them, was, that he should die where he lay and never trouble her again. ‘“‘ Yet, oh, Ethel! oh, my God! how I have loved her!” : It is this fact that accounts for the circumstance that it was five months before he returned to England. Part of that period he spent up in the jungle, unable to ost letters or to receive them; but by far the larger fair was passed in apathetic indolence upon his couch, when his mental condition had attained to such a pitch that he refused to open the advices which were for- warded to him; and while his friends were thirsting for news in England, really believed himself incapable of either answering or perusing what they sent him. But the day came when he could feign apathy no longer, when his body sprung from bed, renewed and buoyant, 2ni, his mind waking up to action as at a trumpet- call, he seized on his lar; dsspatcaes, as the famished seize on food, and de- youred them. What a feast he found there! The first which he tore open was Maggie’s long, warm letter sent from. Curzon street, with the little smeared-over but suili legible postscript, in the hand he loved. Could he believe his eyes, his senses? or was this a renewal of the delirium that had oppressed him? Yet every line of the epistle he held in his shaking hand confirmed the fact; she had misjudged herself, her heart, her feelings. His darling was his own again. Thank God! The, as- Pe ages as it came ta args bursting, welling up rom the deepest depths of his great heart, and bring- ‘ing a rush of scalding tears with it from his yet wea eyes, can never be expressed by printed letters. To be appreciated, it ought to have been heard; but no one heard it but the one to whom it was so gratefully ad- dressed. After this, the doctor found no difficulty in rsuading Colonel Bainbridge to return to England; Pre difficulty was in preventing his traveling there in such hot haste as to materially injure a frame which was still delicate. ‘But I must go, doctor; it is absolutely necessary. Affairs of the utmost importance call me home; and rail and steam can take me there,I spend my Christ- mag Day in England.” s rel : colgnre I RES) Ps ue you for a gag ad not 3 an you must go, I suppose you mus: bear in’ mind that in such an Thstance most haste may be worst s in mind! Could he bear in mind hing, ex- cagmtee that his beloved had arrived at the true low: ne sorely needed; but when he once set foot in Engiand, he! allowed hi if the time to eat be- fore he was rushing onward to north. Oh, how lin- ™. h him! P “All well?” he inquired breathlessly of the groom ' who waited at the wick Station with a ile- horse (he had A req! ip heg eee hat bby pall gd 7 d not be sent to jolt him homeward a 's . “ smiling; and as Colonel maitre cy gold sho mens lag sd a ene b t an as ugh packet of hitherto despised | his mind he struck spurs into the horse’s sides and sent him clattering over hill and dale in a manner to which he had been of late very little accustomed. Reeking and breathless he brought him to a standstill before the door of his own house and flung himself from out the saddle. His mother met him in the hall. “Ny son! my dearest!” it was all she could find voice to say, she was so happy. “She is here—mother—she is well—I can see her? Oh, do not keep me waiting! if you only knew what Ihave suffered.” “My dear boy, you shall see her in a moment, but T must prepare you; it was her wish that you should not know of it beforehand—that there is a child—a son for you—born this morning, Thomas, and all well as pos- sible. Are you not thankful?” Ts Chetan expressed by sudden pallor, a fixed face and tremblinglimbs? Mrs. Bainbridge was quite fright- ened at the alteration in her son’s appearance. “My dear, they are quite well, and Ethel is so proud; she only wants you to complete her happiness. An such a fine child, Thomas; the very image of yourself, with large, dark eyes. Everybody who has seen him says so; and when I took him first to his dear mother—” ut Mrs. Bainbridge had to finish her interesting de- scription of the new-comer’s charms to the hall-table; for darting past her without another word, Colonel Bainbridge had already scaled the staircase and gained the upper landing, where M e, ae without the least effort to detain or greet him, silently opened the bedroom door, andeushered him into thé presence of his wife. It was through her instrumentality that they had been brought together again; it was fitting she should be the one to turn that handle for him. en the door closed, and she was left—outside. But not alone. No! Maggie, dear, generous, faithful Maggie, never again—through life or death—alone! The room was darkened, as such rooms are, and the curtains partly drawn about the bed, by the side of which stood, courtesying, a substantial nurse, who evidently con- sidered that the bundle of flannel she pompously held in her arm was better worth inspection than all the Lady Ethels in the world. But not so the man who loved her; who, pressing past both nurse and infant, saw nothing but two weak arms stretched out to wel- come him, and flew to their embrace, and found his heaven there. “Oh, love, can you forgive?” was all she whispered; but the inquiry received no answer, and Lady Ethel never pressed'for one. There is a silence more eloquent than words; a silence during which hearts speak to one another, and souls are joined in marriage; and such a silence reigned between them now. hen Thomas Bainbridge unlocked himself from that embrace, he knew that for the future no explanations would be needed; that he and his wite were one. F It was in November that he reached his home; and with the dawn of Christmas Day a happy pate as- sembled in the breakfast-room of Cranshaws. Lady Ethel, as beautiful as ever, and become what her hus- band termed “impudently strong” again (which meant that as usual she gained her own way in everything) was seated between him and Mrs. Bainbridge, and en- gaged in carrying on what appeared to be a most ani- mated discussion, “Well, you must settle it between yourselves, then,” said Colonel Bainbridge, as he rose from the table, and took up the Englishman’s favorite position on the hearth rug. “Of course we will,” replied Lady Ethel, Jaying her hand in that of her mother-in-law; ‘I settle it by say- ing that mother must live with us at Cranshaws, and give up allidea of Birmingham once and forever.” Mrs. Bainbridge looked intensely gratified, but she at ty He oma d of to it—t ; ears s° ve ‘ood of you propose it—too good, indeed—but I tn alf afraid. You lt get tired of seeing an old woman like me about the house; I shall | be in yous way, and you will not like to tell meso. I think it will be best for all parties that I should adhere to i bey plan and go to Birmingham.” “Then I shalladhere to my old plan,” said Ethel, reso- lutely, “and refuse to live at Cranshaw.” “My darling, I thought you had quite made up your mind to occupy it for six months in the yea?” “Not without you, mother; I should lost in this eat place all by myself. And do you think I would eep baby here, ten miles from_a doctor, and so igno- rant as I am of children, unless I had some one to help and advise me? No;Iam quite decided. If you go to Birmingham, baby must go to Curzon Street.” ‘Oh, that would be ten thousand pities my dear, and when he is getting on so splendidly in this fine air. am sure he is twice as big as old Hetty’s andchild, and there is only a fortnight’s difference in their ages.’ “T know it,” replied Lady Ethel, with mock despond- pee “and in Curzon Street in all probability he will shrivel up to the size of a prawn. Butif grandmamma won’t stay and look after him, he must shrivel. Oh, Thomas,” with sudden, coaxing earnestness, as she jumped up and. placed her hand upon_her husband’s arm, ‘‘make your mother stay with us. No one can see after baby and me as she can;I should be lost without her. Besides,’ with rather less assurance, and a faint blush, “it was she, you know—she and dear Maggie— who kept me alive when you were absent, and taught me to be hopeful and trust in God, I owe m acer se happiness to them; it would not seem complete if they wie Gan ven, resist this cageaner tl demanded Colonel per ee, as he raised the sweet face to his own and t. naketty, my re bl yhat shan I do?” said Mrs. Bain- e, in a flutter of de . “Stay with them, I should say, and thank God for your son daughter.”’ But you—” bt ‘Aunt: Letty, stays where you do, mother,” exclaimed Eee halt tha sale ont will want SP etenda ate y us ha) @ year, an wan ° 6 “ And our home will always be dear Maggie's,” ada Colonel Bainbridge, smiling. “Maggie! I sho think 6 80,” said Lady Ethel, as she rush. rem! y sister— riend— ey, dear, dear ms ord we owe everything her—our love, our ess, our . dare tee think w 1 re would have been like if “Heaven will re i er,” said her cousin, pressii her hand; and. as she met the calm look of contentmen he regarded her, felt that with which he : the re- “Hark! was not that the sound of bells?” exclaimed Aunt Letty, as flew to the window. ‘Ethel, my dear, a esa kennel yen ik la top 4a7.ond bees. i Chiat bells came ‘afar through the roe po sie ssed 1 ere. “Peace on earth.and good will towards men,” said Col- onel Bainbridge, as he drew his cousin and his wife to- wards the window, “Hark, Ethel! listen, Maggie! Peace and good will, My dear girls, how good God is to us!” x * It was on that same evening that Miss Lloyd surprised Margaret Henderson in a reverie. en My darling, what are you thinking of?” “Of Saint Erminilda’s, auntie, and the services they are holding there. How glorious they must be!” “You wish you could be present?” “T should like it, dear, and so would you.” “Well, go, my child, then.” Maggie stared; Aunt Letty was not used to practical joking, and especially on serious subjects. “What Go you mean?” “Not that you should start off fo-nishs, my darling, to make one of the congregation in Saint Erminilda’s, but that you should consider yourself, from this mo- ment, free to act in that matter as you think fit. The time has come, my Maggie.” “Oh, Aunt Letty! are you really in earnest?” with a deep-drawn breath. “Yes, child; if it were the cutting off of 7 right hand, or my right arm, I must still say so. The time has come. Your place in Cranshaws is filled up. Aunt Liz- zie has procured, through your means, another daugh- ter, and may well spare you to Heaven.” “But you, my dearest aunt, to whom I owe so much, can you quite spare me?” Aunt Letty made an effort to control herself, and then went on calmly: “Yes, darling; I have thought of that; I, too, am _will- ing. I shall not lose you more than I should do if you were married; perhaps less; and Ishall always have the comfort of knowing that each step you take will brin, us nearer to the end. Maggie, I said once to you ‘Stay,” and you staid dutifully. Now I say—and quite as earn- estly—go, my ghild—my blessing—in the name of God!’” And in His name she went. THE END. Waverley Library. 19 Tae Broken BerrorHay. By Mary Grace Halpine. 20 ORPHAN NELL, THE ORANGE Girt. By Agile Penne. 21 Now anp Forever, By Henrietta Thackeray. 22 THE BripE of AN Actor. By Author of ‘“‘Clifton.”’ 23 Leap Year. By Sara Claxton, 24 Her Face Was Her Fortune By Eleanor Blaine. 25 Onty A ScHootmistREss. Arabella Southworth. 26 Wiruovr A Heart. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 27 Was SHE A CoguetTe? By Henrietta Thackeray- 28 Sypit CHASE. By Mrs. Ann 8. gfe ig 29 For Her Dear Sake. By Sara n. 30 Tue Bovguer GiRL. a Me ay Penne. s 31 A Map Marriage. By Mary A. Dennison. 32 MrrIANNA, THE Prima Donna. By A. Soutliworth. 33 Tue Taree Sisters. By Alice Fleming. 34 A MARRIAGE of ConNVFNIENCE. By Sara Claxton.. 35 Sinnep Acatnst. By Clara Augusta. 86 Sim ARCHER’s Brive. By Arabella Southworth. 37 Tue Country Cousin. Rose Kennedy. 38 His Own Acain. By Arabella Southworth. 39 FurrTaTion. By Ralph Royal, 40 Piepcep to Marry. By Sara Claxton. 41 Burnp Devorion. By Alice poe 42 BEATRICE, THE BEAUTIFUL. By A. Southworth. 43 Tue Baronet’s SecRET. By Sara Claxton. 44 Tue Onty DaveuTerR. By Alice Fleming. 45 Her Hippen For. By Arabella Southworth, 46 Tue Lirtte Herress. By Mrs. M. A. Denison. 47 Because Sue Loven Him. Pious Fleming. . 48 In Sprre or Hersetr. By 8. R. Sherwood. 49 His Hrart’s Mistress, By Arabella Southworth. 50 THe Cusan Herress. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison, 51 Two Youne Giris. By Alice Flem ng. 52 Tue WinceD Mussencer. By Mrs, M. R. Crowell. 58 Aanes Hopr, THz Actress. By Wm. M. Turner. 54 Onn, Woman's Heart. By George 8. Kaime. 55 Sue Dip Nor Love Him. By A. Southworth. 56 Love-Map, By William Mason Turner, M. D. 57 A Brave Gir... pe ope Fleming. 58 Tue Exon Mask. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 59 A Wipow’s Wites. By Rachel Bernhardt. 60 Crcm’s Deceit. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton. 61 A Wickep Hearr. By Sara Claxton. — 62 Tae Mantac Brive, By Margaret Blount. 63 THe CREOLE Sisters. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter 64 Wuat JeaLousy Dip. By Alice Fleming. 65 Tue Wire's Secret. By Col. Juan Lewis. 66 A BrorHer's Sin, By Rachel Bern : 67 Forsippen Bans, By Arabella Southworth. -68 WEAVERS AND Wert. - By Miss M. E. Braddon. 69 CamiutitE. By Alexander as. 70 THe Two OrpHANS. B: A rmegent 71 My Youna Wire. By My Young Wife’s Husband. "2 Tan Two Wipows. Annie Thomas, 73 Rosk Micuet. By Maude Hilton. 74 Cec CASTLEMAINE’s GAGE. By Ouida, 75 Tar Buack Lapy or Duna. By J. 8. Le Fanu. 76 CHARLOTTE TemPLE. By Mrs. Rowson. 77 CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’s MisTAKE. By the author of “‘Jobn Halifax, Gentleman.” 78 My Youna Huspanp, By Myself. _. 79 A Queen Amonast Women. By the author of 80 Hur L eae ate Fl M t. ORD AND Ter. By Florence Marrya ee r ta ton Meta Orred ING Ago. . Silt 83 Piayine For Hicu gaticoe: By Annie Thomas. & Tar Lauren Buse. By the author of “Jo Halifax, Gentleman.” Fe] } Asrray. By ci By. Gorge Mot ANET’S REPENTANCE, oe 87 Romance or A Poor Young Man. By Feuillet. 88 A TrrRisLE Deep. Emma Garrison Jones, ont epentge pe nde — B 3 LL’ AND AD.