Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (v. 4) (1881 05 17)

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The Only Young Ladies’ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels Published! C7 SPAT $2.50 ayear. “7 be RAT Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. Ba = fial uate | ie. May 17, 1881, —_ — No: 79, Vou. IV. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST., N. Y. PRICE, 5 CENTS. ‘A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. By the author of “The Cost of Her Love,” “A Gilded Sin,” “Dora Thorne,’ “From Gloom to Sunlight,’ etc. ; CHAPTER I. Owe of the earliest scenes that Audrey Brooke remembered in her life was the follow- ing. The morning sun was shining brightly into the quaint old-fashioned room that her father, Doctor Fabian Brooke, called his library -~a room that would have charmed an artist by its dark rich coloring and artistic furniture; Round the walls were great oaken book-shelves laden with books. The panels were painted in rich deep colors, the hangings were of :deep crimson, the carpet was of Indian manufacture; the few pictures were ehefs d’auvre, the half- dozen busts were of great merit and value, the whole tone of the'room was warm and artistic. The prevailing) odor of Spanish leather—fra- grant and aromatic—-was another charm, but to,Audrey Brooke the greatest charm was the large bay-window, filled with soft Turkish cushions, and overlooking one of the most beautiful gardens in England. Her father had just returned from. the chureb, where he had been marrying two young people, and the book he had used still lay open on the table. She took it in her hands, and read it as she went to her favorite nook, the great bay-window: She laid the book upon a cushion, and bending her fair head over it, studied the words intently. They were the beautiful words of the marriage service, and the sentence that riveted the child’s attention was this—‘‘Those whom God hath joined to- gether let no man put asunder.” She said it over and over again to herself ‘with a critical air, as, of one who weighed the words, A hand touched her bowed head roused her, “ What are you reading, drey?” asked her mother. ‘The marriage service,, mamma, .I have never read it before. How beautiful the words are! ‘Listen to this one sentence— ‘Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’ The words have the rhythm of an old poem,” “They are better than poetry, Audrey— they are truth.” The child raised her thoughtful eyes. Out- side the windows stood groups of white Ascen- ) sion lilies, Through the rippling foliage of the een trees she saw the lofty gray spire of the urch; above that was the clear blue sky. “ But poetry and truth always go together, mamma, do they not?” ‘They should, my dear: I cannot. say that they, do in every case,” said Mrs., Brooke, The girl did not seem to hear the’ answer— her eyes were riveted on the blue sky. She murmured the solemn words once again to her- self—‘t Those whom God hath joined, together let no man put asunder,” “T shall never forget the words, mamma,” she said, ‘‘they are so beautiful;” and hence- forward, in her mind, the gray church spire, the green foliage and the white Ascension lilies were all associated. with a sentence which seemed to her more solemn than any she had ever heard. " Holmesdale ‘was a picturesque spot. The town of Holmesdale stood at the foot of a wooded hill. The river Dale—a broad stream, with deep green banks—ran through the town; the houses clustered on either side; the great dark masses of the Holme woods rose on the left, and on the right lay miles of green pas- ture-land. The church'stood half-way up the ,bill, and was sufrounded by tall trees. It was.a church with arched windows overhung with ivy, and with a tall, tapering spire. The rectory was built near it, on the southern side of the hill, and was a pretty, quaint old house half-hidden by flowers, There lived. Doctor Fabian Brooke, one of the greatest scholars, and one of the simplest men in England—a man wise yet simple, learned yet humble, full of deep religious faith, and showing it in a good life. He was rector of Holmesdale,’ No one ever referred to him as a miracle of eloquence—he preached no new doctrine, he took no part in the somewhat acrid discussions of ‘the day, he startled no one by innovations of any kind; but it was a fact that the people of Holmes- dale under his charge lived good lives and died happy deaths, they were honest, sober, moral and Cale op Fon “5 = > _ He was as firm as a rock in all matters of right and wrong, yet he was so kind, so merci: ful, so gentle in his judgments, that charity lived in his parish and amongst all the people with whom he had to deal. His wife Isabel was'a gentle, kindly woman, whose life had but one end—obedience to her husband. Audrey, his daughter and only child, completed the little household, and had far more depths of character than any one else in it, . It was,& wonderful household, and a most sensible one. . Religion was not made hideous with either cant or severity} it was made beautiful, graceful, attractive. : The Brookes did not confound) the sin and the sinner; they never glossed over wickedness, nor made light of it, nor tended that any- thing could excuse it. ey gave to every sin its proper name. Doetor Brooke never stood vy calmly while the poor man who had stolen bread for his starving children and the rich swindler who had robbed thousands were classed to- gether. e fj He never listened quietly while the follies and faults of a friendless, penniless girl were discussed without mercy and the “ fast” follies of a ‘‘fine lady” smiled at and called eccen- tricities; be called sin by its right name. But, while he was hard upon sin, he wasmost mer- Whatever the grea pe spa rt Bn? of ue parishioners, they 5 to go and he had comfort for all. He eould be influenced and persuaded; but no creature living could make him call wrong right, or yield to what \. he knew was wrong. In the midst * She was teen; and it would have been difficul d @ more gifted, graceful gir Refinement nnes a face; truth, purity, candor shone there too. Hers was a type of beauty. She b large, dark ail aude soft and full of poetry, with long, dark lashes and

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a mised wi er, Dy «i eo a4 e if 6 and pant for ie girl to. liye always in the ae | ns dla, wi QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. clea) | hi “brows; a oad: eantifal —_ full o , * Audrey,” she said gravely, ‘‘is it pouibie thst yc you care ide: ith, rounded temple this kind of Seinprraally care, I mean?” Th “scarlet mouth pga only . foitkatee: in A ‘The ©) Be 8 her bri ‘are about which one was not. quite sure. It was fee yf 4 e an ; he oh a children?” she =the curves of the sweet lips were perfect; but, Whi or replied. bond er eyes ight mre of'a pictured:ss int or angel, the} ‘‘Iu erstand the Bitod yphy teighme said Mrs. ic 1a ce long ay to a bé 1 k ne. | 3 sutiful woman. © » |Galyerne, ‘“fandehow wise it is ” ee est of our humoréus smile; there Was at_times a) ves; but I cannot think how a girl 6 mY ot them; yet never were lips|me—so beautiful, Andrey, can be con - Crown. of this fair youn veliness ‘encrens 8 ‘ ; | “Ido not see what being Temi re a rai “with it,” rejoined Audrey. ‘‘ My presence erly, cheers - ‘the little ones, the aged, and the “aicks That is all.” “She is-quite ignorant of the value of ies ae face,” Ie 2 he sand was id the full’ as béautifal as OE body" a Kit *drey had inherited her father’s keen sense of right and} oi his passionate’ sénsé“of honor, his’ alm, cleat un- ering pudgment, his shrewd common sense, his recti- ' eh 4 walk with you, Audrey?” she asked aloud. Miss Brooke was only too :pleased; she liked t the J woman of fashion, whose ideas on every point. differe greatly from her own. They set out together, and Mn Calverne waited patiently outside the cottages while Audr & She had been most. tassbats wuiohse, and trained; she knew not of evil; she knew less of the wickedness of the world Aa recocious child of ten; she was sin- gularly innocent sitiple. To her a thing, t@ pe % Si went in. Then they walked up the hill, past the church, = " y ehpany at bar tling colo — a hand Mrs.»Calverne, avlo was a devoutwor shippemof beauty \ nd. Sings, buf heyer |) cg pro- | in eyery form andhape, nttered x Riige ry when she saw ‘the tall; tapering ‘spire: “‘And those trees, Audtey—how | pemciifal they are! What do you call them? Aspens? Why, they are san It was one. of Mrs. Brooke’s ideas that her daughter should not read the n ewspapers, vi The re filled eh murders and those horrible divorce | still; they seem to tremble allover. Howstrange!» Are all cases,” she said tovher husband», ‘I would. rather.she: did aspen-trecs: alike?” , not see them.” ‘¢T should imagine so,” replied Audrey. « flike that perpetual tremor of leaves. Let ns sit still and watch them.” It-was_pleasant to wateh the blue sky above the gray church, pleasant to watch the green boughs of the trem- bling aspens, the bright sunlight lying around. ™ “©T shall never ‘for got those aspens,” said’ Mrs. Calverne. “ How tall and straight they are!’ But, Audrey, PRS, trem- ble. as though some one, were striking them,” Audrey raised her dark eyes: to the pleasant face...) | o<*Have you never read the legend of: the aspenstree?” He yielded where he half doubted the prudence:of, doing: so; and so it happened that the white leaves of the Ascen- ‘sion lilies were not purer than this brightand_beautiful jou soul. ” The first great change that came to Audrey Brooke was rt cate shé"paid to a distant relative of het mother’s— Calverne,.a wealthy and,fashionable widow, who hada lovilla at: Richmond, and considered life fifty miles fro _ London quite unendurable. |» ] “4 iatter of “business had taken Mrs. Oalverne into that ‘ “part of the world where the Brookes resided. She had] she asked. “One of our “best poets has put it into omy a8 a matter of. duty, and,had found herself | verse.’ parhd priseand made captive by the sweetness of | ‘‘-No, Ihave ne ven heard of it,” replied the widow, tho ght in her heart that it was’a’ great| shading her face from sun. ‘* What is it? fe am are not mueh in my li ‘* But. this is.so pretty and quaint that a master of words has written .a.beautiful.. poem, on it... Thelegend. is. this, that-from all the other trees the aspen was chosen: to pro- vide the wood for the cross, and that ever since ‘then it has nevér ceased trembling with horror of what was done.” “ane iE Bt doing, nothing but.read and study, and yisit} ld women—ar' nae waste of beauty, she imagined, . If. Audrey into» society, there would be no limit to he ’ ) bounds Nt Tr succ nO7s ate id no fortune, 0 ks very little,” re Calverne to i “ ie habbo such a Jeyely face, she oidibe: Tahoe io it is. t' true.” nti prodrug ba avé thoughtabout that.” <aaarey.”™ sald the widow, after a short enn! ‘ « de you know that’ you are not in the least like other iris? Of course what you have told me is? very pretty andall that sort of thing, but [should hardl ya advise. you'to get into alte habit | of ica that fashion.’ th ee ‘aisorbe, enon; h not to give hts; Gr understood perfectly the er of the. BCOBI? 53 wit Sig in ane _, ‘In what fashion?” ‘asked Andrey, startled. gies _ {About religion; of course it is all very. well, but Nell pred: people; as a rule, are silent. about it. Really, if lite decide pee bw “mind ePhetiver ‘Awe ent. with, er life’ ay “not. It _seemed,to Mrs. » £ |.could, 1 ne happy without pollin als admirers. » topics. ” BR That, would be very wise,” said Audrey, with thé little curl of the lip.that-her friend had yet to.understand, ‘1 ‘told-yowa legend. I did not speak of religion.” + “But you speak ‘as henge you' were full of it. Audrey, ; es 2 eh to pay mea long visit at Richmond. sno of erly rou? d Aer tor Pode sherval'-) «<1 should like it very atch » said pe =< gl uch’skilli = "8s ¢ “yam eighteen years of age, and have never: been away from ne or tivo sick-calls,” she! tine ‘Hottticedale yet.” ittle Jennie Hurst,..a,child. whg| . ‘‘ My. poor child! I-call that positive cruelty,” eried. Mrs. ah odie nag Bs three weeks past,. Galverne. “And yet Lenvy. yous having so much to see, then I am going to a Mrs atthews.” hear, and to sedetaps. ou will enjoy yourself very Mrs. ae ascii at the girl’s superb face. epi Iam sure. I keep open, i and am never with- ~ . @ rn * | er ade aan we oon thought’ Mrs. Calverne+“ that is quite vevident ‘hall I ‘ . _‘<It.is prett a said Mrs, Calverne; im ocala then of course . : aeons to win success in society, you must banish: all’ Eh ; i

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journey and all needful purchases. Mrs. Brooke had been * A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. 3 os three or four young people staying with me—really nice | the picturesque beauty of the house. She was delighted people, too, whose society you will enjoy.” too,.on the day following, when Mrs. Calverne—who was That same evening Mrs. Calverne asked whether Audrey almost royally generous in her liberality—took her out might pay the proposed visit, and the Rector would not; ener give a decided answer, but he ‘promised to think. the mat-| To Audrey’s simple imagination her hundred satade ter over and to consult his wife.’ The result of the consul- | seemed almost inexhaustible. It. bought so much—every- tation was that Audrey might go and remain fora month. | thing that a young lady could desire. She was delighted at the prospect. The Rector gave her} There was nothing forgotten—evening- -dresses, _ball- a chequ ich he fancied would coverche expenses of her | dresses, walking-costumes, gloves, fans, Parisian shoes, pretty ornaments—yet in the purse Mrs. Calverne handed to her there was left a handsome supply of gold. ‘‘A hundred pounds goes a very long way,” said Audrey thoughtfully. She was well pleased; and on the morrow, when Mrs. Cal- verne’s friends and visitors arrived, she felt quite at home and at her ease amongst them. Miss, Hamlyn gaye one keen, comprehensive. glance at Audrey when they were introduced, and then she smiled at Mrs. Calverne,,. « ‘* We shall hear of something betananr, long,” she said. That same eyening Mrs. Caly erne se highly de- lighted with a note that she had received. ‘Sir Roche Kplpers is coming,” * she sid ey hardly hoped to see him.” very anxious to send for the Holmesdale milliner, a lady of great repute, but Mrs. Calverne had shuddered..at the thought. » Fo : will ak sin Be for Audrey to have her. dresses made in Lon e said; ‘ firightiy still when obs saw | half revealed by the firm, graye mouth; the looked as the beautiful mansion on the banks of the Thames which | though they had sealed ja, secret; it) was hey ¥ Mrs. Calverne called home. In her simple lifeshe had seen| keen blue eyes, in the whole expression of the face nothing like it; it seemed to her a very palace of grandeur. | was.above the ordinary height, with strength and grace Mrs. Calverne was a charming hostess, She herself con-| combined-a man who. could never have. even. passed. ducted Audrey to her room—a pretty apartment, hung/through'a room unnoticed, , with blue silk and white lace. Most men envied, all women admired, Sir Roche Villiers. “The long windows looked over. the’ grounds that led to) He was rich; heowned a magnificent aia ovan bbey; 5 the river; presenting: a most: exquisite view. :'In the room| he possessed a magnificent mansion in, London there was everything that a girl’s heart could desire... The| House, he had 2 hilla. at. Cowes, a lar toilet-table was covered with marvels of glass, Dresden | His baronetcy was,one of the oldest. in Beer aes china, and ivory, and with most elaborate scent-bottles. Ahad lavished some of her richest. gifts on hum. Books, couch was drawn near the window y There were|.‘ He-had»a-fine, clear,. keen. es ‘a brilliant, vivid sf ta pictures, statuettes.cn) low » Se fattiaiy the soul of a poet, the n he taste and instinct ey looked round in wonder. "This was nhagnihitert of an artist; he was a_ brilliant eet anit apse Biren com sear the plain bare: aspect of her: room: at’ the courtier, 9 |: v7 a Elva F Hevtery. He. was sacl the, leading _members. al he House of cf bse you will spend happy hours here,” had Mts. | Commons; and was a power in, the day clyt th he had Sevens. reached the age of thi ~ Audrey was delight ‘with the sizethe ea," pyran sought after, attr we Dale sini no one had *. 4" “* Coming here, is he? I have heat eae to understand om 7 Miss Hamlyn looked up with a se of £ pleasure in her b eee) ee Po ee ag? soni as r eT a oe = “as Bil. as ig TR = 4

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~ niless in the world if I could regain what I have lost. 4 A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. a word to say against him. And he won the love of women by the eloquent beauty of his face, as well as by his mar- vellons talent, tact, grace, and wit. an _. The room in which he sat was spacious and handsome. The hangings were of amber and black; the walls were hung with works by the old masters; the corners and niches held copies of the world’s most famons statues. The sunbeams lingered ona thousand beautiful things, but those same sunbeams brought no smile to the face of the man to whom everything brought only weariness. He put away his thoughtsand gave the’ whole of his attention to the letters lying on the table. - One after another he read them, and wrote on each the rite word *‘ declined,” until he came to Mrs. Calverne’s etter. ‘J will go there—I always enjoy a visit to Richmond.” He wrote an acceptance—it was the same letter which gave such delight to the fashionable widow—and then the old air of weariness and gloom came over him. . ‘‘T wonder,” said Sir Roche Villiers, the possessor of thirty thousand per annum, “‘if there is anything in this world which would make me feel like my old self “again, light of heart, hope trustful, sanguine. Gould anything give me a desire for life, take from me _~ the rankling sense of ill-usage, restore my faith in my kind, ‘jin the love and the truth of women, the honor of men. I would give my fortune for them, and consent to stand i . h should my heart have lost its youth, my life its spring? Other men are happy till they die—I was happy for only a few short months.’ ead He rose hurriedly; he walked with rapid steps up and down the room; he clenched his strong hands. . “JT would give all that I have,” he cried, ‘‘for one draught of the waters of Lethe, my whole fortune for one “, fhe of forgetfulness; the exchange would make me a vit q _ awaited him. ‘ happy man,’ A os th did not come to him, nor did rest or forgetfulness. - The day arrived on which heleft his home and went to Richmond, where a warm welcome from the graceful widow He never forgot the day. It was rich and warm with the glory of July. The river lay gleaming in the sun. ‘The banks were rich in color, the trees luxuriant in foliage. The beautiful, cheerful house, with its long bright windows, its baleonies all filled with flowers, its pretty fountains, thee sweep of lawn, and stately'trees, brought no smile to ielipe. . Mrs. Calverne received him with the graceful warmth that made her so popular; she said kind, pleasant things to him; she hoped a few days of change, rest, and bright companionship would do him good. He thanked her; but when, after a short conversation, she went away to order some luncheon’ for him, he walked to the window and stood looking absently over the green lawn with its wealth of rose-trees. - Mrs. Calverne’s return aroused him. He knew that-he had the usual ‘society ‘routine to go through. While he drank the clarét-cup so perfectly prepared, and admired the cool, tempting fruit set Gators’ Kin he asked who were his fellow guests. they formed a pleasant and well-selected party. “Tha é abelle,'s Beauty an ingenue, a wit, and yourself, Could anything be better?” * “No,” he answered, with a smile. “When you have rested a little and care to go out, you will find them all pid imo - Miss Hamlyn and Miss Brooke like bank of the river. I think yon will be pleased with Miss Brooke; she is something quite fresh.” He raised the eyebrows a ‘hi as-though anything in this weary world could be fresh to him! He forgot: all about Miss Brooke the next moment, and, enjoying’ his cigar roger he presently strolled down’'to the river-bank. Then there he saw thé - Rector’s daughter. He had prayed only a few hours before i’. forge 8; now he : »- * ease ee es hae 2 re gies + eee ee y| found the spring of the waters of Lethe at last. Mrs. Calverne answered brightly that} hoped that- no time, no thought, no trouble, no sorrow would ever take thisnew memory from him. He bore the picture with him until the day he died. The tall, slender girl standing idly by the river-bank » watching the stream, every line and curve of her figure clearly de- fined against the blue sky, her two white hands idly clasped, was as perfect a picture as artist or poet could suggest. ee A smile, half th@xghtful, half proud, played round her lips. Her sweet loveliness revealed no trace of human pas- sion, there was nothing to mar the calmness of. girlhood. It was quite a new type of beauty to him, rich in its brilliant. coloring, proud in its half-haughty grace, pure in its. dreamy loveliness. He stood quite still, asa man who sees some wonder of the world for the first time, spell-bound 7 the beautiful purity of the unconscious face. What happened she watched it he never quite knew; the sun took amore a n gleam, the river seemed to flash into light and song, a. deeper green fell on the rippling leaves, sweeter fragrance: came to the flowers. As he looked at Audrey his life seemed to grow complete; something awoke in his heart and soul that never die again, something that gave him back his youth, his faith, his trust—that took away his doubts, fears, and dismay. He watched her intently while the moments passed un- heeded, and then he murmured to himself that he had He roused himself suddenly as from a sweet sleep. He was obliged to pass by the spot wh .e she stood, for he saw Miss Hamlyn in the distance. As he drew near, the girl raised her face and their eyes met, only for a moment, but that same moment held the fate of two souls... He hurried on, and'found Miss Hamlyn ae the capabilities of the smooth green croquet-ground. When he spoke to her, he had the look and manners of a man who was dreaming. ‘* He speaks to me,”’ she thought, ‘‘ but he does not even “ — and then he asked the question that trembled on eg Tae . ‘‘Who is that lady standing on the river-bank, Miss Hamlyn?” von was a demure smile in her eyes as she raised them to his. ‘That is Miss Brooke, Audrey Brooke—or Tingenwe, as Mrs. Calverne calls her.” «< Audrey Brooke,” he repeated slowly, and to his excitcd fancy it seemed that the surging wavelets re-echoed the name. ‘Audrey Brooke,” he said-again, and Miss Ham- lyn smiled with the superiority of a young lady quite above such weakness as love. ) ‘*T will introduce you to her, if you like,” she said. Mechanically he followed her, and in a few. moments he was bowing while a fair face was raised to his—raised_ for one moment, and then the dark eyes fell. It seemed. to them both that in that one glance their souls had met. «There will be something worth talking about. before very long,” said Miss Hamlyn to herself; and the words came most unfortunately true. | CHAPTER III. ‘© AFTER all, you know, my dear, that such notions are old-fashioned; the world of our day laughs at them. The are very well to teach to the poor, but for us they are old- fashioned.” ' iss) ~salied So spoke Mrs. Calverne; and Miss Hamlyn, listening, ‘said laughingly: id “The day will come, I beliov, when honor,.trath, and religion, in their rigid aspects, will be pronounced. old- fashioned;” and the elder lady with a complacent: smile an- 8 ed: ? ri Still there must always be some kind of check. for the lower classes,”’ | nisyin") © Mrs. @alverne did not distinguish the ring, of. satire in “We. ot Se eee 4-4

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i th ups a a an + a ane Yea A QUEEN AMONGSL WOMEN. v the girl’s laugh» Bertha Hamlyn was generally quite ‘honest: in: her opinions. ) ‘ She’said to herself now that, if there were» as much sin and irreligion in the lower.as in the higher classes, nothing but a new deluge’ could purify: the world. . Mrs., Calverne was! equally’ sincere inher belief that that which was)a sin in a poor mati was merely au, eccentricity in a, wealthy one, and that Heaven, while.it' judged severely. the sins and the shortcomings of the poor, smiled) with compassion on the same faults in the rich... %. ee} , The, two ladies had been talking very seriously, for on the lawn before them was a tableau that none could mistake., A time-worn sun-dial stood apart from the trees, and ending oyer it, watching intently the lines and marks, were Audrey and Sir Roche Villiers. They might disguise it as they would; they might talk of the sun-dials and listen to the birds; they might seem to be engrossed with the river or the far-off hills; the truth was plain enongh—they saw, heard, understood nothing on earth but each other. Neither of them could haye told when or where or how they had begun to loye each other; neither could realize ‘that time had been when they were strangers. Suddenly, subtly, with all sweet, vague unconsciousness, the two lives seemed to have become one, and they were ignorant of it. No words of love had been spoken; they were in dream- land-——the dream-land of lovers. . But others saw that of which they were quite unconscious. Miss Hamlyn, had noticed them, and on this fair summer ‘day had spoken to Mrs. Calverne. That lady was some- what disconcerted at first.. Bertha looked at her in undis- guised wonder. | ¥s ‘«Surely,” she said, ‘* you could not have desired a better match for your. profegee. Sir Roche must, be one of the richest baronets in England. Many a lord would be thank- ful for his income.” Pre n ‘Tt is not that,” returned the mistress of River View. « Audrey is not like other girls} her parents are not like other people.’ Altogether I'am puzzled about it.” “T should not feel very much puzzled if Sir Roche asked me to be his wife,” remarked Bertha. ‘‘I should not lose much time in saying ‘ Yes;’ nor would any girl possessed of “common sense. ‘Take my advice, Mrs. Calverne, and ‘say nothing; let matters take their ‘course. That is what I advise.” | . | ‘But suppose, Bertha, that her parents bfame me after- wards, what then?” : “Blame you’ for helping to make their daughter Lady Villiers of Rowan Abbey! Never fear. I have often noticed that those whom the world calls religious are wide awake to their own interests. Believe me, Doctor Brooke will be much pleased if his daughter makes a grand marriage.” And then followed the conversation about. old-fashioned ideas. “Even if you would interfere,” said Miss Hamlyn, after a time, “it is too late. Look at Sir Roche. Do you think that he sees the sky above him, or the earth beneath his feet, or anything else rey that most fair and lovely young face? You might as well try to stop the tide as try to check the loye which has come to them both.” And look- ee them, Mrs. Calverne felt that’ Bertha Hamlyn was right. ; ‘Sir Roché cowld not explain the beginning of his love for Audrey.. A new beautiful life had suddenly sprung up within him; flowers bloomed where an arid desert had been; the funeral pall which had covered earth and sky fell away; he who had thirsted so long drank deep of the sweet waters | of content. He could not tell what there was in Audrey that he loved so entirely. It was not only her fair and lovely youth—for, had she been blind, maimed, disfigured, he felt that he would have loved her just the same. He had been under many influences during his life,’ but this was the first influence of a thoroughly refined relig- ious nature. Like many young men, he had thought of religion asa very comfortable thing for old people, and indeed as perhaps a necessity when one came to die; but that religion should make sunshine; and brightness, should co-exist with bright eyes, a lovely face, a happy light heart, had never occurred to him. no? f 21 The first time that he was struck by the fact was one morning when the whole party went out riding, and At- drey, lingering in one of the green’ lanes, found-the’ white gate that led to the high-road closed. - in A Jaboring-man—tall, strong, and young—was passing, and. ciyilly enough opened it for her; but ashe opened it a nail.or splinter ran into his, hand, and caused him great pain. She, reined in her, horse, and kept quite still while he poured. out a volley of abuse so coarse that her. fair face grew pale; then, with a quiet dignity all her own, she call- ed the man to her side. ee She held out a dainty white handkerchief to bind the wound, and with her clear dark eyes she looked into the rugged sunburnt face. ““Tam sorry, you haye hurt yourself,” she said slowly, “but I am still more sorry that you should have given way to ae wicked speech. Did it relieve the pain?” ‘‘No,” was the wondering answer. ae “Because a nail or splinter has hurt reason-why you shduld immediately offen has made all this fair earth for'you?? 4 ‘‘He made little enough, of it for me,” was the surly reply. ‘It seems to have been made for my betters.” ‘It, is made as much for you as for anyone,, Is, it need- ful to offend the great Creator because you haye wounded your hand?” yee Sir Roche heard her add a few words of what seemed to him. sweetest wisdom, and then. she rode on, leaving one man the,better for a word. in season. sali The baronet looked after her, and the thought. came to him, ‘‘ What.a different world it would be, if there, wee: ou, is that ‘any more in, it like her!” He watched her that evening. sang less blithely because she had preached a little sermon in the morning. Altogether she puzzled him, | ig ier” He saw that she was most thoroughly under the dominion _ of conscience—that, if she believed a, thing was wrong, nothing’ could induce her to sanction. it—that, if she ee anything right; shewould do it, let. the eost be what it might. i vet hotdl fact | ix tost 1» he i believ,? hersaid ‘to her one day, ‘that you would rather suffer death than do what you believe to be wrong.” She was silent for a few moments, and then with a smile ) ‘she raised her fair face to his. ) “Yes,” she replied, ‘I hope I should. Life is ‘very pleasant, but I for one would never purchase it by an act of wrong-doing.” RY cae ‘T wish I had known you years ago,” he said sadly; and to a poor rector’s daughter, asked: hy, Sir Roche? . ingen, *< Because all my life I have pleased myself; my own will and pleasure have been my conscience and my rule for guidance. Right and wrong have been Ma int De The fair face clouded. She did not like to think that he had ever been guided by pleasure or self-will, a «* Would that I had known you earlier!” he said. . And she, all unconscious of how much her words meant, re- turned: — ' ‘That cannot be helped. But you know me now,” — “Yes,” he answered sadly, ‘‘ I |she, smiling at the thought of a wealthy baronet saying this “e . now you now.” And she wondered why he should sigh about. it. Their souls were drawn together. Neither of them trie to resist the sweet, subtle influence which, growing on them day by day, seemed to enfold them and keep them apart from the rest of the world. To Audrey it seemed that the bountiful heavens had crowned her with a new and more beautiful life, everything was so sweet, so bright, 80 changed. s She danced and sang no — the Being’ who : : roe - . P :

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: « « 7 G= TOs A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. CHAPTER IV. Sir Rocus Viuurers told Audrey that he loved her and not recall the words in which he had proposed to her or the manner in which she had. accepted. him.. He remembered the sunlight of the the fragrance, the shade under the tall asked her to be his wife. He coul summer morning, green trees, the hha mming of the bees. He had not slept all night for thinking of her—he had risen early, He saw her at breakfast time, looking more beautiful than ever, in a cool, blue muslin dress with white lace. . He had tied hard tobe content. and persuade him- self that he had no right to seek to make that pure young life one with his. ‘‘ Yet why not?” he asked him- self. 7 »

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A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. 4 open, so candid, so transparent, that everything must be clear and above-board. She could not have lived im an at- —— of secrecy, mystery, or intrigue,.. Truth was as needful to. her as fresh air; falsehood would have destroyed her as a pestilence would have done. ob is ‘. Sa or a eee drey. She could not keep a secret from her mother: she was so ee

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lady whom'hé called wife. o*¢ TJ eannot/help thinking,” he said, «that there must. be something we do not understand.” “Why should you say so? “Afterall, there can never ‘be any great difference between gentlemen; and ‘there is ‘no trier gentleman in England than you, Fabian. Sir, Roche is marrying a clergyman’s daughter; you cannot call it.a mesalliance.” . ~ ‘¢ Perhaps not;"but'there is a wide difference between my position and his.. ‘We'shall see when he» comes. «My im- pression’ is that’ wé shall find something im the background, | ' séme reason why Sit Roche ‘has not sought a wife in his own spher', but in ours.” 01) Divod “' On the next day, however, when’ Audrey talked of the Batonet, ‘it was almost’ impossible to imagine anything . wrong. Nothing could be clearer, more straightforward or to the purpose. — ! [ , = ‘Sit Roche loved ‘her, and wanted to make her his wife; he was coming to ask their consent. “mt OB “He came, and at first sight both parents liked him; the roud, handsome face, with its lingering look of sadness—~a ace all noble and good—pleased them, though there was a trace of haughtiness about the firm lips and in the datk ey : DIC? ! Audrey, that he loved her truly. Nothing could haye been ‘more inanly, Joyal, or straightforward: than his offer of mar- ‘Yiage to ‘their daughter, . When Doctor Brooke said that she had no: fortune the : gee ‘Baronet smiled, and ‘would not take the matter into con- sideration. _ The settlements he made: upon ‘her were magnificently Jiberal; ‘Hor would he’make them less even when the doctor objected" ° | ti) | : © Such a ‘simple country reetor’s daughter. : ; ‘$i Roéhe spoke of the Villiers diamonds, supposed to be somié of the finest in England; he referred in, the simplest oy way to his Various estates, adding that: Audrey could please ‘herself in’ the ehoice of one for a residence; he! talked, of ‘thé cottagés ‘and’ schools that) they were to build. He seemed to have but one purpose in life, and that was, to nike Auey happy. 1) sldiaaKy th tHeh 7 *“Latér on Doctor Brooke said to his wifes.) iy 4 ‘J was mistaken; there was no drawback tothe marriage, Isabel. Ihavé made every inquiry; oti all sides Ivhear the ‘best possibleaecount of Sir Roche. ‘The only fault people — “find “in “him ‘is ‘his’ melancholy. temperament and. want of ‘interest ‘in’ life;* that’ has i banprbatoak since, he, knew “Auditéey.” 0": . ) . ‘* Why should there be any hesitation? A King might be ~protid to marry our daughter,” rejoined gentle Mrs. Brooke. » Still,” declared the rector, “ Ishall not be quite happy “until I have spoken to him and told him what is on my mine. ‘} ) ‘Do not offend him, Fabian. Remember, he is a proud man. What’ stispicion can you have? You do, not, believe that he has another wife living; do you?” ‘“No, that I do not; if he had, he would! not dare to -make his projected’ marriage with Audre public. Certain- ly I donot think anything half so ie _ Do you suspect’ that thete is insanity in the family?” asked Mrs. Brooke; and the doetor laughed. “Snel news would ‘be public property, Isabel, for the Villiz’s:s are as well known as the Howards or the Percies. ‘T cannosé tell what I fear; I only know that deep down in apy heart there is a dread of something—I know not what.” - Doctor Brooke did unburden his mind; he always re- membered the day and the hour, gether in the bay-window. There was a look of perfect happiness on Audrey’s beau- tiful face—a look which made her so tw.cching that the “a TO a kag a eS a Dit ee ~ - - The two. lovers were to- S= sje ‘A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. Bat Doctor Brooke ‘was! more worldly-wise than the gentle ee Ss ; or : a. he wie “They had’no doubt, when they had seen him once with andvierec Bir Backers Mari WeaH, Ta, I rospect was surely never, presented before to. any: | Villiers,and Miss. Brooke. erent Rector did not wonder that any man should lose his heart and his head.because of.her, ; .+ | , “wey He stood. for a short time talking to them, listening to the sweet sunny, laughter, the bright words, the innocent happy prattle, until his heart grew warm, and his eyes moist. ‘ + Then he,sent. Audrey upon. some trifling errand, and seated himself beside.Sir Roche. Onirige the blue sky had no cloud; thegolden sunlight, lay over flower and leaf; the white. Ascension lilies gleamed in the golden, haze. . Doctor Brooke turned suddenly to the handsome baronet. ‘*Sir Roche,” he. said, ‘‘ tell, me. why, when you could have chosen a wife from amongst the aristocracy of Eng- land, you have preferred to;marry my, danghter?” Sir Roche raised his, head_ proudly. . ‘“ You are right,” he said; ‘I might have chosen from amongst.the aristocracy of England, but amongst them | have seen none equal to your beautiful daughter Audrey.” «Tt ismot.an equal marriage in the eyes of the world,” remarked. the Rector... ‘‘Sometimes—pray hei me. for this thought—I haye wondered whether you had any reason for choosing. a wife-quite unknown to, the world.” For a moment the dark face flushed and an angry light came into the proud eyes. , , TT Jay ‘all I haye in the,world at your daughter’s feet,” love, my heart, my life. I pray her in the face of the whole world to-be my wife. What can J do;more?” | ‘‘ Nothing,” said Doctor Brooke. ‘‘I am ashamed of my | question.” Thereupon the two gentleman shook hands; and that same evening the day for the wedding was fixed, CHAPTER VI. Everyone agreed that, it was one of the prettiest, wed- dings that hadever been seen—the wedding of Sir Roche It. took place in the early. au- tumn. Para The Rector and his wife had both remonstrated about the shortness of the engagement, but Sir Roche had pleaded sv hard that they let. him haye his way, iwest “‘T love Audrey,” he said, ‘and she loyes me, I have -been Jonely; and miserable for years—why not let me. be happy now that I haye the chance? Suppose we do wait as ea wish, one, two, or three years; of what use will it be?” So they consented to the marriage taking place very short- ly, and Mrs, Calverne was invited. The wedding was talked about for years in the country- side, The bridegroom was most’ munificent. He had or- dered. such festivities as people had not even dreamed of—a dinner for the poor, both old and young; eT a with a royal hand—clothes, money, all that was needed. | He made every heart Tigh on_his weoaine PAN: It was no wonder that the children cheered as they had never cheered before, and that the poor rose en masse to bless and to thank him. Audrey’s friends and relatives were all present, Mrs. Cal- verne looking perhaps a little paler and more anxious than the others; but—and they thought more of it afterwards— it was a strange thing that no relative of Sir Roche’s was there. He said to them half laughingly: ‘‘T shall not. shine in the way of aunts, uncles, and cous- ins on my wedding-day; I have so few relatives living— and even those few I do not know yery well. JI must make your relatives mine, Audrey.” Ps . His groomsman was Lord Aldborough, a man whom neither Doctor Brooke nor his wife liked, because there seemed to be an utter want of heart about him. He treat- ed everything as a jest; and it seemed to them that Sir Roche watched him continually lest he should say some- thing indiscreet. Lady Armond was the only other friend of his present, and she was serious, not to say dull, and talked a great deal w : eae a“ .. Pai ee F ciate ar

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but happiness before Sir Roche and Audrey.” sweet, A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. | about woman’s duty and woman’s rights. own importance. went up to her. “‘T have something to say to you, my dear,’’ she whis- pered very solemnly; ‘‘let me beg of you always to, uphold your rights. A husband should not always have his own way.” Before leaving the bridegroom won golden opinions from all. He made Doctor and Mrs. Brooke promise to spend Christmas at Rowan Abbey; he invited Mrs. Calverne to meet them; he promised the good Rector introductions that delighted him. It was altogether a wedding without a drawback; there was not one thing to mar the gladness of the day. When Audrey bade her parents farewell, she laid her beautiful head on her mother’s breast. ‘* Mamma,” she said, ‘I have been a happy girl—now I am going to be a happy woman. How good Heaven has been to me!” ‘<I hope you will always be happy, my darling,” returned the gentle mother. ‘*] have but one fear,” said the girl, ‘‘ and it is that I shall be too happy.” So the newly-made husband and wife drove. away amidst the tears and smiles, prayers, good wishes, and. cheers of all around them. Dr. Brooke watched the traveling-carriage until it was out of sight, and then he turned to his wife and Mrs, Calverne, who stood near. ‘“* Still,” he said, ‘‘I cannot realize it. .Why should a wealthy and distinguished man have sought a bride from my humble roof?” ‘Look at Audrey, and the question is answered,” replied Mas. Brooke. Fade. _ He did not seem to have heard her, but continued: *«Even now I shall not feel quite satisfied until I have been to Rowan Abbey. T have a feeling that I cannot. ex- plain—a dread that something now in the background will start up, and then I shall understand this marriage. “Yet common sense asks, What could it be?” Mrs. Calverne was looking anxiously at him; her comely Just as Audrey was about leaving, she ‘face had grown pale, and her lips trembled slightly, ““T have known Sit Roche for many years,” she said— ‘my husband knew him when he was a boy—and I have never heard one word against his truth, his loyalty, ‘his honor, or his good name—not one word. All that I can say ‘about nm is that he is proud: and very high-spirited,’ with what the world would call severe notions of propriety. -If I had ‘Known ‘anything against: him, he would ‘not haye been a visitor at my house, neither should I have introduced him to Me daughter.” The words were so.calm and reasonable that the Rector could not help being impressed by them. ‘* After all it is but a nervous fear,” he said. ‘I have made" inquiries myself, and have heard nothing but the highest praise of him. » Perhaps he is a little stern and un- bending; but that is not a fault in an age when most men are disposed to'be weak. I have watched him; but I have seen hothing in him'but what was most admirable.” Mrs. Brooke noticed then for the first time that) Mrs. Calvérne’s hands were trembling, and that' her face’ was} pals. er ‘You have frightened: Mrs. Calverne, Fabian,” she said, half reproachfully; but the fair widow looked up suddenly. | “*No, he has not.’ Iam not responsible for the marriage even should it'not turn out well. «And yet I see nothing ‘“‘ There is nothing but happiness before them,” said Mrs. “Brooke. “Happiness is the natural reward of goodness, such. as’. Audrey ‘has ever shown. She has always been gentle, celf-sacrificing, kind and true.» Why should she not be happy?” : Piet ste age: adore ale Cae ad Im SS She tried to im- press the beautiful young bride with a great idea of her Of Gourse it was all nonsense, “nervous oh donas, which caused the Rector to speak as hedid; still the gentle heart of the mother beat somewhat with fear.’ She looked‘at the late white lilies which Audrey had loved so much, and the scene of years before, when Audrey had read the marriage service, came back to her.. She smiled as she thought of it. So loving, so gentle, so wise and sweet—how could her child be aught but happy? So the sun set on Audrey’s wedding-day. The guests: went home, the festivities ended, the children ceased their playing. Father and mother, kneeling together, prayed the Almighty to bless their beloved child. It was sunset when Lady Villiers reached her new home. She was hardly prepared to find such a magnificent and picturesque pile of buildings, ‘<This is our home, Audrey,” said Sir Roche. He clasped his arms round his young wife, and drew her to his heart. She wondered to find his lips trembling with emotion, his: eyes full of tears. : “« Lay ea hands in mine, sweet love,” he said, ‘‘and let: us pry. eaven together to bless our home.” tdid not occur to Audrey, either then or afterwards, that it was strange that there was no public welcome for her, that no cheering crowds of tenants and dependents awaited her, that no joy-bells sounded from the old gray towers of King’s Wynne, that no servants were grouped in. the hall to receive their new mistress when she stood in the. magnificent entrante. . er husband turned to her, and said, ‘* Welcome home!’’ A gray-haired old butler then came forward and bowed to her. Sir Roche looked round hastily. ~. Bs ‘‘Send Mrs. Grey here,” he said to a footman at a little distance; ‘and in a few minutes.a comely woman wearing @ — black-silk dress and a white low cap was bowing before ‘Nee % beautiful young bride. ie | is **T wish you long life, health, and happiness, my lady,” said: Mrs. Grey; but Audrey thought it strange that she should speak to her without looking at her. “«Mrs. Grey,” requested Sir Roche, ‘‘ will you show Lad Villiers to her apartments?” And Audrey followed with. her maid. - ) ‘*Your rooms, my lady, are: im the eastern wing,” said Mrs. Grey. ‘Sir: Roche thought you would: find them pleasant and warm.” sf ¥ex) Audrey looked with a smile into the comely face. ‘The Abbey must be very old,’ she said... * Many a young wife has been brought here, I should swppose.” “Yes,” returned the housekeeper, slowly.» ‘* You will see the picture-gallery to-morrow, my lady. Some: fair faces hang on‘the walls.” ° flood he ‘*And they have all had these rooms?” said Audrey. | There was .a moment’s silence, and ‘then Mrs. Grey an- swered: : “No, I think not. But Sir Roche says they are the prettiest. rooms, my lady.. Thatis: whyhe wished you to have them.” St ‘*Have you been here long, Mrs. Grey?” asked Audrey. **Over forty years, my lady.» I was still-room maid when Sir Roche’s mother, the late Lady Villiers; was brought. home here'a bride, and I have been here ever since.” ** And now you see another Lady Villiers. [hope I shall be as good and as much loved as the last one.” She wondered why the comely face grew pale.” « There are burdens in every life, my lady,” said Mrs. rey. wo vir ads After this Lady Villiers asked some ‘questions about the: servants, and heard, to her surprise, that they were all new ones, excepting the housekeeper and ‘the: butler) It struck her as being strange. ivete6s Die pred ot Deen Then her attention was drawn to ‘the. magnificence: through which they were passing—to' the grand corridors, the handsome pictures and white marble ‘statues, the ear- _ of velvet pile, so soft that no step could be heard upon them. Ne AUS OTi0cRy BOT The wealth, the grandeur, the ty of everything around her, took her by surprise. Roche had never spoken to her of the beauty of the Abbey, and »when‘at. length she stood in the superb suite of rooms that‘had Been ahs.

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10 A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. prepared for her, she grew grave and silent; she had not thought of being mistress of all this magnificence. She wondered why she had not been. placed in the rooms that the other ladies of the house had used, and why every ser- vant in the house, except two, were-quite new.. It seemed very strange. ' ” CHAPTER VII. _ Her exalted position did not affect the character of Lady Villiers: She was as simple, kind, sweet, and wise as she had been in the Rectory. Before long the servants almost worshiped her; all the friends and neighbors to whom Sir Roche introduced her were charmed and delighted with her; in a short space of time she became the queen-of the county. Sir Roche was delighted; she was so wise, yet so simple, so unconscious of her wonderful beauty, so humble and un- assuming in the midst of her splendid surroundings, that he felt he had won a treasure of priceless worth. et even during the first. few months of her married life many strange things struck Lady Villiers in her newhome. ‘The first was that one day, when Roche was speaking of the house, and she expressed a desire to go over it, she fancied. he seemed unwilling. Suddenly however he added: “If you would like it, Audrey, I will take you myself. It is a very large house, and you will be very tired, I am afraid.” yt “J am never tired. when I am with you,” she said, laugh- ly; and a went together. t he took her to the ruined keep whence the Abbey “a itsname; he showed the ivy-grown arch of what had once been one of the finest windows in England. Then they went over the modern portion of the Abbey; he showed her the state-rooms, the grand banqueting hall, used when kings and queens came that way, the ball-room, the state drawing-room, the old library, the bedroom where kings and queens had slept, the picture-gallery where the beauti- ful Ladies Villiers hung upon the walls. They lingered long there; Audrey was charmed. with the delicate patrician faces, and Sir Roche had a history for every portrait. ‘This is my mother,” he said, standing before the pic- _ ture of a fair-faced lady whose blue eyes were filled with Tight and love. Audrey looked up with a smile. ** And my place will be next to hers,” she said. Suddenly she cried, ‘‘ Why, Roche, there has been a picture here!” His face grew white as death, and then flushed hotly. _ “No picture will ever hang there but yours,” he said eva- sively, as he hurriedly turned away. She looked again at the wall. a picture there; but her womanly tact told her not to speak a to Sir Roche about it. _ They went to the southern part of the Abbey, and there again Sir Roche hesitated. Audrey suddenly remembered what the housekeeper had. said. ‘* Where are the rooms that were used until lately?” she asked. ‘‘I should like to see them.” t They were large, lofty, bright rooms. She preferred them to her own. . a “I should like these rooms,” she said, ‘much better than my own.” _.* But Sir Roche, generally so keenly alive to her least wish, - now said nothing. t Several of the rooms were locked—the best of them, it seemed to her; and as she turned the handle of each Sir Roche’s face grew paler. . ce Lady Villiers returned from her long inspection with a sense of mystery hanging over her whe puzzled her. She was so obedient to her husband from principle as well as from affection that, if he had expressed a wish that. she should not enter closed rooms in the south wing, she 2 that. wish. would never ha red them; but he had never expressed | One day when he was absent, the idea suddenly occurred Assuredly there had been. : ro an ee a to her that she would go over the south wing. She rang for Mrs. Grey, the expression of whose kindly, comely face changed when she heard her ladyship’s request. “Fetch the keys, Mrs. Grey,” she said; ‘‘I want to go through the rooms in the southern wing.” -din vain Mrs. Grey made one excuse after another. drey smiled; she intended to he obeyed: ‘* Sir Roche did say, my lady, that he hoped those rooms would never be unlocked,” she said at last. “Sir Roche never expressed such a wish to me,” Lady Vilhers replied, laughingly. “‘ You will make me think that the rooms are like: Bluebeard’s closet;” and she won- dered again why the housekeeper looked as’ though ‘some- one had struck her a sudden blow. {n a few minutes more they were standing before the doors of the closed rooms. Mrs. Grey unlocked them un- willingly. . «They are very dusty and dirty, my lady,” she said; ‘for, as you see, Sir Roche will. not haye them touched.” The dust of years, it seemed to Audrey, lay upon them; yet they were beautiful rooms—large, lofty, light, and mag- nificently furnished. She saw no signs of preservation; the bookeases, wardrobes, and drawers had evidently been quickly emptied, some pictures also had been hurriedly taken from the walls, the vases and jardinieres still held the withered, dead leaves of what had been blooming flowers. There was something most sad and pathetic about the rooms; on the mantelpiece of one lay a little gold watch that had long ceased ticking. “This was Lady Villiers’ watch without doubt,” said Audrey. And she touched it with reverent hands. **T would not touch anything, my lady,” cried Mrs. Grey. She saw a book—almost the only one there—thickly covered with dust. It was turned over at Adelaide Proc- ter’s. beautiful ‘‘ Legend of Provence.” ‘* Lady Villiers admired good poetry,” she said musingly. She saw a pretty little satin slipper and a white lace shawl. She could not tell why, but she did not like to tonch them. As she stood there she shuddered. **T cannot tell what it is,” she said slowly to Mrs. Grey, ‘*but there is something in the very atmosphere of these rooms that saddens me, I wish I had not seen them—it is as though someone lay dead here.” *«They will be all the brighter and more wholesome, my lady, for your haying been in them,” returned Mrs. Grey. **They seem to me to have been wrecked rather than emptied,” remarked the young wife, looking around. ‘‘I could imagine that someone had been here in a violent pas- sion and had half emptied all the rooms without order or method. Why are you staring at me, Mrs. Grey?” _ “‘T beg your pardon, my lady—I was not aware of it. I was listening to you.” “< Close the rooms,” said Audrey. ‘‘I shall never want to see them again. I have often read that apartments have this strange appearance after the people who have used them have died in them. Did Lady Villiers die here? Why do a look so frightened? Did my husband’s mother die here?” : ‘< Yes, my lady,” was the subdued reply. And then they left the south wing together. ‘‘T have been through the closed rooms to-day, Roche,” she said to her husband when he returned home. He looked at her with a startled glance. a ‘‘Have you? Who was with you?” he asked; and she answered, ‘‘ Mrs. Grey.” Was it fancy, or did she that same evening really over- hear her husband speaking in an angry voice to the house- keeper?. Did she fancy it, or did she really hear Mrs. Grey answer, “I could not help it, Sir Roche—indeed I could not. I did my best to avoid arousing suspicion”? She must have imagined the words; she would not be- lieve that she had overheard them. Some weeks after this she was in the library with Sir Au- * et. : a

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A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. 1k Roche, looking over some music when she came upon a song that she knew well—Blumenthal’s ‘‘ Message.” “‘7 know that,” she said, taking it up. She saw wmtten on it, in a flowing Italian hand, the name “‘ Hlodie.” » She repeated it aloud. <‘ What a beautiful name! Have you had a sister or cousin called Hlodie?’?’ She wondered why he should take the music so abruptly from her hand. ‘“‘T didnot know there was anything in this house with that name on it,” he eried. 194 “* Hlodie!” she said again. ‘‘It. is a beautiful, name; it reminds me of the flow of a:river.,, Why, you haye destroy- ed the song!’ He had torn it into pieces and trampled them. under his feet. ‘*T hate the song, the name!” he cried. of them again.” She was very quiet and subdued for some time; the scene had puzzled and troubled her. Several other things began to puzzle her, She was the idol of half the county, but there was one family that had never called upon her, the Letsoms of Burrowdale. She noticed also that they were never inyited to meet them, and she wondered why. . She asked Sir Roche about it more than once, but. he always returned an evasive an- swer. One morning she spoke of it to Lady Moreton, who was a great friend of hers. ‘“ Why have the Letsoms never called on me?” she asked. ‘Have they not done so?” returned Lady Moreton. ‘“ No,” replied ‘Audrey. .‘‘ They avoid me—they never go where I go. It seems so strange.” Her quick instinct told her that Lady Moreton evaded the question and would not answer it. “* Do tell me,” she said; ‘‘if there is really any reason, I should like to know it,” “*T can imagine no reason,” was the reply,, ‘‘ unless it be ie they are very religious and look at life in a very serious ight.” Lady Villiers opened her beautiful eyes very wide. ** That is what L like,” she uried. ‘‘ But i cannot under- stand wliy the fact of their being very religious should _pre- vent them from calling upon me.” Lady Moreton, looked uncomfortable. A] *“Do not speak ‘* Some persons are so strange,” she said in a half-apolo- |}, getic tone, ‘‘ and have such old-fashioned ideas.” ‘“‘T cannot imagine any ideas, be they as old-fashioned as they may, which could prevent anyone from calling upon me,” remarked Audrey proudly. That same evening Lady Villiers, putting her arms caressingly around her husband’s neck, said: “Roche, could you give a reason why so-called religious people:should not visit me?” She never forgot the flame of anger in his face. | “‘T cannot. Tell me what you mean, Audrey?” he said. She repeated her conversation with Lady Moreton. He cried out angrily that he would not allow the Letsoms to come near them, and that lady Moreton was a woman with- out common-sense. He did not grow calm again until, looking into the eyes of his wife, he saw no suspicion there. CHAPTER VIII. CHRISTMAS came, and in accordance with their promise Doctor Brooke and his wife spent it at Rowan Abbey. If any doubt had lingered in the Rector’s mind, it was now dis- pelled; if any lin iti suspicion, or dread had shadow- ed his thoughts about his beautiful daughter, it now ceased to exist. | Ces tS | | It was plain that nothing could be more prosperous or bright than her lot. There was no skeleton in the Villiers cupboard, Audrey told her parents of the closed rooms—the rooms into which Sir Roche would allowno one to enter—and they agreed that it was perfectly natural, as his mother had died there, that he should wish to keep them as they were, - They thought that. so good a son must, make a good hus- band; they liked him all the better for ‘this trait in. his character. The Rector laughed, away the last remnant of his fear. He was so sorry for haying entertained it, that he was less: observant than’ he, might have been, Had he been more attentive, he might at times have seen a smile almost. of contempt on the faces of some with whom he came in con- tact. He might have understood the covert sneer when Lord Colvil, one of the guests, complimented him upon having ‘‘ advanced views.” “Tam not aware of it,,my smile of wonder. ) ) ‘* You have. given ample proof of it,” said his lordship; and the Rector did not ask why. ae He might have been struck too by the fact that, while half the county worshipped.his beautiful daughter, some: few held aloof as though there were contamination at Rowan. He might have noticed also how his son-in-law kept near him when he was talking to strangers, and sel- dom left him. But none of these things struck the Rector. One day he was puzzled,..A number. of. guests were speaking of their plans’ for:the ensuing year, and Lady Moreton ‘said to Sir Roche: | ** You will go to London, of course, for the season? Lady Villiers will be presented at. the first Drawing-room?” Doctor, Brooke was surprised when Sir Roche,. growing lord,’ he: answered, with a of intelligence come over Lady Moreton’s face, and—ho . it was he could never tell—the conversation: turned upon the Court of St. James, and how particular the Queen was, and how impossible it was for one to obtain an entree within the highest circle if not blameless and without reproach. The Rector looked in dismay at those around him, Why were they talking in this strain? Then he smiled at his fears; it had nothing to do with his child. Audrey was listening with a fiche lectin face; it was by mere accident. that. such a subject had come to be discussed, He put it aside; it did not concern his daughter. ‘** Hers was a marriage made in heaven,” said the Rector to his wife. ‘‘ It is wonderful what an amount of good Sir Roche and Audrey are doing.” pry ee He would have ates Ps upon it had he known the full extent of their benevolence. A church was. being built, also schools with spacious playgrounds; almshouses too, which overlooked the fields and woods; the small ill-drained cottages were giving way to clean, healthy dwelling-houses. Rowan promised to be a model estate. The Rector went away quite satisfied as to his daughter’s happiness, and ashamed of the fears he had felt... Spring came, with its fair delicate loveliness, and Sir Roche found that he would have to spend some, time in! town. | ty heer ‘“‘T shall be sorry,” he said, ‘‘to! leave Rowan, Audrey. You have taught me to love the place... I: feek now that it is my home; my sweet wife has brightened it until it seems | to me like an earthly paradise. I’ wonder if you will like London, Audrey?” “T shall like any place where you, are,” she “It is not the place—it is you that make home.” | ‘‘You have learnt to love me well, Audrey,” he said, . drawing her gently to him, and kissing the sweet, face. She looked at him with thoughtful eyes. ‘* My love has made my life complete,” she responded. So they talked while the tender radiance of the sprin brightened all the land. No one on seeing Sir Roche meld have recognized in him the miserable man whose lips had trembled with acurse he dared not utter. His very face had changed; it had grown hopeful, bright, and animated. The winter of sorrow had passed over him, the summer sun of happmess shone upon him. * It was a sight never to be forgotten when her ladyship, the beautiful young mistress of Rowan, left the Abbey for London. Sir Roche was touched more than he liked te * fie , a white even to his lips, said he was not quite sure—h | should consider about it. The Rector saw a sudden eat answered. we

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i2 own. The poor and the children thronged round her lady- ship to say good-bye to her. her—only to look once more on the beautiful face of her who was always so kind and gentle to them. “<How they love you, Audrey!” said her husband as the train steamed out of the station. ‘‘I am almost jealous of them.” “© You might be jealous of one,” she replied, “‘ but not of a crowd.” He raised her hands to’ his lips. : / “My darling,” he said, “ I love you with such a pure and 3 perfect love that jealousy is not possible to me.” . They talked so happily and lovingly, little dreaming of the tragedy that would be’ played before they saw Rowan Abbey again. CHAPTER IX. FASHIONABLE London opened its arms to receive Lady Villiers. She was not presented at Court, but she never’ asked the reason. It was sufficient for her that Sir Roche | had not mentioned the matter. a fa 2 The fact did not seem to affect her popularity. She was _ overwhelmed with invitations. ‘The beautiful Lady Villiers very soon became a celebrity. In the midst of the gay world, with every temptation around her, she preserved the PRE same sweet wisdom, purity, truth and loyalty that had al- . bove all things she disliked cant. She never touched ~ “upon a! tag subjects unless the circumstances suited. one the less her influence as a good woman was felt. “No ‘one liked to speak lightly of sacred things before her., Peo- ple in her présence did not jest about a man’s truth ora ~ woman’s honor. There was something in the pure face and clear steadfast : he distinguished her. She made her influence felt. R th eyes which elevated men’s thoughts as they looked at her— something which forbade evil speech, which: stopped light, false words on the speaker’s 8 | ‘*Do you like this life, Audrey?” asked her husband one day. ae ine looked at him with a charming smile. . _ “Tt is very pleasant,” she said, “‘but I should not like it always. You are its chief charm.” -. | Day by day she dearly, more tender fell more heavily. | : . One lovely morning in May Lady Villiers sat alone in the drawing-room of her London ‘house. Sir Roche came: in with a pleased smile. ~ Audrey,” he said, ‘‘ I have good news. old friend of yours who is anxious to renew her acquaint- cance with you.” ; She looked up at him. “IT did not know that I had any old friends in London,” she said; “they are all new ones.” “Lady Rockhaven claims to be an old one.” “‘Lady Rockhaven?”: she repeated. ‘Why, that is Bertha Hamlyn’s name! Is she in town?” **Yes, and yery desirous of seeing you. I like Lady Rockhaven herself very well; but she has a clique of friends for whom I donot care. I would not allow her to intro- duce any of them here, if I were you, Audrey. They are most of them very fast, and talk loudly about horses and so forth, if they do no worse.” And Sir Roche described to his simple, innocent wife the different varieties of ladies who composed what is called ** society.” . On that same day Lady Rockhaven called, and_ professed oweat delight at seeing Audrey again. Lady Rockhaven ‘had made a position for herself; but it did not quite satisfy her. She wanted to climb higher, and it struck her thatin beautiful, weal uady Villiers she had found a medium. ‘Marriage has not altered you in the least, Lady Villiers,” ew to love him’ more deeply, more oy so the coming blow, when it fell, she said. ** You are just the same.” ; ‘Has it altered you?” asked Audrey, witha smile. wae ™ % * : ‘ » Seah They wanted nothing from Ihave met an} A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. . 3 I love the world and life ten times bette, “< Yes, it has. “«T hay than I ever did before,” said Lady Rockhayen. more to live for.” But in some vague way Lady Audrey was not quite satis- fied with her newly-found friend. Shortly afterwards a ball was given at. Rock House by Lady Rockhaven, and Sir Roche and Audrey attended it. Audrey was the loveliest women present. She wore a beautiful costume of white and gold; and her wonderful loveliness was the theme of all present. Lady Rockhayen was jealous of her. She wished her to grace her ball; but she did not intend to be so utterly extinguished by her superior grace and beauty. It was jealousy perhaps that caused her to be somewhat brusque with her lovely young rival. Lady Villiers was talking to the Countess of Northendon when. a lovely golden-haired woman, most exquisitely dress- ed, crossed the ball-room on Lord Rockhaven’s arm, ‘Who is that?” said Lady Villiers. ‘* What a beautiful face! What a lovely woman! Who is she?” A é The Countess of Northendon shrugged her white shoul- ete “That is the fault I find with Lady Rockhaven. She will not keep her balls select.. That woman nas ‘no business here. Iam not a prude, but I do not care to meet such people.” | ‘Who is she?” persisted Audrey. ’ She is Lady Glenarvon now, 1 suppose. Tirwell some time since.” | “Why has she changed her name?” asked innocent Au- drey. haat the countess shrugged her shoulders. ** My dear Lady Villiers,” she'said, “‘ do you never read the divorce cases?” . “< Never,” answered Audrey emphatically. . “‘Surely you must have heard of that one—‘ Tirwell ver- sus Glenarvon? It has been discussed at every’ breakfast- table and in every club in London. I never did or could understand the right or the wrong of the matter; all that I know is that Lady Tirwell disappeared under acloud. Now Lady Glenarvon has suddenly appeared, and she is received everywhere. She has never been to court. “'The line’ must be drawn somewhere; and I do not think any divorcee would be welcome there.” . . Lady Villiers was listening with great attention, 9 - ~ © Divorceel” she repeated. ‘You do not mean to say that that beautiful lady has been divorced?” © ie ‘‘ What else can I mean? Lord Tirwell is abroad some- where, and she has married Lord Glenarvon.” — Audrey looked up in such wonder that her companion was struck. . | a a “Do you really husbands living?” . The countess laughed. oie ~ You are so delightfully simple, my dear She was Lady mean,”’ she said, “* that that lady has two Lady Villiers. Of course she hasn’t two husbands; the law relieved her of one, and she took another.” ‘‘The law could not; no law conld—divine law forbids it!” cried Audrey. And the countess laughed again. “Tt is the question of the day,” she said; ‘I leave it to wiser heads than mine to settle.’ . ‘« But it is monstrous!” cried Audrey, her fair face flush- ing. ‘‘Idid not think such things were permitted in a christian land.” ‘«You are new to the outer world,” said the countess half sadly. ‘‘I read and hear of divorce cases continually. I could tell you stories of divorce that would frighten you— of false swearing, of conspiracies, .of persecution—of women with broken hearts, of men with ruined homes. Not till the end of the world will the true records of the divorce court be known. I—but it is useless talking.” “Why do nee receive such women?” asked Audrey. ‘*T would not. There are no words stronger or more sacred than these—‘ Those whom God hath joined together let no

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the truth,” she sai man put asunder; ’ there can be no doubt as to what is the right course.” *“We cannot discuss the question in a ball-room,” said the countess. : As she spoke Lady Rockhaven came up to them, and the countess went away. ‘* Audrey,” said her friend, *‘ I:want to introduce you to Lady Glenarvon; she has been inquiring about you, and is very anxious to know you.” Never in her life had Lady Villiers looked so proud as when she raised her head and gazed with calm eyes into the handsome face of the hostess. “I must decline, Bertha; I do not wish to make Lady Glenarvon’s acquaintance. I beg you will not mention her to me; I decline decidedly to. know her.” Perhaps Lady Rockhaven’s temper had been a. little ruffled; she looked very impatient. ‘* May I ask why?” she said. ** You. know why, Bertha; and allow me to add that I wonder you should make such a woman your. friend or in- vite her to, your house.” ** Will you tell me why, Lady Villiers?” she said. ‘I have a great desire to. hear the reason.” ** You know the reason; I have just heard it. That per- son whom you,call Lady Glenarvon has—oh, shame, Bertha, that you, should make me say living abroad; she is a divorcee!” ... “This is amusing,” laughed Lady Rockhaven—but for the moment she hated the woman whom she felt was right. “You, my dear Lady Villiers, decline to. know Lady Glen- arvon because she is a divorcee! This is one of the jests of the season.” **T do not see that it is a jest,” said) Andre But I do. What a capital. story to tell ‘ gies who liye in glass housesshould not throw stones.’” **} do not livein a glass house,” said Lady Villiers proudly. ‘‘I would rather have died a thousand times than have gone into a divorce-court.” Lady Rockhaven seemed suddenly to recollect herself. -** Of course I know, Audrey, that divorce-courts were not made for such as you;-but, all the same, I would not, were lin your place, say too much against -divorce.”’ ‘T shall never recy it without reason; and I shalltell ** What excuse am’ I to make to Lady Glenarvon?” asked Bertha! > ate . “Make no excuse; Iam quite wilting to ae by what. I k for false excuses? have said. “Why should you or I ‘see Why frame a pretence that she must sée through? she has acted wrongly, and I decline to know her.” A strange smile curled Lady Rockhaven’s lips. I think ** You will not get on in society, Audrey, if you hold by-gone opinions,” she said. ‘Society’ is pea a secondary consideration with me,” ady returned I illiers. ‘‘ If the leaders of society refused to tolerate wrong-doing, this would be a very much better world.” ; ‘“‘{ have neither time nor inclination to reform it,” laughed Lady Rockhaven. ‘‘ Now remember, I warn you not to send that message to Lady Glenarvon: © You will not like the consequences, [ am sure.” . “They cannot affect me; and, even if they did, I would never pretend to countenance that which I believe to be Win | ‘‘ Well, you will remember that I warned you; »whatever happens, do not blame me, Audrey.” ** Nothing will happen,” said Lady Villiers; ‘‘ but when T have more time to talk to you, I shall try to persuade you to give up such friends.” Lady Rockhayven laughed. ee9 “You may try, my dear, but you will not succeed,” she returned. And then the conversation ended. CHAPTER X, Lapy VILLIERS was standing in the crush-room of the aé it!—her rightful husband I everywhere! A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. 13 Royal Italiaw Opera. She had been the observed of all ob- servers during the night. She had worn the famous Vil- liers diamonds, with a superb dress of pale blue; her brown hair, her dark eyes, her pure, beautiful face with its sweet expression, had. attracted more observation than anything on the stage. ) Once, on looking round the house, she saw Lady Glen- arvon watching her intently; she was on the opposite side, looking very lovely in a marvelous costume of black and silver. Several gentlemen were in the box with her, and it was evident, that Lady Glenarvon was amusing them great- ly by some anecdote she was telling. ore than ence their eyes met, and Lady Villiers flushed with annoyance; she was merciful always.in her judgments, but to her pure and innocent mind there was something re- volting in the idea that a woman over whom such a shadow hung should set herself up in high places to receive the homage and admiration of men. As she stood in the crush-room Sir Roche looked at the fair face of his young wife. He mistook the sadness for fatigue. ‘You are tired, my darling,” he said. ‘If you do not mind my leaving you for a few moments, I will try to get the carriage at-once.” She liked afterwards to remember that she had looked with a loving smile into his kindly eyes—that as he released her hand he had held it lovingly 1n his grasp—for after that hour the world was never the same to her again. As she stood there a group of people passed her. . fe She had. a confused notion of white silk, of black and silver, of pearl-gray brocade brushing past her as,a slip of folded paper was thrust into her hand, she could not tell by whom. »» te | ' ‘You threw down the gauntlet!” a_ silvery voice, hissed in her ear; but when she turned round no one was near her —the 5 of ladies had passed, dwt She looked at the paper. ‘* Read this when you are quite alone,” was written in large letters across it. hae In a moment it occurred to her that it was some begging- letter from one who wanted help—she had many such; she_ placed. it in'the pocket of her dress, and resolyed to read it © when she reached home. id or a famous traveler who had ju@t returned from a long ex- poe tour in Africa. When he saw the pale, tired look on is wife’s face, he said: not Biat ‘* Audrey, I shall not goto theclub; I will go home with ou.” | shi é But she would not hear of it. ff, “‘T heard you promise Mr. Miles,” she said, ‘‘and, you must go.” i $53 or . (He drove with her as far as the club, and sat with her — hand in his.. He kissed her face, and said that he must .take more care of her, that she must, not go out so much. And, when the carriage stopped at the club, he kissed her lips and said laughingly that he would a thousand times rather go home with her than hear of Miles’ exploits. Some instinct made her bend forward and say: “« Kiss me again, Roche.” | rt He kissed her again, little dreaming that it was for the last time. ehipegesh He ascended the broad flight of steps, thinking of the sweet face, the tender lips, the dear voice, and almost wishing Miles still in Africa, while Lady Villiers drove home. She did not open the note until her maid had left her and she was quite alone. Then she unfolded the paper and read the cruel words that stabbed her gentle heart. “The writer of this advises Lady Villiers not to say any- thing more on the subject of divorces, as she is making her- self and her husband a jest at which all London laughs. The writer can hardly imagine Lady Villiers to be quite in ignorance of the circumstances under which she was married ; but, if it should be so, Lady Villiers had better get a copy of the Times for Thursday, the 17th of April, 18—, and Peale a8 * ; s Sir Roche had promised to spend an hour at hisclub with

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14 A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. amongst the reports of the divorce cases she will find one She controlled her impatience while Rose took off the that will not only surprise her, but will close: her lips for| plain walking-dress and brought her her pretty dressing- the future on all such subjects.” Audrey read the note with a contemptuous smile; no faint glimmermg of the truth came to her—no suspicion. ‘* How could a divorce case affect me?” she asked herself. “*T do not know anyone who has been through the Divorce Court. The’lines are written only to frighten me.” Still the words touched her. ‘She could not sleep for thinking of them. She repeated them over and over again to herself. Her husband and herself a jest at which all London laughed—what-could it mean? Surely it had no reference to Roche. She sprang up with a cry of horror on her lips. Her husband! Dear Heaven, it surely could have nothing to do with him! Her heart beat wildly, her brain burned, her blood ran like fire through her veins, and then froze like ice. Her _ husband—the one man she -had loved with the love of her 3 aa Oe life—could the, reference affect him? ‘They had never spoken on such a subject as divorce, but she felt quite sure that he would share her opinions. Still a horrible fearseized her which made her heart stand still; her lips grew cold'and trembled; there was something prong: or how would a stranger dare to write such words to ere _It seemed long before the sun shone through the windows —she rose at once when she saw the first beams. She had but one thought in her mind, and that was to get a copy of the Times of April 17, 18—,’as soon as possible. Hope came back with the daylight. Why need she have suffered such pain and fright? All would be well; her husband ‘stood apart from other men. ‘She knew by the purity and stainless honor of his life that there was no need to fear for him. Yet why did her heart beat fast, why did every nerve thrill, why was her face so white, why did the breath come in thick hot gasps from her lips, what was this awful sense of foreboding? She opened her window, and the sweet western wind blew in; the sky was beautiful in its first rosy flush of dawn. It was too early yet to carry out her purpose. She sat by _ the window waiting and praying. Though she had the sim- plicity and innocence of a child, she was not without the quick common sense which always points out the readiest way to accomplish much. Se had wondered what she was to do in order to’ get the Times of the desired date, and reason told her that the quickest plan would be to go to the Times office and see if they cote let her have what she wanted; it was only five years back—surely there would be no difficulty. . ‘Her maid looked = on finding her beautiful young mistress up and dressed. “Rose,” said Lady Villiers, «I am going out. oT want a cab—I will not take the carriage—order a cab, and dress yourself to go with me.” ' i tos R It was unusual; but Andrey’s servants loved her | and willingly obeyed her. In a few minutes’ time Lady Villiers and her maid were on their way to the city. Her purpose was not’ 'so easily accomplished as she had imagined—there were many delays—she ,had~ to drive from one place to another; but at last she succeeded, and. held in her hands a copy of the Times for Thursday, the: 17th of ree five years before. She looked at the paper as she held it folded in her hands—what did it contain? '“T have found what I wanted, Rose,” she said to her maid; ‘‘we will aoe back home.” She would not open the folded sheets; whatever they contained, she must be alone when she read them. In another half hour she and her maid were at home. It was nearly noon then, and Sir Roche, after leaving a little note for his wife, had gone out—he would return to lunch- eon at two. Audrey read the note. | ‘‘ How dearly he loves me!” was the thought that passed through her mind as she went once more to the solitude of her own room. A, | when he first. wooed her, about the treache gown. ~The maid brushed out the long bright hair, and left it lying like a glittering veil on her mistress’ shoul- ders; then she drew the easy-chair near to the open win- dow, and left Lady Villiers to rest, little dreaming how im- patiently she wished her gone. : The door was closed, and she was alone at. last, with the newspaper in her hands. She saw the case at once; it was the second. on the list, . ‘* VILLIERS v. DIGHTON.” ‘The last hearing of this celebrated case took place to- day. Sir Roche Villiers was examined. Witnesses proved that Elodie, Lady Villiers, left London on the evening of February 21st with the. co-respondent, Captain Archer Dighton. There was no defence. The divorce was granted. Captain Archer Dighton was condemned to pay five thou- sand pounds damages and costs.” Lower down in the same column was & paragraph which ran as follows: ‘* ROMANCE IN Hien, Lirz.—None of our readers will be surprised to hear that Sir Roche Villiers has succeeded in ob- taining a divorce from his wife. The unfortunate lady whose; name has lately become so notorious was young, beautiful, and had been one of the leaders of fashion. Cap- tain Archer Dighton has been condemned to pay five thou- sand, pounds damage. This unhappy affair has created a reat sensation in London. Sir Roche Villiers had not ong, succeeded to the Barony of King’s Wynne and the Rowan estate. When will dawn a brighter day for the manners and morals of Old England?” As she read the words it seemed to her that all the life was dying slowly from her. She felt the light depart from her eyes, the strength from her limbs; the paper fell from her trembling hands on to the floor; she sank back with a. low cry as from the lips of a dying woman. She Jay quite motionless and. silent, the sun shining om her face, the wind breathing over it, while she was uncon- scious of everything. How long she remained so she never knew. When she recovered consciousness, one by one, like the sharp cuts of a sword, there came to her the trivial events which at the time they had happened had seemed nosaned Was what she had read the €ause of the Letsoms avoid- ing her, of Lady Moreton’s speaking of some of her neigh- bors as religious people, of her never having been to Court? A hundred little cireumstances, all confirming what. she had read, came back to her—the closed rooms at Rowan, the song with the name of Elodie upon it which her hus-- band had destroyed so fiercely, the words he had said to her, of one whom he had trusted. She fell upon her knees with a bitter cry. The report must be true—everything corroborated jit. Then she heard. Sir Roche’s step in the hall. He was: singing softly to himself the refrain of some love-song. He went into the library, and as he closed the door the sound of his voice ceased. ids | **T must goto him,” she said to herself; ‘‘I must ask him about it; I must know the truth.” | She took the newspaper in her hands. As she moved across the room shé caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror —a. white, wild faee, out of which wild eyes gleamed with a strange fire. She did not know herself. ‘<I must go at once,” she said, ‘‘or I shall go mad.” She went to the library and opened the door. Sir Roche: was writing.» He looked up with a smile as she entered, but. the smile disappeared when he saw the unutterable woe in the dark eyes, the trembling lips on which all sound seemed to die away. He rose and went to her. ‘« Audrey, my darling,” he said, “‘ what is the matter?” She placed the newspaper in his hands. . “* Read this,” she said, ‘‘and tell me if it be true.” Her voice was so changed and hollow that it startled him. He looked at the newspaper. Ah, there was no need to ask

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A QUEEN AM ONGST WOMEN. again if it were true or not, no need for words! He read the first few lines, and his face grew as white as her own. ‘Ts it true?” she asked, He was silent for a minute, looking with wistful eyes into her own; then he spoke calmly, clearly. ; “Yes, it is quite true,” he answered; ‘‘ but why need it trouble you?” : “«Js it true that five years ago you hada young wife whom you called Elodie?” “It is quite true, my darling, but——” She held up her hand with a gesture for silence—an im- perious, graceful gesture which he could not resist. He was silent. ** Did you really marry heras you married, me?.. Was it a lawful, legal, honorable marriage before God and man ?” *“ Jt was,” he replied. “She was your wife. She loved you, you loved her. Your marriage was legal, honorable—you admit all this?” ** Yes; but listen, Audrey——” ‘‘Let me speak first. Jf this be trne—oh, Heaven, Roche!—tell me what am I?” “‘-You are my dear and honored wife,” he cried. “Nay, that is impossible: A man cannot have two wives, and you had a wife living when you married me.” . ‘“‘T deny it. Ihadno wife.. I was as free to marry as you yourself.” | ' ‘* Who then was Elodie?” she. asked. ‘‘She was my wife, but the law had freed me from her— the law had freed me, freed her.” “‘ What law?” she asked slowly. “The law of the land—the law that steps in to save men and women from being driven mad.” ““T¢ could not, Roche,” she said, with the calmness of despair. ‘‘There is no vow so solemn as the marriage vow. It is taken before Heaven, and death can only give relief. Noman, no human power can step in and put asunder those whom God hath joined together.” She stopped, for the words died on her lips. at her with infinite pity and kindness. “‘ You are mistaken, Audrey,” he said. ‘‘The human law does step in and free those who have been joined by a solemn vow.” _ © Tt cannot—at least, that is my belief. The words of the marriage service are ‘until death do us part.’ Death has not parted you from Elodie, the woman you married.” She looked up at him with a strange expression. ‘“‘ Is she still living, Roche?’ she asked suddenly. «* Yes, she is still living,” he replied slowly. She uttered a low cry of bitter agony. “Oh, Heaven, Roche,” she said, ‘‘ if that be true, what am I?” «« Audrey, you must listen to reason. You are in the eyes of the law, in the eyes of all men, my lawful, honored, most beloved wife.” ‘‘ What am I in the eyes of Heaven?” she asked. “<The same,” he replied. “Nay, that cannot be. It is the same Heaven you called to witness the fact that yon took Elodie as your wife until He looked death should part you. Death has not parted you; there- oe before eaven, you are not free, and she is still your . wife.’ “‘My dearest Audrey, you must listen to reason,” he gan. ‘ “That is reason,” she answered, ‘ the highest, wisest, est.” “© You have been so quietly and. so strictly brought up, Audrey,” he said, ‘‘ you are hardly qualified to judge.” ¥ She wrung her hands with a little cry that touched his eart. “*My bringing up makes but little difference; there is but one rule for right or wrong. No false arguments, no pes ne na can alter my opinion; and, fixed and unalter- able, it is this—that no man having a wife living can marry another—that no human power can free you from an ‘while she cared less for me than she did for Captain Archer a Ld oath taken before God—that no law ean-either supersede or set aside the law of God.” ‘* But, Audrey—nay, you must listen, dear—there are ex- ceptions to all rules. There are cases where the law most wisely and rightly steps in and frees a man from the woman who has dishonored him.” “That may be. ‘The law may, in one sense free him— may punish her; but she is still his wife until death parts them. He may send her away, but he cannot marry an- other—that would make a mockery of the marriage service. An oath is taken to be kept, not. broken; only death can part them—and Heaven knows best when to send death.” ‘‘ Your views are tinged by your education, Audrey,” he said, sadly. ‘‘I ought to have told you of this before our marriage, but I was a coward, I dared not. Knowing your peculiar training, I was afraid that you would refuse me. [thought that perhaps you would never know—and I loved you madly.” “‘You should not have married me, Roche. You have not made me your wife; you have simply allowed me to usurp another’s place.” ‘| prayed that you might never know it, Audrey. Isent away eyery old servant from Rowan except two. I hoped you would never knoy it.” . ‘‘ You should have told me,” she said sadly. ‘‘ It would have been so mnch easier to part then than now.” ‘Part!’ he cried. ‘‘ Oh, surely, my,darling, you cannot mean that? We must not part—we cannot part!” : t Tam not your wife,” she said simply. ‘‘I cannot remain ere; He drew nearer to her. “You will drive me mad!” he cried. ‘If I lose you, I shall lose my hope of earth and Heaven.”’ ; " And if I stay I shall lose every hope of Heaven,” she said. **My darling, you cannot mean it. Why should you be so terribly hard and cruel to me, when I haye done nothing but love you?” ‘You have made a terrible mistake,” she said faintly. ‘© You have placed me in a false position; you have made me seem to do willingly that which I detest and abhor. If it broke my heart to go, I should go. Knowing what I know, I cannot remain another hour under this roof. I am in another woman’s place; I bear another woman’s name; I hold the heart of another woman’s husband, Oh, may Heaven pardon me, I did not know it!” | ‘* Audrey, you must listen,” he cried. She stood before him, pale, erect, with the look that a painter would give to a martyr on her face. “No,” she said, ‘‘it is better that I should not listen. I love you very dearly—I might be tempted to believe what you said; and I must not, know the solemnity of the marriage yow—I would rather not listen. Words are specious enough, but they can never make wrong right.” bd : ‘* Audrey, listen to the story of my marriage. When you have heard it, I will abide by your judgment; and that will be in my fayor, Iam sure. Sit down, darling, and listen.” He placed her on the little couch, and knelt before her while he told her his story. . ‘You will judge me less harshly when you have heard all,” he said. “‘I met Elodie Danefield when I was twenty years old. She was young, very beautiful, * , animated, and full of wit and talent. She was living with her aunt, Lady Danefield, who was anold friend of my mother’s—that was how I came to know her. She had no fortune, and from the first moment. that Lady Danefield had seen us together she had settled it in her own mind that we were to marry. Elodie was very beautiful, but nothing about her was so striking as her aiety—she was a mistress in the art of amusing others. hat first drew my attention to her. Time flew when I was with her. I do not want to tire you, Audrey, with de- tails. The plain truth of the matter is—I loved Elodie, * will not—my own conscience ~ tells me what is right. I know the sanctity of marriage, I » a * 4H

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when [saw those significant looks and smiles, ye + _* nt * r - - t 16 Dighton. She loved him best; but he was poor and I was rich, I have often thought that, left to herself, she would have married Dighton, but Lady Danefield was always im- pressing upon her what a grand thing it would be to be Lady Villiers. ‘«She gave her no peace; no’ rest, added to which Elodie herself was ambitious. Dighton at that time was poor and without a prospect of ever being anything else. Poor child, if she had come to me and said, ‘I love Archer Dighton best, but I cannot marry him because he has no money,’ I should have respected her, I would have done any- thing to help them; but she was not frank—she married me for my money and title, knowing well in her heart that she loved Dighton best. I had never been jealous of him before marriage, and I was not likely to be so afterwards. We were very happy for a few months;..it was a fool’s para- dise, I grant, but, as I did not know it, what did it matter? My wife , He noticed how Audrey shrank from the words, and he looked at her with a pleading wistfulness hard to bear. ** My wife,” he resumed, ‘‘ was. very much liked. We came to London, and she was soon foremost amongst the leaders of fashion. Society spoiled her. was considered a prodigy of wit, her repartees were re- peated, her langhing, beautiful face was welcomed every- where—there was no one more popular in all, London. “It was then that Captain Dighton succeeded to a large fortune and came to town. He began to follow my wife at balls, parties, fetes; in the Park, in the Row—everywhere he was at her side. At first I thought nothing of it. It seemed absurd to be jealous of an old friend of Elodie’s. I took no notice of..it until Lsaw people smile significantly when they were together, until I found that whoever in- vited Elodie invited Archer Dighton ‘also. . My blood boiled Still T was gentle with her, Audrey; she was young, and I loyed her. ** At first { tried ‘to change the state of affairs by keeping near her and declining the attentions of Captain Dighton. Tt was of no avail. They were much cleverer than I at ruses of all Kinds. 1 determined at'last to speak to my wife, to tell her that she was on the high-road to danger, that 'I was annoyed by the comments I heard, and that she must be more on her guard with Archer Dighton. _ ‘Heaven knows, Audrey, I was gentle and patient with her. I could not have been, kinder,” But she was ‘furious. She would not listen. She declared’ that she would talk’ to Captain-Dighton when and as she Jiked—that’ the’ world might laugh as it would; she did’ not care—she would brook no interference. I call Heaven to witness,’ Andrey, that I was kind and gentle. = eee OF: Things went on from bad to worse, and again I was com-| pelled to speak to her.’ ‘This time she was more’ indignant; ‘and she was foolish enough to tell me that she had’ never loved me, but had always cared for ArcherDighton. She’was unwise enough to taunt me with the fact. She said’ marty things that would have heen better left unsaid. ‘After that she cpen] x defied me. She spent more time than’ ever with Captain Dighton. PUR WL 45k Ty | «© Still F'did not despair. 1 said to ‘myself that shé was so young and easily influenced I would not lose my patience. | | -L tried to surround her with people. from whom she could oh nothing but good. _ And at length T spoke to Captain Dighton, Poa . .‘“ He received my remonstrances with all the cool polish of 4 man of the world, thanked me, and took’no more ‘no- tice of them. After that one or two of my ‘friends’ spoke to me about my wife im a manner that slightly startled me, and I saw that by some means or another the scandal must be ended at once.’ If Elodie would not lis then I must take her away from London!) “One night we were engaged to a ball at the Duchess of —Quorn’s—a grand ball to which half the elite of London had been inyited. “As we drove to’ Quorn’ Hou to be via patient and gentle with Elodie. a knew that'so | Not’ many of her friends and of mine’ would ‘be present that I Atid 5 Fi, asc 7 © - ~~ i eee Her least word’ ten to reason, |: | . A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. was anxious to avoid further scandal. I kissed her, and said: ‘<€ Blodie, you will be very good and prudent to-night, will you not?’ ‘She looked up at me with a*bright gleam of defiance in her eyes. ‘« *T shall do just as I please, Roche,’ she answered. | ‘If I decide to talk all night with Captain Dighton, J shall do : *** You will do nothing that is imprudent, I hope, Elodie,’ said. ** You see I was patient and forbearing unto the very last. Elodie was certainly the loveliest woman present in the ball-room. I always enjoyed the admiration she excited; but on this evening she made a greater sensation than ever. Audrey, she would dance with no one, talk with no one but Captain Dighton. I heard the Duke of Crofton ask her to dance with him. She pleaded an engagement, and waltzed with Archer Dighton. Even then I fried my best, Heaven knows, to cover her imprudence, but she left me with a de- fiant smile, and went into the conservatory with the Cap- tain, **Tt was the Duchess of Quorn who put the finishing stroke to my anxiety. She came to me in her kind fashion. *** My dear Sir Roche,’ she said, ‘ Elodie is young, and, like many of our young matrons, very thoughtless; would it not be as well to give her a hint that it is not quite pru- dent to linger so long in the conservatory? We know, of course, there is no blame tobe attached’to her, but it would be as well for you to give her a hint.’ **T thanked her Grace and went into the conservatory. The sight that met my eyes was not a pleasant one. My wife was seated amidst the ferns and, flowers, and Captain Archer Dighton was bending over her chair; she was listen- ing to him-with a smile and.a, blush. f* €Hlodie,’I said. gently, ‘ you, have, you will take:cold.’ . £ She shooked up. 2] been here so long, into her companion’s face, ont ; ad «**T promised you the next dance, Captain Dighton,’ she said, ‘and.I.am ready to.keep,my promise.? “She vouchsafed neither look nor word to meé. I'knew that the scandal would be increased if ‘she ‘began to dance with him again. . I went up.to her. se aeeorei ‘« ¢ Let. me have the pleasure of taking you back into the ball-room, Blodie,’ I said. ‘I &m quite sure that Captain ‘Dighton, will excuse me when T tell him that T ‘have some- thing very important to say to you.’ ? “He bowed and left'us. In brief’stern words T told my, wife what péople were saying about her. me with a white set face. ‘. ' or “<T told you that I should please myself!’ she cried,‘ Let me pass? oe a cae “‘T saw her in all the insolent splendor of ‘her ‘Deauty walk through the conservatory. I caught another glimpse of her an,hour later; she was waltzing with Archer Dighton. I was powerless—I could not make a ‘scene’ in the. ball- room. Audrey, that night she fled with him. At what time they left Quorn House no one knew. She sent me a note from London Bridge Station, but it merely said: psig always liked Dighton best, and now I am with him,’ She looked up at was.to be found at Paris. Elodie’s flight was a nine days’ wonder; but then everyone said they had always been quite sure that it would, be so, Audrey, my true, faithful, Joyal, loving wife, now tell me if I did wrong’to free myself from a woman so light of love, so false of heart.”, 5 She did not answer hiti at once. | Shé laid her hand upon his head. * PT eat tee eee Fae lve “My poor Roche,” she said gently, “‘ how you have ‘suf- fered!” She forget her own sorrows, for the times*in thinking of his Ag gna ler Gy if. *# “Tt is ‘plain to you, Audrey, that I have suffered. » You T determined | will not make me suffer more, will you, darling? Yourwill leave me—you will take’ pity on me?’ Answer me, eyloai T do wrong to” free myself from ‘the woman. oa * ‘ gid : Mie a “Another note came from the captain, saying that he e

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who had wronged me—who had taken my true honest love and made a plaything, of it—who had salad my heart and trampled, on 1t—who took my name and—stained it— stained it, Audrey?” She saw great drops of agony standing on his forehead; she saw his hands clench and his lips quiver. “« Stained it,” he repeated, “ my sweet innocent Audrey. Do you know. all that that means? Do you understand it? Do you wonder that I took her picture from the walls—it had stood next to my mother’s—and burned it? I locked zip the rooms where her face had shone, and I said to myself that no other foot should tread them.” “IT thought those were your mother’s rooms,” interposed Audrey. rit “Yes, but they were hers too, Audrey. Tell me—did I do wrong to free myself from the woman who had been so cruel to.me?” : : He looked up into the sweet white face; he saw tears in the dark eyes, and he began to hope that he had prevailed. “You were patient, Roche, but I. think you might have een more patient; you were wise, but you might have been wiser; you were kind, but you might have been kinder. If -you had seen your young wife in danger of death from ‘urning, how quickly you would have snatched her from the flames! Danger for the soul is a thousand times worse than danger to the body; I cannot, therefore, hold you free from blame, even granting, Roche, that. Elodie wronged you very cruelly. You might, perhaps, have been justified in living apart, but I do not see how you can excuse your- self for having married while she lived.” “The law had freed me from her,” he answered firmly. ‘That is a point on which we shall never agree,” she said. ‘I have formed my opinion from the téaching of my own, conscience, and I must abide by it. I grant that in certain cases husband and wife ought to part; but noth- ing shall ever make me believe that either of them can marry again while the other lives. null and void. No man—no power of man—can part those whom God hath joined; and the oath taken is not to be kept until one or the other does wrong, but until death.” **You seem to forget that those who do wrong break their oaths of fidelity,” he remarked. ; ‘The breaking of one oath does not justify the breaking of another,” she answered. ‘“‘ Roche, we lose time in talk- ing; my conviction can never be altered. Ido not know how to argue about it, but I have given you my belief. If I could even allow myself to remain here, I should be wretched, because I believe it to be’ wrong. “I. cannot re- main—I must go away—and, what. is still more, everyone must know why I go. If I have seemed to sanction that which I hold to be wrong, I must make my atonement as public as.my fault.” | Her eyes fell on the newspaper lying on the ‘table: Sud- denly she looked up at hig? ine Papeete ‘“Damages, five thousand pounds,” were the words she had seen. : 1a . *Roche,” she asked, ‘ what does this mean—‘ Damages, five thousand pounds??” : 7 | ‘It means that Archer Dighton had to pay me five thou- “i sand pounds,” he replied. é : She looked at him wonderingly. «‘Pay you?” she said slowly. ‘‘I do not understand. He took’ money?” He made no answer. The horror and amazement deep- ened on her face. ab, _ «What was the money for, Roche? Explain—I do not understand. What did he give you the money for?” “‘Tt was the fine that the law imposed on him,” he said. His face flushed hotly ag he uttered the words. “« A fine for what?” she asked. “For having broken the law,” he answered. “*T have heard of fines for poaching, for fighting, for drunkenness; but I did not know there was a fine for steal- ing a man’s wife. Who received the money?” your wife away; but why did he pay you this Pa ae A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. T hold such a ceremony |’ ‘elusped. ae -“*T did,” he replied. us, ae _ She rose slowly from her seat.” She stood ‘ereét* and haughty. “He never forgot the lofty pride and contempt on her face. 3 ' ps Sena Dag There are some things I cannot believe. This’‘is one. Do you mean to tell me that you, Sir Roche Villiers, a man of honor, took knowingly five thousand pounds’ from ‘the man who robbed you of your wife? ' Did you doit?’ ~ “IT did, Audrey,” he answered. aL Ns A low bitter cry came from her Tips. nh “Why did you take it? What had money to do with the case? Was that the price of your wife’s love—of your own fair name?’ I cannot understand it. “Was it’ given to con- sole you? Ten hundred thousand pounds would not have consoled me.. Why did you take his money? If he ‘had to be fined, why should ‘not the fine have gone to the poor—to some charity? Why should it have come to you? It is like a ta grt I declare, I should have otis you more had you followed him and shot him, than I'do after/haying taken his money.” . ; . “T never looked at it in that ight,” he answered. “T would not have touched his money,” she said, with superb contempt; ‘‘it would have blistered my fingers. I should have said to him, ‘I will not stoop to take money; I have not sold my wife.’ ” . . od “But everyone, in all such cases, does it, Audrey.” **Kyeryone,” she repeated, her eyes opening wide— “everyone! You do not mean to tell me that every hus- band who is unfortunate enough to lose his wife in’ this same unhappy fashion takes. money of the man who has stolen her?” PARDO “* Most do,” he answered, = livi p 7 j é “My ‘wife is here,’”’ he said, touching her hand gently. w ‘* She lives in some little village on the’ Sara fo Drow * - - : i t | = os i ‘dene, in Kent, I believe.” ‘And where is Captain Dighton?” iy “ He did not stay many weeks with her; they disagreed” and he left her. Iam not so‘hard as you think, Audrey. ~ T allow her sufficient to live upon; but I have never seen her since, and neyer shall.” es 6 SEE OMA Sa ie *<* Till death do us part,’”’she said gently 4 “No, even in death I would not see her. Audrey, my true wife, my dear love, tell me what you mean to do.” She took both his hands in hers and held them tightly “J will tell you,” she said sadly; ‘and remember, all argument, will be quite useless—nothing can ¢ @ my decision, because it is founded on what my conscience tells me is right. I shall go back home to my father “this very day. I do not reproach you. Ihave not one hard or bitter word to say to you. Your notions of right and wrong differ from mine. Nothing could make me consider my- self your wife while your true wife is living. TI shall go home to my father, and stay with him.” _ You will not be so cruel as to leave me!” he said. ‘‘T am not cruel enough to remain,” she answered slow- ‘ly. » “We will not talk of the sorrow; we must be brave and strong, and look the inevitable in the face. Roche,”

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2 * x 18 A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. she pleaded, ‘‘there is one thing you must do—yon must| Then she became as anxious to defend him as she had set me right with the world. IfI had known the truth, I| been to leave him. would rather have died than have married you. Most people must think that I married you while cognisant of the truth., When you can defend me, you. must do_so. You must tell everyone that, when I discovered the truth, I left you at once. Will you do me this justice?” His voice was broken with sobs as he answered her, and her face was white as death. ‘Will nothing induce or persuade you to alter your decision, Audrey?” he asked. ‘‘No, nothing,” she answered. “« Kiss me once—just once, dear,” he sobbed. She bent over himand kissed him, The hot tears fell from her eyes on to his cheek. , “Good-bye,” she said gently—‘“‘ good-bye, Roche.” Once again she touched his face with her lips, and then slowly—it seemed to him, as a vision fades—she quitted the room and left him alone. Was he right or was she? He only knew that the pure, sweet woman he loyed.so well had gone from him, 3 CHAPTER XL Ir was a fair spring day, and the. sight ot the nae springi n leayes filled the Rector’s sumple happy min With Bebpht. It was only the end of April, yet here in the old-fashion- ed § ‘y garden—in a warm, sheltered sunny spot—some lilies of the valley were already in blossom. He was so delighted that he could not rest until his wife had seen them. She looked at him with a smile, “‘T wonder why vit is,” she said, ‘‘ that lilies of all kinds make me think about Audrey—above all, the white Ascen- sion lilies; but they are not in blossom yet.” Doctor Brooke was geancyy around him with a well- plonene smile; the golden sunlight on the delicate green eaves was so charming. ‘There is an abundant promise of fruit and flowers,” he remarked to his wife; ‘‘the garden will look well this year. I wonder if. Audrey will pay her. long-promised visit home?” Then Mrs. Brooke went on her round of visits, and the Rector went back to his library. He could not settle to work so easily as usual; the spring sunshine tantalized im. ) . “TI am worse than a boy,” he said. ‘‘I shall have to shut out the sunshine altogether,” - The words were still on his lips when the door opened, and, to his infinite surprise sat onder: he saw his daugh- ter enter the room. was too much astonished even for ise gave way to dismay. . pee of greeting; but, when she came up to him, his sur- he saw that her face was deadly pale, and that her eyes - were dim with tears. She held out both her hands. aot _ Audrey, and tell me al ‘‘ Father,” she said, ‘‘I have come home to you. Iam in deep trouble and sore distress.” PY He took the trembling hands in his and held them tight- ly clasped. ““My dearest child, no matter what has happened, you have done well to come home.” Then they were silent for some minutes, the Rector wait- ing in sorrowful dismay for his daughter to speak, Audrey trying to collect her strength, f ‘“‘T am in sore distress,”’ she repeated—‘‘ oh, father, my niseniaee was no marriage—the man I loye is not. my hus- 7 an +b) , ‘* My darling child, yon tremble like a leaf! Sit down, “« It was no marriage, papa, although he thinks it, was. He is not my husband; he has a wife living from whom he has been divorced.” The Rector’s face flushed angrily. ‘A wife living, yet he dared to marry you, Audrey! The man is a villain!” Her veil was thrown back, andj ; i ** You do not understand, papa. He is not a villain; he thought it was all right because he had obtained a divorce.” ' “*T know nothing about diyorces,” said the Rector; ‘I only understand the Christianity of the matter. No man can have two wives; that is plain enough.” “‘ He does not think so, papa; he fancies that the law has freed him from his first marriage, and that he was quite at liberty to contract another, ‘That is the belief of many ople.’ ‘It isnot mine,.and it is not yours,” he said quickly. ‘How strange, Audrey, that I had always a presentiment about this marriage of yours! I had always a fear that I did not, like to express.” He walked rapidly up and down the room. . ** Itis strange that I have heard nothing of this,” he said. *‘T made every inquiry about Sir Roche, and everyone gaye him the highest of characters.” aes “* He bears a high character,” she rejoined quietly. ‘I believe this is his only fault; but then, pepe find that everyone does not think as you and I think. There are many who honestly believe that a divorce frees from. mar- riage ties, and leayes men and women free to rest again. Sir Roche believes it, and is honest in his belief. You know. better—so do I.” é ** Tell me all about it, my darling,” he said, looking at the white face from which the brilliant beauty seemed to haye i . She told himall, that had happened—of her refusal to as- sociate with a divorcee; of Lady Glenarvon’s letter—she felt. uite sure that it had come from her; of her journey into the city to find the copy of the Zimes; of Sir Roche’s dis- may, and their farewell. Then she looked up at him. **You must not think that because I tell you this quiet- ly, papa, I have not suffered. _My heart is broken; but I could not do wrong and liye. You think I am right in my decision, papa?” / “1 do, my darling,” he said in a sorrowful yoice. “You think that I did right to leave him?” she asked. ““Yes, quite right, Audrey,” he replied. She drew nearer. to him, and he saw how she trembled. “* Papa, tell me what you think yourself. Am I Roche’s wife—his lawful wife—before God and man?” ee _ He groaned aloud as he answered her; still he would say nothing but the truth. — . ) . | “‘ No, my child, I do not think you are,” he said. She threw up her arms in distress. / _‘*What am I before Heaven,” she cried—‘‘ what am 1?” “ Innocent and guiltless,” said the Rector. ‘‘ You haye not sinned; you have been®sinned against.” ‘7 must never go back to him,” she said. ‘‘ Papa, you must tell mamma—I cannot; my heart is breaking.” There was a shght sound at the door; turning, they saw Mrs. Brooke looking at them with wondering eyes. ‘* Audrey!” she cried; and the girl rose to go to her, and then fell helplessly to the ground. — ) The Rector raised her and laid her on the couch, and then told his wife her story. . ‘Tf we wished her well,” he said, ‘‘we should almost ‘* My beautiful child!” sobbed,the poor mother. ‘‘ What has she done, Fabian, that she should suffer like this?” Then came days and nights of unutterable sorrow and distress for the saddened household, for Audrey lay sick unto death, and her parents felt that she would not re- cover. Sir Roche came down, but the Rector would not. allow him to see his daughter. “Tam a Christian, sir,” he said, ‘‘and so am bound to forgive you, but your deceit has slain my child. You will pray that she might never open her eyes again,” -|see her no more.” Sir Roche pleaded and prayed; he was so humble, so ear- nest, so persistent in declaring the honesty of his belief, that the Rector was touched at last.

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A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN, 19 “‘¥ cannot under- i by did you not peng he said. 0 stand why you kept your first marriage a secret.” 7 01.0 | «T ri tres a ceaebed: ‘« But: my fear was not be- cause. believed you would think my union with Audrey wrong. ‘I thought you might be prejudiced against it.” / A great deal of Doctor Brooke’s anger faded away after this; he could not help feeling most profound pity for the man whose life: had hoon so: terribly blighted. y dis- cussed the question ‘in all its aspects, political, social, and religious; but the Rector kept: his convictions, while: thosé of Sir Roche were somewhat shaken. " The mother too forgave him«when she saw how. very dearly he loved her child—-when she saw how keenly and bitterly he suffered; but both parents were firm in one re- spect—they would not allow him to see Audrey. el - “It will be of no use,” Mrs. Brooke told him; “you will only pain her, and to no purpose.’ You will never change ‘her opinions or)ours; leave her in peacei”) 990 (0 ; There was nothing else for him» but to go away, and, though they considered that he had deeply wronged. their child, they could feel no anger against him, when they saw how ilband worn'he looked. | be . Audrey had a hard fight. for her life. The) Ascension lilies ‘were in bloom before she was able to get up. She:re- ferred but little to her trouble, but at times she looked. at r her mother and said: > 7 ** You must-not think that I do not feel the separation | because I do ‘not speak of it—little sorrows: find a voice, great ones are dumb.” . She did feel it when the time came that she could. be taken down stairs; when once more she was able to under- take the duties of life, they saw how sadly her sorrow had changed hér.' The’ doctor advised them to take her to the » seaside. uw i) O10 Lt © One morning the Rector went into her room with an open newspaper in his hand. » ITBI NM iT “‘T thought it would comfort you, Audrey,” he said, “to read this.” | It was a well-written paragraph on divorces, and; as tes- timony to the fact how strongly some persons were opposed to them, the writer quoted’ the story of Lady Villiers. He told briefly how she’ had married Sir Roche without knowing the history of his previous marriage and divorce, but that. as soon as she had become acquainted with it she had left him. o ai tart 110 y There was no comment upon the case;'the plain story was told, and persons’ could think what: they would about’ it, 7") BAUlists of) ri dt “Ts that’ what ‘you meant—what you wished, Audrey?” asked the Réctor. "|. Y giral » fas “Yes, papa,” she answered, “that is the: only amende that could be made, and I am glad ‘that it has been 'made.” Then they went away to a beautiful breezy seaside» spot, where the air soon brought \a’tinge of color to Audrey’s face, and light'to her eyes. When they had ‘been there a month, Audrey said one day to her father: ** Papa, I have been thinking very much ‘to-day about what is the best thing I can do’ with my life.”) «> ‘Tell me what you have thought, Audrey?” he requested. “It is spoiled,” she continued, “so far as the desirable things of this world are concerned; forme there will never be husband, or home, or love. Ihave done no wrong, yet my fair name is tarnished. I have no. position; Tam neither wife nor widow. But a sweet thought has come. to. me—I discovered an object to which I can devote my life. I can- not give it to Sir Roche, but I may spend it for Sir Roche’s wife. I must not love him—I may love her; and Iam: go- ing to seek her, and try if I ‘cannot place her by his: side ain.” DOTA “* My dear child!” cried the Rector, aghast. “‘My dear father, could Ido a wiser, better, kinder or more generous deed?” she asked. Ea FOTN “Perhaps not; but ——” os She'did not allow him to finish the objection—she kissed it away. 24 just now I cannot. and lovin Advice and remonstrance were alike vain. Not that the Rector really disapproved of his danghter’s intentions; it. was Quixotic—is was quite unworldly—it was even romantic: —but it was to him a noble idea. . ‘‘ Papa,” she said, clinging to him eagerly, ‘‘ of what use: would it. be to me to spend my whole life in vain regrets and lamentation? None. There is so little left that I ,can do. Icannot remain with you and return to the old life; I am ashamed, I cannot tell why, but I feel ashamed, as. though I had done something wrong.” ‘Tt is a morbid, foolish feeling, my dear,” remarked the Rector. i 5 a ‘*] know itis; but I cannot quite help it. . The position is a strange one... As the years pass.on I shall grow accus- tomed to. 1t, and shall not mind mixing with the werld; But the work I have proposed. is. lying ready to my hand.” » | : “<I will not object’ to it, Audrey; but I cannot say that f like your knowing such a person.” ‘* | may do her good, papa; 1 will try. I will be kind, gentle, to her... It seems to me that I owe her some atone- ment, andiif Lean in any way do her good, it will make me happier. She must have suffered a great deal. I have tried to call to mind all thé things that could make me happy now, and this is:the only practicable step. Let me take it, pa?” ‘ : ' 5 wl Bo the matter was settled. Her sortow and: her illness had changed Audrey.. She was a‘child when she was mar- ried; now the wisdom and experience, the thought of noble: womanhood, had come to her... The Rector felt no fear. She would do all that was, wise, gentle, and true. “« The oe creature must be miserable enough,” he said, ‘If you can'do her any good, Audrey, go.” Audrey was most careful about ee Her moth- er wept bitter tears when her daughter drew her wed- ding-ring from off her finger. J esl **T must not die wearing this, mamma,’ she said; ‘* it is the symbol of an untruth. I should not’ like to be:buried im it.” Mrs. Brooke took it from her with tears. it—the little ring in which. so many hopes had. centered. Another thing she was scrupulous about was her name. She would not allow anyone to address her as: ‘‘ Lady Villiers.” “To listen to that. name in silence is to own my com- plicity in a sin,” she would say, «Iam not Lady Villiers, papa. of me—I am Miss Brooke.” Lia There were times when the Rector’s eyes filled with tears as he thought of his daughter’s case. . . Life had this one charm left: for Audrey—she would seek out Elodie, whose name and place she had so unconsciously taken, and then'do her best. | « sob side ba She had arranged: it‘all inv her own mind.| She would g to Rookdene, and there.make the acquaintance of Elodie Villiers—then, when théey were friends, the rest would be: easy. i 3 ruta boo . ® Neither her father nor her mother opposed her; they saw that her mind was fixed: upon it. pt One bright morning she started on hererrand. » Her first ‘difficulty lay in the fact that she did not know the name at present borne by Elodie. Zt 278 She would not be called Lady Villiers—that seemed quite certain; neither would ‘she have resumed her maiden hane. She trusted to chance to assist her. Audrey was popew ys surprised on reaching the village of Rookdene. It was neither so small nor so obscure as she had: expected; it bade fair to become a very flourishing watering-place in time. . There were a long street, some pretty outskirts, anc rows of neat villas facing the sea; and there were one or two good hotels. re ; i It was altogether far above the run of ordimary coast- sd Cas eas She locked it. away; and if Audrey'thought of it, she never asked about. By what name I am known before Heaven I:cannoet. tell, but it cannot be that... The world may say what it will

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‘* i | A‘ QUEBN AMONGST ‘WOMEN: villages, and Audrey wondered that it should be called one. siti & . have » yling At the railway-station her attention was drawn to the Andrey was Very carefulat the beginning of her inquiries. There was nothing that: kindly’ Mrs, Daites, liked better thana chat with her lodger.-1t-was from her that Audrey Rookdene Weekly Gazette, which professed to publish a list | heard’ first of the beautiful young widow; Mrs. Dighton. of ‘visitors. oH fi ‘Some impulse prompted her to purchase:a copy and look through the list of names. Amongst them was “‘ Mrs. en No. 3, Medina Villas;” and as she read the words a shame-faced kind of wonder came to her. ‘Could it: be i pases that Sir Roche’s wife, Elodie, called herself by that name? . ; She droye to Medina Villas. They were a row of pretty houses facing the sea—bright little houses, with flowers in every window, and pretty gardens. | By good fortune, as it seemeéd to her, No, 4 had a card in the window—‘‘ Apart- ments to Let.” | ““ Tf it is Elodie who calls herself Mrs. Dighton, and she lives at’ No. 3,” she said to herself, “I could not do” better than take rooms at No. 4.7000 She:told the driver to stop there; and, after'a pleasant interview with the good-natured: landlady, she agreed. to take the pretty suite of rooms for some weeks at least: ** How long-do you expect to remain, miss?” asked Mrs. Daites anxiously. itt ) Audrey answered that it was quite uncertain; it might be weeks or months. The landlady however'raised no objec- tion; and Audrey dismissed the driver, and sent Mrs. Daites’ servant with a request to the railway officials to forward her luggage. ~ CHAPTER XII. Aubrey was in her. pretty drawing-room overlooking the sea. they rolled in, the golden sands as they glowed wet in the sun, the little children as they played, the roses in the gar- den as they bent their fragrant at the pretty sprays of ann A feeling of rest as well as en a came to her It was all-so calm, so peaceful, so still. Since that fatal morning when she had read her, husband’s story her life seemed to have hurried on. One event had rapidly succeeded another. Still she had oo alone; her gentle mother had always been near ORL Now'she was a stranger in a strange spot. It seemed to her that she had never been alone before—had never known what real solitude was untilnow. |. twy She almost forgot for the moment why she was there. Sig at the clear bright sky, many thoughts | came to Had she really done. what was wisest and best? To her pure and ste: ¢ soul came deadly doubts and | tempta- Siomso4Hd50 G 08 Dui! WE Ete : Ole Fo Had she done right to leave the man whom’ slie loved so entirely? How he had pleaded with her!. He had left his very soul, he said, in her hands... ._— A e had prayed her to remain, beside him, as though she were the good angel of his life. He had told her that his very hope of Heaven went with her, Would it not per- haps have been better to remain with him, and leave mat- ters as they were? . . She looked at the blué sky, but no answer came from it; the heavens were as brass. She looked at the restless sea; no yoice came from the waves. ‘Then she roused herself. **7 know that I have done night,” she said; ‘‘no one may do evil that good may come. Many were the conjectures formed in the village as to the heantifil lady with the sorrowful face who had come to No. 4, Medina Villas.. She was not married—her name was Miss Brooke—and the gossips wondered amongst them- selves whether she belonged to the Brookes of Devonshire or to the Brookes of Forest Dean. It was such a beautiful face, but so sad, so sorrowful. Everyone agreed that she must have had either a severe illness or some great trouble. She sat near the open window, watching the waves as | Yes, she was a widow; and she; could) not be more than twenty-five yeats of age. She had a beautiful face, but she was so restlessiscio') | itlosl gisd _ - “She camevhere first to inquire about my rooms, Miss Brooke,” said the energetic ay A ‘woman; “*but I could not let mine for a permanency, a with, several families for our season. recommended, her to go next door,and she did. It would be a real charity for you to make friends with her, Miss Brooke,” continued the kind- ly gossip, little dreaming that it was for that;very purpose her lodger was: there. ‘‘She knows no one;, she goes. no- where; ‘she leads.a most solitary life.” ., tw it] ‘« Perhaps she is not’strong,” said Audrey. ‘*No; of that I'am quite sure. She isnot, strong... She was only in this house half an hour; but she gave me a strange impression. She was always looking at the door, as though she expected someone to enter.’ She trembled at every sound, It seemed so sad to see her, young face with a widow’s cap round it—so-sad... She walks in the Square Garden every day. I see her in her long black dress and widow’s cap. always long to:speak to her.” ib Audrey changed the subject; but she resolyed none the less to seize the first opporianidy of finding. out , whether the beautiful young widow and Elodie were the same. The opportunity was not long in coming. At the back of Medina Villas was an enclosed. piece of ground called the Square Garden. It was very pactiily arranged, with, seats and garden-chairs under the shade of the trees, and.a green lawn in the middle for the children to play upon, | Admis- sion to the Square Garden was a patent of respectability.in- Rookdene; it. was:granted only to. the inhabitants of Medina Villas and Trinity Square. Outsiders,looked on. with envy —certainly possession of those shady walks and beautiful flowers was to be envied. More than once Audrey had seen a tall graceful figure walking.there—always alone—always, even when the sun shone-brightest, with. veiled, face... ‘She watched the stranger day after day... She spoke: to,.no: one —no one spoke to her; children avoided her; she never had a book, with her; she sat, hour after, hour, watching the tide, watching the swaying branches, her. hands lying lst- lessly on her lap. She seemed so lonely, so sad, that Au- drey’s kind heart ached for her. oi x aeell ne morning Audfey, looking into, the Squerey Garden, saw the tall dark figure with the trailing dress and,,the veiled face—not seated this, time, but. pacing, restlessly: up and down the long walk. Audrey knew that.walk. so. well; she remembered hours when the fever of piste have killed her if she had. not walked till, it was quelled. Up and. down. the long path paced the stranger, neyer looking to the right or the left, never stopping for rest, a kind of madness born of the violence of repressed. emotion evident- ly possessing her. 1% bi | Se She ever saw Audrey watching her with kindly eyes, she never saw the group of children, at play, she never heard the song of the birds. nor the distant murmur of the waves; restless, peresinte anguish, sullen, fierce despair, it was plain, held her in bondage. . anrid) Suddenly a little paper kite came fluttering over the trees. A rosy, happy, laughing boy preceded it with shouts of joy... Audrey looked at him with a smile; the tall,figuie walked on quie Vv. ) bi ‘* Look at my kite!” shouted the child... ‘‘ How high. it isin the air! Oh, look, Mabel—look, Maud!” — : _A chorus of happy cries followed, and then the hapless kite fluttered and Anttered until it fell upon the veiled head of the tall lady. . . ‘¢ Oh, my kite!” cried the boy in. despair. Audrey hurried to the rescue. ‘Will you let me remove it?” she said to the svranger. “The lady, startled by the sweet voice, stopped, and. Audrey disentangled the kite and gave it to the boy.

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ne A QUEEN AMONGSD. WOMEN. 2k “Thank you,” said: the stranger—and her -yoice was -as|sinned,,and..the, brightness of those who, haying, sinned, sweetiand gentle as Audrey’s own. She had been compelled to raise her veil, so that the kite might ‘be disentangled, and Audrey saw a face that start- led her, it was so ful of passionate anguish and, sorrow, so full of tragic despair. Here was the chance she had longed for.; Audrey, was quick :torembrace it. . She said. something about the beauty of the day, and the lady replied. Then, with the sweet smile that ,had always made. her one of the most attractive of women, Audrey said: “Tam very grateful to that little kite; it has rendered me a great service. I have been longing to speak to you, and it has’ given me the opportunity.” Then, before the lady had time’ to’ turn away, she ‘said quickly, *‘ Let: me in- troduce myself to you. Iam a neighbor of yours. My name is Brooke—Miss Brooke: I live next door to you.” The sad eyes looked wistfully at ‘her. ‘“Why should you wish to know me?” she asked. ‘** Because—pray do not be offended—your appearance interests me. You are too young to be sad.” “Young? Alas that anyone should call’ me cried the lady, her lips trembling. ‘* Young! seems to me that I have lived here twenty years!’’ «You have had great sorrow?” interrogated raray A “Sorrow?” ‘she ‘repeated, with a bitter little laugh. ‘“‘'Thatis a weak word.” *‘T wish you would let me be your friend,” said Audrey —‘<T would gladly help you.” ‘“My friend? I cannot—I can have no friend.” ** Yes,” said Audrey calmly, ‘‘ you can have one—that is myself. | Do not say ‘ No; think the matter over. If after a few days you do not like me, I will never trouble you again; but I think you will if you try.” : The bright beautiful eyes looked fearlessly into her face. ‘*It would be quite useless,” she told her, ‘‘for me to make any friends; I am eying ‘*Dying! Of what?” asked Audrey. “Tam dying of a disease that few people believe in,” she answered, ‘* Six’ years ago I should have laughed at it myself. Iam dying of w broken heart.” . Looking at her, Audrey felt inclined to believe it. There was a little flush on the lovely face—a light that was un- eute in the bright dark eyes. There was a strange, worn, tired look that struck her with keenest pain.’ ** A broken heart,” said Audrey slowly and sadly—* that must be terrible. One must suffer much before that comes.” _ “Thaye suffered from pride—from love—from shame— from neglect; I haye been driven mad by cruelty.” — A flame like fire shone in her eyes as she uttered the the trembling hands, held ung!” hy, it words; and Audrey, taking them tightly clasped in her own. ‘‘Has no one ever taught you,” she said, ‘‘that there is a refuge in all distress—a comfort in all trouble—a hope when all other hope seems lost?” _ ‘*No; no one,” she. replied. “Belieye me, there is, No sin, no sorrow, can be too great, no heart too erushed, no soul too sad for this hope. If you could raise your eyes to it—a bright.shining light all fair and gracious—earth with its sins and sorrows would be far from you; you would forget wikis in its loveliness, ‘and it would draw your love and ‘sorrow all to itself.” _ ‘‘ Not mine,” she said with a bitter sigh. ‘You think hte are talking to someone as good as yourself; you do not now me”. velar} | ‘Nor do you know.me. That matters little. You are sad and sorrowful. .I wish to comfort you—to show you light in the darkness—to tell you that he who has lost this world. has lost but little, but that he who loses Heaven loses afl, If you have lost all the world, Heaven remains.” ‘‘T know nothing about Heaven,” was the moody reply. ‘It is.the place for good pao le—not forme.” hs i poowle, yes; but there are two kinds of bright- ness there—the radiance of the innocent who have never have repented exceedingly.” aie ‘No onerhas ever talked to me in this way before, Who are you?” said the stranger. ‘*My name is Audrey Brooke,” was the smiling answer; and then, seeing that her words had gone, home, the Rec- tor’s daughter would not mar their effect by repetition, With. the tact that never failed her she changed the conver- sation. wae “«My name,” said the strange lady, ‘‘ is—Mrs. Dighton.” Her face flushed hotly as she spoke, and then the color faded, leaving it marble-white. ‘‘ My—my husband was in the army,’ she added—‘‘ now I am alone. I have been staying here some time.” Then the white lips quivered. Nothing but kindly pity shone in the face of Audrey Brooke. ' ** You will let me join you. sometimes when you are in the Square Garden, Mrs Dighton?” she said. gently—and she did not know until she uttered the name how great was: her dislike and repugnance to it. Why had Elodie ever taken that name? The stranger looked up in wonder whem she detected the hesitation in the sweet voice; no idea came to her of what had caused it. “*Tt is not good for anyone to be so entirely alone,” con- tinued Audrey; ‘‘it will cheer both you and me if you will let me join you here sometimes.” As she was. speaking the boy with the kite ran up. to them and held up his little face for a kiss. Audrey bent down with a few laughing words and. kissed him. drew back with a shudder. . ‘*T do not like children,” she said quickly. ‘“* Nay,” returned Audrey, ‘‘I am sure that. cannot be vou have not the face of one who dislikes chil- dren.” . ‘*T would rather not kiss one,” said Elodie hastily; and the child, chilled by. the tone and the words, ran away. Mrs. Dighton did not hold out. her hand in farewell,. ioc Audrey perplexed as to whether she had pleased er. “T must persist until I sneceed,” she thought. << Con- stant dropping wears away the stone. I will care for, her, and talk to her until I wear. away her reserve and make her love me.” oe a She kept to-her resolution. There were times when Mrs. Dighton turned from her with a gesture which meant. that. she could not speak; and then Audrey would. walk on patiently, never feeling in the least hurt of offended, _ . One day she saw.her with her face quite unveiled, and its, marvellous beauty struck her with wonder; the low white brow, the golden hair, the dark gray eyes, and the: perfect mouth pleased her, A ant It was a good face, although peat Elodie had gone so ainfully wrong. It looked uke the face of one easily in-: uenced, easily persuaded, but not wilfully wicked. As andeey gazed at her the words which came into her mind were the old ones of the sword wearing out the scab- bard; the fret and torment of the soul were evidently wear- ing ont Elodie’s fragile body. _ Seats She was so thin, so worn, so shadowy, ‘‘ She must have been exquisitely beautiful a short time since,” thought Au- 2y; ‘‘no wonder Roche loved her—no wonder the loss of her made him bitter and proud and.hard.” he gs she wondered again, as. she had wondered a hun- dred times, how anyone could leaye Roche, who was still her chief amongst men, | Foran ied CHAPTER XIII. . A montH had passed since that first meeting in the Square Garden. For several days Audrey had seen nothing of Mrs, Dighton; she was not much surprised theref when Mrs. Daites told her that the lady next door was very ill. h _ ‘They call it low, fever,” said the little land lady, ait I know it is the heat of the weather that is affecting This heat would kill anyone.” Pi toe lodie:

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tell you all thy sony ~ 22 A QUBEN AMONGST WOMEN. “*T must go and see her,” thought Audrey; ‘now is my opportunity.” She sent to ask if she might call upon her. The first an- swer was ‘‘ No.” ‘Then she sent in a basket of fruit. and flowers, asking if she might visit her for only five minutes; the answer was— if she pleased. — ~ Audrey soon found herself in Elodie’s little drawing- room. The window was wide open, and a little couch was drawn near to it. On it lay Elodie. She looked terribly ill.) Audrey has- tened to her. She waited for no words of greeting, but, bending down by the little couch, she kissed the lovely face, ** | . -** Why did you not let me come before?” shé said. “I have been longing to be with you.” ‘“T knew that if you came you would’ stay; you ‘are al- ways so kind to me,” replied Blodie: . 49 ** Why should [not stay?” asked Audrey. '” ‘The dolidate thoa flushed, and’ the gray eyes tears. Hlodie’s hot hands clasped Audrey’s. “T will tell’ you,” shé “said.” “T ‘should ‘like ‘above’ ‘all things to haye, you for my friend—I should think it’ the greatest blessing that had befallen’ me; but I eannot- de- ceive you—I must tell you the truth—and when you know it you will not. care to be my friend.” HO _ On the contrary, I shall care more than ever,” declared Audrey; “there isno story that you could’ tell me ‘which would make me care less for you, or feel less anxious’ to’ be your friend. Put me to the test.” vite poor that it was with difficulty he kept a place in : >| PUGH vonl Ie IR Hepblet, Have tL sieried | ‘Sir Roche was rich, wonderfully rich, and my aunt never gave me a moment’s e. But let me give myself all blame. I was proud and ambitious; it would bea grand | thing, I thought, to be Lady Villiers of Rowan. Are you disturbed by my story?” ‘ Again the sweet face bent over her and the soft voice whispered to her to go on. . ‘*] married Sir Roche,” said Elodie, ‘and, though I did love him, I had the greatest possible respect for him. He was good, true, loyal, a gentleman anda scholar. He was good in every sense’ of the word; if he had a fault, it was that he was proud, and did not. easily forgive.. He loved me very much. ‘‘ Ah, when I think of the wasted treasure of love lavish- ed on me, I know how I have .sinned!,,. We were very hap- py’at first; I enjoyed the novelty of wealth and high posi- tions, We should haye been happy now, but that. 1 met Captain Dighton when Sir Roche took me to. town for the season. ‘‘ He had- just.come into possession of a large fortune, and the first thing he said to me was that it had, come too late. ‘Loo late—ah,me, if Lhad been wise, if I had been sen- sible, that one:speech would have put me on my guard, and with bitter’ words 1 should have dismissed the tempter., I am not going to excuse myself—I have no excuse to, offer— but, if I had had one true friend, if my husband had been one degree kinder or less proud, my fate would have been dif- ferent——I should not have done what I did. I will not blame others. I was vain, proud; I disliked .control; I would not brook interference.|. yl ; << Oaptain Dighton knew all. my faults; he played upon | them.’ Sir Roche was kind at first; he saw the Captain al- ways with me, and said nothing. I think he was too strict- ly just, pure, and honorable in himself to suspect the want of stich qualities in others. |Then people. began to talk about us, and he grew sterner. . He spoke to me, several times about Archer Dighton, but I defied him.» ,. . **T refused to listen to him; Iwas insolent in my disdain. I wowld not be corrected.or advised. Archer Dighton encour- aged. me in all this; he set me against my husband. He told me that every gossip in London was privileged to speak to Sir Roche, about his wife; he advised me to resent it. ‘* He said no woman of any spirit. would submit to such a thing... How foolish I was to listen, for all the time I had much affection and. respect:for my own husband! Things went on from bad to, worse., Sir Roche became sterner and prouder; he vexed me, watched me, annoyed me. _ “ Archer Dighton soothed, flattered, and pleased me., One fatal night we went toa ball at Quorn House. I had no more thought of acting wickedly than you have now; but every- thing went wrong. Oaptain Dighton flattered me until I think'I must have become mad. There were one or two very Rgnlegaant comes. oh eet aera _*** You will never be lod ? eG. ee tae - ve : = 7 Y idy' tal ee f M y beautiful Elodie, do not go back to that’hateful bondage, over you. CO ce I AicHd m _ ysey, Y ted, iT believe me; I. was so young’ xe 3 _ «I was only one week with Captain Dighton. He took me to Paris, and then I awoke to a sense of what I had done. bet ’

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A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN. In one week I had found out his true character. It was selfish, utterly heartless, utterly without principle, paint f without honor. y heart rose in hot rebellion against him, and 1 longed to be again with the noble loyal man whose life I had blighted. ane “Then I realized that by one act of mad folly Thad lost my position, my name, all that was of value in the world. Thad placed a barrier be- tween myself and my old life. I had lost all. Only Heaven knows what that awakening was like. In one week we quarreled, and I left Captain Dighton. k _“T came hither, not knowing whither to go or what to do, Iam called Mrs. Dighton here because unhappily my trunks and my letters bore that ame: < aia not dare to change it. After a time a mad hope came to me. I said to myself that my husband was a just man; that his wrath and anger were reasonable; that [ had outraged and insulted him—yet that sure- ly, when he knew how I had repented, he would forgive me. I resolved that I would live here in seclusion year after year, until I had lived down my sin, and then he would sure- ly forgive me. . “It was such a foolish, futile hope. I can ive you no stronger proof of how utterly foolish Penk than in telling you this belief of mine—that Sir Roche would forgive me. I wrote him let- ters full of such passionate sorrow and anguish that I believe, had he read one, he would have relented. ** But he never read. them; they all came back to me unopened; and then T knew he was seek- ing a divorce from me. I made no defence; what could I say? The divorce was granted. rs yore Dighton’s rage, when he found that he a a large sum of money to pay, was some- thing. fearful. I will not tell you of the letters he wrote, or what he said. I will tell you about . myself. ‘It came to me like a thunderbolt —the knowledge that I was no longer Sir Roche’s wife. I could not believe it or realize it. I could not understand it. If I had been con- demned to ea eb pe there would have been reason in it youth T had sinned, and I deserved to suffer for it; but that we two should still be living, yet no longer husband and wife—I could not under- ‘Stand it. ‘“My. solicitor told a that I was frée to marry again. How could that be, when my heart was breaking with sorrow that I had sinned against Sir Roche? I declare to you that for months [ was utterly stunned. I could not realize that’ I» was not Sir Roche’s wife. Still even then I did not lose heart. I thought that, though Sir Roche had done this, he had perhaps only done it to justify himself. For all that I knew, it might have been the custom— he might have been compelled to do so; but he would forgive me in the he saw how I 6 ei I lived, in soli- tude, in'seclusion, hoping always to win his par- ‘don and his affection. I said to myself ‘When he sees that I, tient everything but him, he will forgive me.’ For five long years I lived in. these little gr corr ven to win back the love I had lost, the position I had for- feited; and one day Sir Roche’s solicitor:came to see me. Heaven grant that no creature liv- ing may ever feel the same pang of om oint- ment that I.felt! I had but one thought, my repentance was a = at last, the time of my penance was over. I had liyed down my sin my husband wasgoing to forgive me. i thought all these things—none of them were true. The a. a sere to See lng i" ome thet Bi nent arrangement a the income that Si Rosie allowed me, and to tell me thatSir Sioike “*To-whom? T.asked; and the lawyer looked alarmed. ° “That does not concern you, madam,’ ell me,” I cried, ‘the name of the woman who has dared to ti é my name indiet, ce!’ ‘**T must remind:you, Spadeaiy thas you have forfeited both,’ he said, with a low bow; ‘nei- ther one nor the other inow,’? sandney. 13 sin was great; I recoil from that. It was a 7 ie ous foolish 10 excuse. You were not driven to it by ‘had “Granting that I forfei In the madness of my foolish | ‘It tobe taken away. I sha ears to come, when } ow me about her.” : thing. e ee ake r bréast ee Ths i meee the greatness of your he “No; ten minutes beforehand I had not thought of it,”, declared Elodie. ‘“Now you have suffered very cruelly. But there must be suffering where there is sin; they always go together.” ; Elodie raised her golden head; the flush had died from her face, leaving it marbie-white, “There is one person,” she said, whom I will never forgive. i forgive Archer ‘Dighton, who spoiled my life. I forgive Sir Roche, who has been so hard and cruel, who has jud me without merey, who has refused to on me; I forgive the aunt who neglected me and filled my mind with ideas that were all wrong. “But I will married my husband—who took the place that I might have regained but for-her. You tremble! Ab, my ray, angered you! I cannot for- give her. How could any woman marry a man whose wife was still living and seeking his forgiveness? I do not know whether she was rich or poor, whether she was noble or plebeian ; but I hate her!” She paused a few minutes, for Audrey’s face wn very pale. ~ ‘“¥ou cannot conceive,” she said, ‘how IT hate her. I think so much of Rowan, forI was ve ‘happy there. T picture her'in the rooms I loved, wearing the jewels I wore, taking my place, the servants all calling her ‘Lady Villiers.’ I can ‘imagine Sir Roche going to consult her, and I hate her. “T know that T am Ng ‘Doctor Borat told me this morning that my life was a matter of daye unless I could_ control the nervous feyer that is killing me. I cannot control it, for I am always thinking of her who dares to call herself raay Villiers while TI live. my place, still he has no eae to put any one élse in it. TI hate her!” “Perhaps she did ‘not know,” reriarked Au- drey, gently—“it is ible that she did not know—Sir Roche had been married.” viORLOU Wetlie Re tie ater aA Racaee my p it hangs gallery at Rowan. : a did not tell her that it had -been urnt. é “Sir Roche strippéd my rooms; he sent spear thing to me that had once belonged tome. But I noticed that he did not send my portrait. ‘You do not know how my hopes rested on that; he kept that by him.” Audrey remembered the pitiless voice that had said: “*I tore her portrait from ‘the walls and burnt it.” ~~ i “ Perhaps,” continued the feeble voice, “ this person whom they call by my name has ordered never see Rowan again now that she is there.” The sweet face bent moré kindly over her, the gentle voice whis: mo re : _ “Thave something to tell you Sbout thislady. | I know her.” © The golden head and white face were raised i quickly, and then fell ? You know her?” interrogated Elodie. “Tell I will gell you all I know,” said Audrey. “To pocin, She never was half $0 fair as pe ‘She was quite a‘simple girl, a cle ’s f fa daughter, and knew nothing of the world. “She had never heard of Sir Roche, and she had never ‘seen him until she met him at a friend’s house; there they fell in love with each other, and Sir Roche asked her to be his. _ “He néver told her that he had been divorced from his wife—she never dreamed of such a she should not know it. | The servants’ at Rowan ere ' chan a were » changed ; |" there was no way in which she could’ know it. If anyone inadvertently spoke of ye F Villiers, she, poo child, thought they meant Sir Roche’s r mother. She was a simple girl, and she loved | Sir Roche very dearly. aN _“ At last, quite suddenly—without any warn- |’ ing—the story of Sir - and sin; it seems to me to | her never forgive the woman who: ‘eorn had been gathered in, the: He had taken every precaution too that | had asked him. to tl fo ay cone done bay = on in hae te voice: ree ‘She er wedding-ring from we, and she forbade anyone to call ber Lady Vil- liers. She made no co: but she cast herself off entirely from the life she loved. “Then for a long time she was il—t} very ying between life and death. ‘You will not wonder at that—it was a terrible wrench for her. When she recovered, she was almost afraid at first of facing her new life. Then an idea came to her —Heaven sent it. She was thinking one morn- ing what she could do with her jiled and blighted life. | She said to herself, ‘There must be one other woman on the face of the earth = as unhappy as I am —— and that is odie. I will goand find her; i will try and cheer and comfort-her. I will make amends to her for the unconscious injury I have inflicted upon her.” “She is a noble woman,” repeated Elodie. . ‘She carried out her idea,” sajd Audrey. ““She left home again, but this time it was seek out her whom the world had forgotten,” She cl her tender arms around ‘the gure, and touched the’ pale face with ou do not hate'me now, Ejodie, do you?” she asked gently. “Was it you? Tam not surprised. I have always felt that you were different from the rest of the world—that you were more than: an ordinary friend to me. No, I ‘de not hate you —TL love you with all my heart!” The sweet gentle girl encircled the shrinking trembling figure with her arms: She laid the tired head lovingly on her breast, and forgot her own sorrows and wrongs in the sorrow of the unha lady before her, ’ “T feel, Elodie, that I have,a claimupon you. I shall stay with you and nurse you until you are well again.” ; ‘ “JT shall never be well,” said Elodie; “but I shall be ha It will be like another life. How wonderful it all seems! And you were strong enough to do that—to leave him—t6 give up Rowan? I wish—oh, how I wish that I had been more like you! Tell me about Rowan. I loved the place so much.” A Audrey talked to her until the golden head o and the tired eyes were closed’ in mber. R , Tse burning summer ees ee it had been plucked from the trees, and the lovely earth lay resting in the sunlight of autumn. ) sea was full of deep melodies. Elodie spent whole hours in listening to its music. One bright morning she was lying quite that she looked like still, watching the waves. She ‘was so changed another Elodie. The despair and unrest had left her; her face was calm, sweet and ‘sad. She was worn to a shadow; but her eyes were still bright. githatie 2 Her true and: faithful nurse—the one sincere friend to whom she owed-everything—stood by her side pe hpreinn, every look. ‘a7 * No mother could have been kinder—no sister more tender. Suddenly the dark eyes opened ane Andrey,” she eaid, « I show ike to aighlin udrey,” she sai should like to see ‘hi to tell him that Iam sorry st, and hear him say that he forgives d he comne it You Samed biae? 3 once more— for the } There was somet ead- apt aN abet on Oy Pan Bit kings She knew that‘he loved her bee . to go to ‘the othe The moment Sir Roche: ‘started for Rookdene. ‘He did not kno peere, rane him; idea’ it ‘was in relation Elodie. ’ No matter what it was, he must. her. ‘He traveled incessantly. was g be- fore be rea Medina ho ee et

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24 She came in, tall, slender, and graceful, with the same’ pure face, the same sweet smile, and hecould have knelt and kissed. the hem of; her dress, ,When the clear light of, the pure .eyes fell upon. him, @ great. tearless.sob, rose to, his lips,).a Sree udder over him. She held out her/hand to him in kindly greeting. “You are very, good to come.so quickly,” she said; and then there was. a few. minutes’ embar- rassed, silence. Audrey, with her quick wo- man’s.tact, was the first to break it, ‘You will. have guessed perhaps why I sent to TOT she said; ‘‘ Elodie is dying, and she wanted to see you once more,” ‘Are you saying with her?” he asked. ‘7 have been here since June,” she answered. ‘+ How. ou are, Audrey—how noble how unselfish! Your father wrote me and told me whither you were Boing, and with what idea, you had begun another life,” ‘*We will not talk about. it,” she said, gently. ** Elodie was alone in the world, and quite for- gotten. I found her in despair; now she is calm and Seanquil, and ready todie. That is better than to have worn away my life in useless lamentation or in sullen gloom; there is some- thing in it that fits my notion of justice, Roche you will be very kind. to her? 1 have learned to love her very dearly.” He looked slightly embarrassed. ‘I do not see what is to be gained by seeing Audrey,” he began, ‘‘unless. you really wish it.” *‘I do really wish it,” she said, firmly, ‘‘ She will. die happier for having seen you and heard you say that you forgive her.” ‘*T will do it,” he replied, ‘‘mo matter what it costs. me.” Ke sat down, and Audrey told him all about Elodie’s illnéss, and how the doctors said she was really dying of a broken heart. At first there was no definite malady it was the fret and. fever of the unhappy soul, the grief, the despair, the baffled. love and. pride, the lost ambition, that wore the fragile body away. Lately a nervous fever had set in; and of that Elodie was dying. : Sir Roche was not ashamed of the tears, tha rained. down his face, of the sobs that he could not conceal, when Audrey told him, all, the thetic details of ‘the lonely life, and how lodie had been, hoping always, that he would forgive her. There was a light not all of earth on her face; her words were sweet and wise: When she had finished speaking, she said to im: ‘It is too late for you to see her this evenin Roche; come back in the morning, and I w. take you to her.” Without. another word he took her hand, kissed it, and left her, The sun shone la, next morning when Sir Roche found self in the little drawing-room at No, 4, Medina Villas.@He was startled when Audrey came in to him. She had been sitting up all night; her face was pale, her eyes had a worn look. She seemed weary, yet she held out her hand with a smile to Sir he. “Tam so glad. you are come,” she. said. ‘* Elodie has been ing about you. She has not many hours to live. Come with me to see her.” They went er. Sir Roche had never seen the ha y_ since the night of the ball He remembered his last at Quorn House. gliiupse of her—her bright, beautiful face, with its defiant look; the luster of her dia ; the sheen of her brilliant dress. Now he saw her pale, shadowy, d the weight of her own sin , He was d touched; all memory of his own wrong d away. went, to her, and kneeling down by her side, her A Seesie toher, Roche,” she whispered; ‘‘ see what she bas suffered,” , ‘‘ My sin has killed me, Roche,” she answered. hear you say er f flushed as _ up and.kneel down maton Fon to beg your VENeSS ; cannot. Listen to me ent, Roche, . I never mean that you fougere me,” liberate or inten’ was th ag two things.’ pli thing else. ce, Then Audrey bent down and kissed the dead | softly. She wae oavtiod at first. She raised her thin hands, and tried to hide her face from him; but ‘always whether he should ever 8 that pr you were to come to me! I want to she continued—"I should like to get * at to. do winger’ never even thought of it. It was not-de- '—it. was not indeed, I t I was not wicked, and I A, QUEEN, AMONGST. WOMEN. have repented until my sin has killed, me.;- Say you forgive me, Roche.” He laid his hand on.the,golden head. . “T forgive you, even asi pray Heaven. to for- give. you.” et, “ Will you call me,‘ wife’ once more, Roche— once. more, for I loved you very dearly?” He looked at Audrey, and there was a mo- ment’s silence. Then Audrey went up to him, with the same bright light on her face. ‘“Do what she asks you, Roche,” she. said ently. .And he, bending gently over the white ace, said: “* My dear wife!” , The two that stood near her will never forget the flush of startled joy on. her face. “Thank, you, Roche.. May I die with my head... upon; your breast?’ Then she. too Audrey’s. band, and kissed it. ‘It is to,you oh, true and dear friend,” she .said, ‘‘ that t owe all!” Two hours afterward the noonday sun was pouring a flood of light into the room, and the music of the waves was borne on the wind. The end was very near, The doctors had gone away; and Elodie lay dying, with the truest friends woman ever had near her. Once they. had bent over her, thinking her eyes.closed forever; buta sunbeam fell across her face, and she opened them. She was dying as she. had asked to die, with her head on her husband’s breast, and Audrey by her side. Suddenly:she. looked.up at him ane smiled, and with that the spirit took. its ir Roche,was not ashamed to weep bitter tears over her—to accuse himself of being hard and cold—to fold the tired hands oyer the quiet heart—while Audrey stood by weeping. sently he looked at her. ‘I should. like to thank, you in her name, Audrey,” he said. But she held up her hand. ‘*] will have no thanks,” she returned, ‘‘I have simply done my duty.” She took her place by the side of the dead. Roche,” she said gently, ‘I want you to give me your hand.” She took. it.in her.own, and.Jaid it-on the still breast. “T want you,” she added, ‘‘ to promise me promise anything you ask,” he re- ed, ; ‘Promise me, first, that on her. grave-stone at place the name of your wife, Elodie lliers. ‘‘T promise,” he answered. . ‘‘Secondly, here in her presence, promise that you will send back to that man, his. mise- rable money; that you. will tell him that the woman. whose life he blighted.is dead; and that, fearing his money might bring a cu:se with it, you have sent it back. ill you do.this?” ‘Most assuredly I will,” he replied. ‘! You are right in this, Audrey, .as..you are in every- I will do it at once,” face. “My work here is done,” she said; “I will go home. And you, e, who have her in death, you will give her the last honor you can. pay her. Elodie,” she cried, laying r fresh sweet lips on the dead ones, ‘‘ Elodie now I shall not fear to meet you hereafter!” _ She went home—her wore 77h Ropes ena in Roche remained. honor to ie. He did not take her back to the stately mau- ‘soleum where so many. women of. his'race slept. te i, . e was buried in the pretty churchyard b the sea at Rookdene, and on the white marble Monument was inscribed the simple words: - _, In loving memory of Elodie, Lady Villiers, oned 25,” : In death, though notin life, she found her lost name again. ' Bir Roche "in. resiiegs wander it as: home, wongerin: n for himse e was a re a . weeny Ry on _ written to La ut, five ors) es , were merely friendly letters; yet his whole a was for her—he no rest by night or by no surprise—she no went to him in the library, where, so many years before, she had read words, of the S BQ JBAAVSRISSSSARRLSSASSSsaa mareiage. sory ice, She looked up.at him with a smile that seemed to him unusually sweet, — “You have come for me, Roche,” she said. 3 am willing to go back with you.” “Mamma,” she said, a few hours afterwards “will “you give me my wedding-ring? ‘Thali want it to-morrow morning,” i And on the morrow they went through the solemn. service together again. Audrey wished that the whole story should remain upreVealed; but it did not, on the con- trary, it found its way into the newspapers, and all England was touched by it. For,.the newspapers told it ps hur nee she bad given up wealth, home, love and luxury for conscience’s sake; how she had devoted herself to one who was more meee en herself ; how she had nursed the hapless lady through a long illness, had soothed her death, had recon- filed her to Sir Roche, and thus. had, humanly saved her. They called her a pearl amon women—they wished that more were like her, Then she took her place again in the great. world. A good influence seemed to emanate from her—the spell of ess and bein lin-- gered found her—only kind words and thoughts could live in her sweet presence. Before her evil and wickedness seemed to fly. . Bright-haired children grew. round her; but. neither she nor Sir Roche ever forgot Elodie. They went every yea to her grave, and the- only time that Lady Villiers ever thought her husband harsh was one July morning when they hooey Elodie’s mere together, The man who had charge of it had planted white Ascension lilies on i “Take them away,” said Sir Roche; ‘you’ may have roses, or ssion flowers, or any other flowers that bloom, but not these, She looked up at him. ** Why do you say that, Roche?” she asked. “They are out of place, for one thing, Audrey. Another. reason is, they are, your. favorite flowers, and I do not like to see them there.” So the white lilies were taken away. But Audrey soon forgot that one instance of stern- ness. No husband was kinder, more devoted, better than hers, They loved each other with a true and perfect love that no man could put asunder. THE END. : ey. is Waverley Library. 83 Tae Turxe Sisters. By Alice Fleming. 84 A MarrIaGE or CONVENIENCE. By Sara Claxton.. 85 Sinnep Acamst. By Clara Augusta; 36 Sm ArcHER’s Bripg. By Arabella Southworth, 37 Tax Country Cousin. Rose Kennedy. 88 His Own Acar. By Arabella Southworth, 89 TATION. By Ralph Royal, ; 40 PLepGED To MARRY, Sara Claxton. 41 Biinp Drvorion. By Alice ytoorye aad BEATRICE, ‘THE BEAUTIFUL. By A, thworth. wi G By Alice F) oe ounG GIRLS. ce Wixaep Heerncen. By. Mie MB. Crowell. Hor, THe Actress. By Wm. M. Turner. George 8. Kaime, hworth. 1 AG 42 43 Tus Banonet’s Secret. By Claxton. 44 TH ¥ DaveuTEeR. By Alic 45 Her DEN For, By eee Southworth. 46 Tar Lirtte Herkess, By A. Denison. 47 Because Sox Lovep Him. By Alice Fleming 48 In Sprrze or Hersetr. By S ; 49 His Heart’s Mistress. Arabella Southworth. = THE By 52 58 b4 ae’ ay: i ES i > : igs z > z a a5) a we 5 oft = ey Ht aa E : > y 2 , argaret Blount. ine . Anna E. Perter Waar JeaLousy Dip. By Alice Fleming. Tam Wirr's - Juan es RRoweeR 8 fons DEN Bans. By Arabella Southworth. ss.M, E. Braddon HEee : > 3 : 4 w CA By Alexander Dumas, youre Wire B : v ig Wife's Husband . By Enn m ‘Two Wivows. B Kania? fhieade, vy Orn. TOUR. by Maude Hilton. , 5 vag Spee man's ace PB te Fanu. Lapy oF ky ix Rage rs a

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