Phyllis

by Duchess

CHAPTER XXVII.

Two days have passed—two days that have brought back to me all the light and life and gladness of my girlhood. Never since my marriage have I been so happy as now.

Marmaduke and I are the best of friends, there is not so much as a shadow of a cloud between us, and I have convinced myself that, as I was the most foolish girl in the world, so am I now the luckiest, and that 'Duke is the dearest old boy to be found anywhere. If I still feel guilty of having no passionate attachment for my husband, I console myself with the thought that I am probably incapable of a grand passion, and that haply I shall get through life all the more comfortably in consequence.

Harriet and Bebe notice the new relations existing between me and my husband with undisguised pleasure, but wisely make no comment. Sir James sees it too, and once, in passing me, smiles, and pats me approvingly on the shoulder. Dora and George Ashurst are too much taken up with each other and their approaching nuptials to notice anything but their own tastes and predilections. But Blanche Goring sees it with an evil sneer.

----

It is three o'clock in the afternoon. Outside, the world is looking cold and uninviting; inside, all is warmth and apparent contentment.

Some of us are in the billiard-room, knocking about the balls, but doing more talk than honest work. I for my part am starting for a brisk run to the gardens, with a view to bringing Cummins to order.

Cummins is an ancient Scotchman, old, crusty, and valuable, who has lived as head gardener at Strangemore for more years than he can remember, and who has grown sour in the Carrington service. Having made himself more than usually obnoxious to-day, and declined to part with some treasured article of his rearing for any one's benefit, the cook has tearfully appealed to me, and I have promised to exert myself and coax my own gardener into giving me some of my own property. Throwing round me, therefore, a cosy shawl, fur-lined, and covering my head with the warmest velvet hat I own, I sally forth, bent on conquest.

The air is keen and frost-bitten. As I hurry along one of the smaller paths, hedged in on either side by giant evergreens, with my chin well buried in my fur, I come suddenly upon Sir Mark Gore, leisurely strolling, and smoking a cigar.

Ever since my explanation with Marmaduke I have carefully avoided Sir Mark. Not once has he had an opportunity of speaking with me alone. Not once have I suffered him to draw me into personal conversation. Consequently, I am doubly put out and annoyed by this rencontre—conscience telling me he cares more for me than is at all to be desired.

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

"Oh, don't do that," I say, as unconcernedly as I well can; "you have recklessly wasted a good cigar. I am in a desperate hurry, and cannot stay to interfere with your smoking."

"It is the simplest thing in the world to light another," replied he, coolly. "But what a day for you to be out! I heard you say at lunch you meant going, but felt positive this bitter wind would daunt you. May I accompany you in your desperate hurry? Is it an errand of mercy—a case of life or death?"

His easy manner reassures me.

"I am going to entreat Cummins," I say, laughing. "Don't you pity me? Cannot you understand what a difficult task I have laid out for myself? No, I think you had better not come. I shall be able to use more persuasive arts if left to deal with him alone."

"I would back you to win were he the King of the Cannibal Islands himself. If I must not witness your triumph, may I at least be your escort on the road to it?"

I can see he is obstinately bent on being my companion, and grow once more disquieted.

"Ye-es, if you wish it," I say, with obvious unwillingness; "but it is such a little way now it scarcely seems worth your while."

"I think it very well worth my while, and accept your gracious permission," replies Sir Mark, with a quiet stress on the adjective, and a determination not to notice my evident objection to his company. So there is no help for it, and we walk on side by side in silence.

Presently, in a low voice, he says, suddenly and without preface:—-

"Why do you avoid me, Mrs. Carrington? What have I done to be tabooed as I have been for the last two days? Have I offended you in any way?"

"Offended me?" I stammer (when people are unexpectedly asked an obnoxious question, what would they do if they could not repeat their questioner's last words?). "Of course you have not offended me. How could you? What can have put such a ridiculous idea into your head?"

"Your own conduct. Do you think I have not seen, and felt, your changed manner?" He is speaking almost in an undertone. "Were I your greatest enemy, you could not treat me with more distant coolness. You scarcely deign to speak to me; your eyes carefully avoid mine, you hardly answer when I address you. Surely you must have a motive for all this."

"In the first place, I do not acknowledge your 'this'. You only imagine my manner changed. I certainly hare no motive for being rude to you."

"Then I think you have treated me very cruelly—very capriciously, considering all things."

The last words are barely distinct; he is evidently using great self-control; but, in my present nervous state, all sounds are very clear to me.

"What things, Sir Mark?" I demand, with an irrepressible touch of hauteur. He is looking steadily at me—so steadily that, in spite of myself, to my mortification and disgust, I feel I am blushing furiously. Still I hold my ground; I absolutely decline to let my eyes fall before his.

"I suppose," says Sir Mark, very quietly still, "when a woman has led a man on to love her until he is mad enough to lose his head, and imagine he has awakened in her mind some faint interest in himself, she is not to be held responsible for any mischief that may come of it. I say I suppose not. But it is, perhaps, a little hard on the man."

"I do not understand you," I say, with as much calmness as I can summon, though, in truth, I am horribly frightened, and can feel my heart beating heavily against my side.

"Do you not?" exclaims he, with a rapid vehement change of tone. "Then I shall explain. I am not so blind but I can see now all that has been happening here during the past month. Were you jealous of Marmaduke? Did you imagine he could love another, when you were ever before him? Did you seek to revenge yourself upon him by turning your sweet looks and sweeter words upon me, by showering upon me all the childish maddening graces of which you are capable, until you stole the very heart out of my body?"

"Oh, don't!" I cry, tremulously, recoiling from him, a look of horrified amazement on my face. "You do not know what you are saying. It is terrible. I will not listen to you."

"Yes you will," fiercely. "Does it hurt you to hear me? Does it distress you to know that I love you I, who have never loved any one—that I love you with a passion that no words could describe? You have ruined my life, and now that you have attained your object, have satisfied yourself of Marmaduke's affection, you throw me, your victim, aside, as something old, worn out, worthless, careless of the agony you have inflicted. It is cold, cruel, innocent children like you, who do all the real mischief in this life. Do you remember those words of Moore's? they haunt me every time I see you;

'Too bright and fair To let wild passions write One wrong wish there.'

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

"You have said enough: is it manly of you to compel me to hear such words? Surely you must have exhausted all your bitterness by this."

"'Reproach is infinite and knows no end.' Yet of what use to reproach you? You have a heart that cannot be touched. Possibly you do not even feel regret for what you have done."

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

"You shall be obeyed; for I have finished. There is nothing more to be said. I was determined you should at least hear, and know what you have done. Now you can go home happy in the thought that you have added one more fool to your list. Yes, I will cease. Have you anything to say?"

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

My lips are white and trembling, but it is anger, not nervousness, that affects me now.

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

"No; I will have no comments made. You can easily make a reasonable excuse out of your letters to-morrow morning. After all you have said, I hope I shall never see your face again."

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

"I regret that I ever—-"

"Oh, pray leave all the rest unsaid, Mrs. Carrington," he interrupts, bitterly. "I can fancy it. You regret, of course, you ever admitted such a fallen character within your doors; I have insulted and wounded you in every possible way. So be it. You say so, therefore it must be true. At the same time I would have you remember, what is also true, that I would die to save you from any grief or harm. If," sinking his voice, and speaking in a slow, peculiar tone, "if you are ever in deep trouble, and I can help you, think of me."

I am impressed without knowing why. It is as though some one had laid a curse upon me. I grow as white as death, and my breath comes from me in short, quick gasps. At this moment, a deadly fear of something intangible, far off, of something lying in the mystic future, passes over me like a cold wind.

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

"May I?" he asks, humbly, and with the natural grace that belongs to him. "It is a farewell."

Oppressed with my nameless terror, I cannot reply. I scarcely hear him. Stooping, he lays his lips lightly on my hand.

The touch recalls me. With a shudder I snatch away my fingers, and drawing back, sweep past him in eager haste to rid myself of him and the evil fears to which his words have given rise.

I hurry on with parted lips and trembling pulses, anxious to escape. Crossing the rustic bridge that spans a small stream at the end of a pathway, I glance instinctively backwards. He is still standing motionless on the exact spot where we parted, his arms folded, his head bare, his eyes fixed upon my retreating form. Again I shudder and hasten oat of sight.

----

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

To carry out this design I determine on suffering from headache for once in my life, and by this means absent myself from dinner. Armed with this resolution, I go swiftly to my room as the early night closes in, having lingered in the gardens as long as prudence would permit.

Throwing myself upon a sofa, I summoned the faithful Martha, and declare myself unwell. They hardly constitute a lie, these words of mine, as my temples, through excitement and uneasiness, are throbbing painfully. I feel feverish, and miserably restless, though my foolish superstition of a few hours since has resolved itself into thin air and vanished. Still, how can I draw breath freely while "that man" continues to haunt the house?

"Dear, dear me, m'm," says Martha, coming to the front, as usual, with mournful vehemence, and an unlimited supply of remedies. "You do look bad, to be sure. You really should get advice, m'm. There is young Dr. Manley in the village, as is that clever, I do hear, as he can cure anything; and you are getting them headaches dreadful frequent. Only two days since I used a whole bottle of ody-collun upon your pore forehead. But vinegar is an elegant thing, and much stronger than the ody. Shall I try it, m'm?"

"No thank you, Martha," I say, feeling hysterical: "I prefer the 'Ody;'" whereupon Jean Maria Farina is produced, and I am gently bathed for five minutes.

Marmaduke comes softly in.

"A headache, darling," he says, with tender commiseration: "that is too bad. Martha give me the bottle. I will see to your mistress.

"The delicatest touch possible, if you please, sir," says Martha, warningly, who doesn't believe in men, as she leaves the room. She is dreadfully old-maidish, this favorite attendant of mine, but she adores me, and with me to be loved is a necessity.

I have made up my mind to say nothing to 'Duke on the subject of Sir Mark until the latter is well out of the house. So for the present I permit my husband to think my slight indisposition about the worst of its kind ever known.

"What can have given it to you?" he says, damping my hot brow with more than a woman's gentleness. "I told you, Phyllis, it was very foolish of you to venture out of doors to-day; I hope you have not got a chill."

"I don't think so. I put on very warm things. But, Marmaduke, I would like not to go down to dinner. Do you think my staying away would appear odd?"

"Certainly not, pet. I will explain to every one. Bed is the best place for you. Promise me you will go to sleep as soon as you can."

"As soon as ever I can. Oh 'Duke there is a quarter past chiming, and you not dressed yet. Hurry it will be dreadful if neither of us can show at the proper moment."

"I won't be an instant," says 'Duke, and scrambles through the performance with marvellous rapidity, getting down to the drawing-room before the second gong sounds.

I have accomplished my purpose, and will probably, nay, certainly, not be called upon to see the dreaded features of Sir Mark again. Early to-morrow morning, I trust, he will be beyond recall. It never occurs to me to think what hours the trains leave Carston, which is our nearest railway station. To-morrow, too, I shall explain everything to 'Duke: to conceal the real facts of the case from him, even for so short a time, grieves me sorely.

I begin presently to fancy what they may be saying and doing down in the dining-room; and, so fancying, it suddenly comes to me that I am healthily and decidedly hungry. When going in for a violent headache, I certainly had not counted upon this, and laugh to myself at the trap of my own making, into which I have fallen, ill or not ill, however, dinner I must and will have.

I ring the bell and summon Martha.

"Well, m'm, are you anything better?" asks that damsel, stealing in on tiptoe, and speaking in a stage whisper.

"I am," I respond, briskly, sitting up; "and oh, Martha, it is odd, is it not, but I do feel so awfully hungry."

"No, do you really, m'm?" exclaims Martha, delighted, "that's a rare good sign. I don't hold with no appetite, myself. Lie down again, m'm, quiet-like, and I'll bring you up a tray as 'll tempt you, in two minutes. A little bit of fowl, now, and a slice of 'am, will be the lightest for you; and will you take Moselle, m'm, or Champagne?"

"Moselle," I reply, feeling something of the pleasurable excitement of long ago, when Billy used to smuggle eatables into my chamber of punishment; "and Martha, if there is any orange pudding, or iced pudding, you know, you might—-"

"I'll bring it, m'm," says Martha. And presently I am doing full justice to as dainty a little dinner as Martha's love could procure.

I sleep well, but permit myself to be persuaded; into staying in my room for breakfast. After that meal down-stairs, Marmaduke comes tramping up to see how I am. It is eleven o'clock; surely Sir Mark can have made his excuses and taken his departure by this tine.

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

"Who?"

"Mark Gore."

"No, not yet. Did you know he was going?" looking much surprised, and seating himself on the edge of the bed.

"I did. I desired him to go. Shut the door close; and I will tell you all about it. But, first, 'Duke, before I say one word, make me a vow you will not be angry with him or take any notice of what he has done."

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

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

"I vow, then," says he, impatiently. And I forthwith repeat to him word for word all that passed between Sir Mark and me, in the evergreen walk.

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

"Yes, just so," say I. "I really think he must have gone mad. However, there was no excuse for it, so I simply ordered him out of the house. He looked dreadfully unhappy. After all, perhaps he could not help it."

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

"Of all the conceited little women!" he says. "What gave you the headache last night? Was it his conduct?"

"Well, I think it was founded on a determination not to see him again. But I was afraid to tell you anything then, lest you might refuse to sit at table with him, or be uncivil, or have a row in any way. You will remember your promise, 'Duke, and let him go quietly away. An explanation would do no good. Once he is gone, it will not signify."

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

"Well, he is anything but that now," reply I, with decision. "If you go away now, 'Duke, I think I will get up. I dare say he will be on his way to London by the time I am dressed."

I get through my toilet with a good deal of deliberation. I am in no great hurry to find myself downstairs; I am determined to afford him every chance of getting clear of the premises before I make my appearance.

When dressed to Martha's satisfaction, I go cautiously through tho house, and, contrary to my usual custom, make straight for Marmaduke's study. Opening the door without knocking, I find myself face to face with Marmaduke and Sir Mark Gore.

I feel petrified, and somewhat guilty. Of what use my condemning myself to solitary confinement for so many hours, if the close of them only brings me in contact with what I have so striven to avoid?

Marmaduke's blue eyes are flashing, and his lips are white and compressed. Sir Mark, always dark and supercilious, is looking much the same as usual, except for a certain bitter expression that adorns the corners of his mouth. Both men regard me fixedly as I enter, but with what different feelings!

Marmaduke holds out his hand to me, and the flash dies in his eyes. Sir Mark's lips form the one word "false."

"No, I am not false," I protest, vehemently, putting my hand through Marmaduke's arm, and glancing at my opponent defiantly from my shelter; "'Duke is my husband; why should I hide anything from him? I told you I would conceal nothing."

"What charming wifely conduct!" says Sir Mark, with a sneer; "not only do you confide to him all your own little affairs, but you are ready also at a moment's notice to forgive him any peccadilloes of which he has been guilty."

I feel 'Duke quiver with rage, but laying a warning pressure on his arm, I succeed in restraining him.

"He has been guilty of none," I cry, indignantly. "He never cared for any one but me, as you well know."

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

"Why are you not gone?" I ask, inhospitably; "you promised you would leave early this morning."

"Grant me a little grace, Mrs. Carrington. Had I had time, I might, indeed, have ordered a special train, but, as matters stand, I am compelled to be your guest until one be allowed by the authorities to start. But for your entrance here just now, which I did not anticipate, I would not have troubled you by my presence again. However, it is the last time you shall be so annoyed. Perhaps you will bid me good-bye, and grant me your forgiveness before I go. You at least should find it easy to pardon, as it was my unfortunate and undue admiration for yourself caused me to err."

His tone is light and mocking, there is even a half smile upon his lips. He treats Marmaduke's presence as though he were utterly unaware of it. Yet still something beneath his sneering manner makes me know he does repent, either his false step, or its consequences.

It is with amazement I discover I bear him no ill-will Indeed, I might almost be said to feel sorrow for him at this present moment. I shall be intensely relieved and glad when he is no longer before me; but he has been kind and pleasant to me, in many ways, during these past two months, and I forgive him. I put my hand in his, and say "good-bye," gently. He holds it tightly for an instant, then drops it.

"Good-bye, Carrington," he says, coolly: "I hope when next we meet time will have softened your resentment."

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

"And I hope," says 'Duke, in a voice clear and quiet, yet full of suppressed passion, "that the day we meet again is far distant. I have no desire to renew acquaintance in the future with a man who has so basely abused the rights of friendship and hospitality. You have chosen to act the part of a scoundrel. Keep to it, therefore, and avoid the society of honest men. For myself, I shall endeavor to forget I ever knew any one so contemptible."

"Take care," says Sir Mark, in a low, fierce tone. "Don't try me too far, 'Honest men!' Remember one thing, Carrington: you owe me something for my forbearance."

For a full minute the two men glare at each other, then the door is flung open, and Mark is gone.

"What did he mean by that?" ask I, frightened and tearful. "What was that he said about forbearance? Tell me, 'Duke."

Marmaduke's face is white as death.

"Nothing," he answers, with an effort. "It is only a stagy way he has of speaking. Let us forget him."

----

So Mark Gore drops out of our life for the present. Three days later Lady Blanche Going also takes her departure.

As we assemble in the hall to bid her good-bye—I, from an oppressive sense of what is demanded by the laws of courtesy, the others through the dawdling idleness that belongs to a country house—she sweeps up to me, and, with an unusually bewitching smiles, says, sweetly:—-

"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Carrington. Thank you so much for all your kindness to me. I really don't remember when I have enjoyed myself so well as here at dear old Strangemore with you."

Here she stoops forward, as though she would press her lips to my cheek. Instantaneously dropping both her hand and my handkerchief, I bend to pick up the latter; when I raise myself again, she has wisely passed on, and so I escape the hypocritical salute.

Marmaduke puts her, maids, traps, and all, into the carriage. The door is shut, the horses start; I am well rid of another troublesome guest. I draw a deep sigh of relief as two ideas present themselves before my mind. One is, that I am better out of it all than I deserve; the second, that never again, under any circumstances, shall she enter my doors.

----

It is the night before Harriet's departure, and almost all our guests have vanished. Our two military friends have resumed their regimental duties a week ago; Sir George Ashurst has gone to London for a little while; Dora has decided on burying herself at Summerleas during his absence—I suppose to meditate soberly upon the coming event.

It is nine o'clock. Dinner is a thing of the past. Even the gentlemen, having tired of each other, or the wine, or the politics, have strolled into the drawing-room, and are now indulging in such light converse as they deem suitable to our feeble understandings.

Suddenly the door is flung wide, and Bebe comes hurriedly in—so hurriedly that we all refrain from speech, and raise our eyes to rivet them upon her. She is nervous—half laughing—yet evidently scared.

"Oh, Marmaduke!" she says, with a little gasp, and going up to him and fastening her fingers on his arm, "I have seen a ghost!"

"A what?" says 'Duke.

"A ghost—a downright, veritable ghost. Now don't look so incredulous I am thoroughly in earnest. I was never in my life before so frightened. I tell you I saw it plainly, and quite close. Oh, how I ran!"

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

Naturally we all stare at her, and feel interested directly. A real spectre is not a thing of everyday occurrence. I feel something stronger than interest; I am terrified beyond measure, and rising from my seat, I look anxiously at 'Duke.

"I never heard there was a ghost here before," I say, reproachfully. "Is the house haunted? Oh, 'Duke! you never told me of it—and I have gone about it at all hours, and sometimes even without a light!"

I conclude there is something comical in my dismay, as Marmaduke and Lord Chandos burst out laughing, Thornton fairly roars, while Sir James gets as near an outburst of merriment as he ever did in his life.

"Is there a ghost in your family?" I demand, rather sharply, feeling nettled at their heartless mirth.

"No; I am afraid we have nothing belonging to us half so respectable. All the ancestors I ever heard of died most amiably, either on the battle-field, or on the gallows, or in their beds. We cannot lay claim to a single murderer or suicide; there is not even a solitary instance of a duel being fought within these walls. I doubt we are a tame race. There is not a spark of romance about us. Bebe's imagination has run riot."

"I tell you I saw it," persists Bebe, indignantly. "Am I to disbelieve my own sight? I was walking along the corridor off the picture-gallery quite quietly, thinking of anything in the world but supernatural subjects, when all at once, as I got near the window, I saw a face looking in at me from the balcony outside."

"Oh, Bebe!" I cry, faintly, casting a nervous glance behind me, as I edge closer to Lord Chandos, who happens to be the one nearest me.

"It was a horrible face, wicked, but handsome. The head was covered with something dark, and it was only the eyes I noticed, they were unearthly—so large, and black, and revengeful; they had murder in them." Bebe stops, shuddering.

"Really, Carrington, it is too bad of you," says Chips, reprovingly. "If you keep them at all they should at least be amiable. I wonder Miss Beatoun lives to tell the tale. Pray go on: it is positively enthralling. Did the eyes spit fire?"

"The head vanished while I stared, and then I dropped my candle and ran downstairs, as though I were hunted, Oh, I shall never forgot it!"

"Probably some poor tramp prowling about," says 'Duke seeing I am nearly in tears.

"It was nothing living," declares Miss Beatoun with a settled conviction that sends a cold chill through my veins.

"Bebe, how can you be so stupid?" exclaims 'Duke, almost provoked. "Ghosts, indeed!—I thought you had more sense. Come let us go in a body and exorcise this thing, whatever it is. I believe an apparition should be spoken of respectfully in capitals as IT. She may still be on the balcony."

"I think it improbable," says Chips: "she would see by the aid of—of Miss Beatoun's candle that it is an unlikely spot for silver spoons."

"Well, if we fail, I shall give orders for a couple of men to search the shrubberies. And whatever they find they shall bring straight to Bebe."

"They will find nothing," says Bebe, with an obstinacy quite foreign to her.

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

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

"What! all alone!" I cry, aghast. "Never I would be dead by the time you came back. No, I would rather see it out."

So we all march solemnly upstairs, armed with lights, to investigate this awful mystery.

Sir James and Thornton take the lead, as I decline to separate from Marmaduke or to go anywhere but in the middle. Not for worlds would I head the procession and be the first to come up with what may be store for us. With an equal horror I shrink from being last—fearful of being grabbed by something uncanny in the background.

The whole scene is evidently an intense amusement to the men, and even Harriet, to my disgust, finds some element of the burlesque about it. The lamps upon the staircase and along the corridors throw shadows everywhere, and are not reassuring. Once Mr. Thornton, stalking on in front, gives way to a dismal howl, and, stopping short, throws himself into an attitude of abject fear that causes me to nearly weep: so I entreat him, in touching accents, not to do it again without reason.

Another time, either Harriet or Bebe—who are walking close behind me (having ordered Lord Chandos to the extreme rear, as a further precaution)—lays her hand lightly on my shoulder, whereupon I shriek aloud and precipitate myself into Marmaduke's arms.

At length we reach the dreaded spot, and Thornton, after a few whispered words with Sir James, flings up the window, and, with what appears to me reckless courage, steps out upon the darksome balcony alone.

He is a long time absent. To me it seems ages. We three women stand waiting in breathless suspense. Bebe titters nervously.

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

We strain our eyes into the night, and even as we do so, something supernaturally tall—black, gaunt, with a white plume waving from its haughty head—advances slowly towards us, from out the gloom. I feel paralyzed with fright, although instinct tells me it is not the thing.

"Who are ye, that come to disturb my nightly revel?" says the plumed figure; and then we all know we are gazing at Mr. Thornton, lengthened by a sweeping-brush covered with a black garment, which he holds high above his head.

"Thornton, I protest you are incorrigible," exclaims Marmaduke, when at length he can command his voice; "and I thought better of you, James, than to aid and abet him."

I am on the very verge of hysterics; a pinch, administered by Bebe, alone restrains me: as it is, the tears of alarm are mingling with the laughter I cannot suppress.

"My new black Cashmere wrap, I protest!" cries Harriot, pouncing upon Chips and his sweeping-brush. "Well, Really, Chippendale—- And the feather out of my best bonnet. Oh, this comes of having one's room off a balcony. Why, you wicked boy, you have been upsetting all my goods and chattels. Who gave you permission, sir, to enter my bedroom?"

"Sir James," replies Chips, demurely, who has emerged, from his disguise, and is vainly trying to reduce his dishevelled locks to order. "It was so convenient."

"Oh, James!" says his wife, with a lively reproach, "have I lived to see you perpetrate a joke?"

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

"You must really ask Miss Beatoun," says Chips. "I have done my duty valiantly; no one can say I funked it. I have done my very best to produce a respectable bona fide bogy; and if I have failed, I am not to be blamed. Now I insist on Miss Beatoun's producing hers. We cannot possibly go back to the domestics (who, I feel positive, are cowering upon the lowest stair) empty-handed. Miss Beatoun, you have brought us all here at the peril of our lives. Now where is he?"

"It was not a man," says Bebe.

"Then where is she?"

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

"Ye powers!" cries Chips. "Then what was it? a mermaid? an undiscovered gender? The plot thickens. I shan't be able to sleep a wink to-night unless you be more explicit."

"Then you may stay wide awake," retorts Miss Beatoun, "as I remember nothing but those horrid eyes. You have chosen to turn it all into ridicule; and who ever heard of a ghost appearing amidst shouts of laughter? How dreadfully cold it is! Do shut that window and let us go back to the drawing-room fire."

"I hope your next venture will be more successful," says Chips, meekly. And then we all troop down again to the cozy room we have quitted, by no means wiser than when we started.

Somehow I think no more about it, and, except that I keep Martha busied in my room until I hear Marmaduke's step, next door, I show no further cowardice. The general air of disbelief around me quenches my fears, and the bidding farewell to the guests I have got to like so well occupies me to the exclusion of all other matters.

Then follows Dora's wedding, a very quiet but very charming little affair, remarkable for nothing beyond the fact that during the inevitable breakfast speeches my father actually contrives to squeeze out two small tears.

The happy pair start for the Continent—the bride all smiles and brown velvet and lace, the bridegroom, perhaps; a trifle pale—and we at home fall once more into our usual ways, and try to forget that Dora Vernon was ever anything but Lady Ashurst.

Marmaduke and I, having decided on accepting no invitations until after Christmas, being filled with a desire to spend this season (which will be our first together) in our own home, settle down for a short time into a lazy Darby-and-Joan existence.

----

It is the second of December; the little ormolu toy up on the mantle-piece has chimed out a quarter to five; it is almost quite dark, yet there is still a glimmer of daylight that might, perhaps, be even more pronounced but for the blazing fire within that puts it to shame.

"What a cosy little room it is!" says 'Duke from the doorway. "You make one hate the outer world."

"Oh, you have come," I cry well pleased, "and in time for tea. That is right. Have you taken off your shooting-things? I cannot see anything distinctly where you now are."

"I am quite clean, if you mean that," says he, laughing and advancing. "I shall do no injury to your sanctum. But it is too early to go through the regular business of dressing yet."

"Had you a good day?"

"Very good indeed, and a pleasant one altogether. Jenkins was with me, and would have come in to pay you his respects, but thought he was hardly fit for so dainty a lady's inspection. Have you been lonely, darling? How have you occupied yourself all day?"

"Very happily," I say, surrendering one of my warm hands into his cold ones. And then I proceed to recount all the weighty affairs of business with which I have been employed during his absence.

But even as I speak the words freeze upon my lips. Between me and the dreary landscape outside rises something that chills every thought of my heart.

It is a head, closely covered with some dark clothing—the faintest outlines of a face—a pair of eyes that gleam like living coals. As I gaze horror-stricken, it disappears, so suddenly, so utterly, as to almost make me think it was a mere trick of the imagination. Almost, but not quite the eyes still burn and gleam before me, but to my memory comes Bebe's marvellous tale.

"'Duke, 'Duke," I cry rising, "what is it? What have I seen? Oh! I am horribly frightened!" I cling to him, and point eagerly towards the window.

"Frightened at what?" asks 'Duke, startled by my manner, and gazing ignorantly in the direction I have indicated.

"A face," I say nervously. "It was there only a moment ago. I saw it quite distinctly, and eyes so piercing. Marmaduke," shrinking closer to him, "do you remember Bebe's story?"

"My darling girl, how can you be so absurd," exclaims 'Duke, kindly, "letting that stupid tale upset you so? You only imagined a face, my dearest. You have been too much alone all day. There can be nothing."

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

"Nonsense, Phyllis! Come with me to the window and look out. If there really was any one, she must be in view still."

He leads me to the window rather against my will, and makes me look out. I do so to please him, standing safely ensconced behind his arm.

"The lawn is bare," he says convincingly; "there is no cover until one reaches the shrubberies beyond; and no one could have reached them since, I think. Now come with me to the other window."

I follow him submissively with the same result; and finally we finish our researches in the bow-window, at the farthest end of the room.

The prospect without is dreary in the extreme. A storm is steadily rising, and the wind is soughing mournfully through the trees. Great sullen drops of rain fall with vindictive force against the panes.

—-"Now, confess, you are the most foolish child in the world," says 'Duke, cheerfully, seeing I am still depressed. "Who would willingly be out such an evening as this! Not even a dog, if he could help it; and certainly a spectre would have far too much sense."

"If it was fancy, it was very vivid," I say, reluctantly, "and, besides, I am not fanciful at all. I was a little unlucky, I think; it reminded me of—of—-"

"A Banshee?" asks 'Duke, laughing.

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

"Oh, Marmaduke, I hope no bad fortune is in store for us. I feel a strange foreboding at my heart."

"You feel a good deal of folly," says my husband. "Phyllis, I am ashamed of you. The idea of being superstitious in the nineteenth century! I shall give you a good scolding for this, and at the same time some brandy-and-water. Your nerves are unstrung, my dearest; that is all. Come, sit down here, and try to be sensible, while I ring the bell."

As he speaks he rings it.

"Tynon, have the grounds searched again directly. It is very annoying that tramps should be allowed the run of the place. A stop must be put to it. Half a glass of brandy and a bottle of soda."

"Yes, sir."

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

"How do you know?"

"Because I tested yours the other evening, and thought it a horrible concoction. I was tired of hearing men praise it as a drink, so thought I would try if it was really as good as they said. But it was not: it was extremely disagreeable."

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

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

"But indeed, Phyllis, I must insist on your taking it. If we are going to be so ultra-fashionable as to encourage a real ghost on the premises, we must only increase our allowance of spirits, and fortify ourselves to meet it. By the by, have you decided on the sex? Bebe was rather hazy on that point."

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

Then I drink what he has prepared for me, and, in spite of my dislike to it, feel presently somewhat happier in my mind.

----

The world is only three days older, when, as I sit alone in my own room reading, Tynon opens the door, and addresses me in the semi-mysterious manner he affects.

"There's a woman downstairs, ma'am, as particularly wants to speak with you."

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

"Well, ma'am, a handsome woman as far as I can judge. A furriner, I would say. A woman of a fine presence—as might be a lady; but I ain't quite certain on that point."

"Oh, Tynon, show her up," I say, hastily, feeling dismayed, as I picture to myself a lady left standing in the hall while Tynon makes up his mind as to what her proper position in society may be.

He obeys my behest with alacrity, and in a very few moments "the woman" and I are face to face; nay, as she comes slowly forward, and throws back her veil, and fixes upon me her wonderful eyes, I know, with a sinking of the heart, that I am face to face with Bebe's ghost.

I am startled and impressed—uncomfortably impressed—as I gaze on the remains of what must once have been an extraordinary beauty. I have risen on her entrance, and we now stand—my strange visitor and I—staring at each other in silence, with only the little work-table between us.

She is dressed in deepest black of a good texture; I am in rich brown velvet. She is tall and full—truly, as Tynon had described her, "a woman of a fine presence;" I am small and very slight. Her eyes are large, and dark, and burning—such eyes as belong to the South alone; mine, large too, are gray-blue, and soft and calm.

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

"Is there anything I can do? I believe you wished to speak to me!" I venture, weakly, and with hesitation.

"I do," says my strange visitor, never removing her piercing gaze from my face. "I also wished to see you close. So you are his wife, are you? A child, a mere doll!"

I am so taken aback I can find no reply to make to this speech: every moment renders me more amazed, more thoroughly frightened.

"You are Mrs. Carrington of Strangemore," she goes on, in the purest English, but with an unmistakably foreign accent. "Well, Mrs. Carrington, I have come here to-day to tell you something I fear will be unpalatable to your dainty ears."

At this instant it occurs to me that I have admitted to my presence, and am shut up with, an escaped lunatic. At this thought my blood curdles in my veins; I move a step backwards, and cast a lingering, longing glance at the bell handle. Watching my every gesture, she immediately divines my intention.

"If you will take my advice," she says, "you will not touch that bell. What I have to say might furnish too much gossip for your servant's hall. No, I am not mad. Pouf! what a fool it is, trembling in every limb! Pray restrain yourself Mrs. Carrington: you will require all your courage to sustain you by and by."

She is speaking very insolently, and there is a fiendish triumph in her black eyes; I can hear a subtle mockery in her tone as she utters my married name.

"If you will be so kind as to state your business without any further delay," I remark, with as much hauteur as I can summon to my aid, "I shall feel obliged."

"Good," says she, with a vicious smile: "you recover. The white mouse has found its squeak. Listen, then." She seats herself before the small table that divides us, leans her elbows upon it, and takes her face between her hands. Her eyes are still riveted upon mine; not for a second does she relax the vigilance of her gaze. "Who do you think I am?" she asks, slowly.

"I have not the faintest idea," I reply, still haughty, though thoroughly upset, and nervous.

"I—am—Marmaduke—Carrington's—lawful—wife," she says, biting out the words with cruel emphasis, and nodding her head at me between each pause.

I neither stagger nor faint, nor cry out: I simply don't believe her. She is mad, then, after all. Oh, if Tynon, or Harris, or any one, would only come! I calculate my chance of being able to rush past her and gain the door in safety, but am disheartened by her watchfulness. I remember, too, how fatal a thing it is to show symptoms of terror before a maniac, and with an effort collect myself.

"If you have nothing better to say than such idiotic nonsense," I return, calmly, "I think this interview may as well come to an end." As I utter this speech in fear and trembling, I once more go slowly in the direction of the bell.

"Oh! must you then see my marriage-lines?" says the woman with a sneer, drawing from her bosom a folded paper. "Is there too much of the stage about my little declaration? Come, then, behold them; but at a distance, carita, at a distance."

She spreads open the paper upon the table before me. Impelled by some hideous curiosity, I draw near. With one brown but shapely finger, she traces the characters, and I read—I read with dull eyes, the terrible words that seal my fate. No thought of a forgery comes to sooth me; I know in that one long awful moment that my eyes have seen the truth.

Mechanically I put out my hand to seize the paper, but she pushed me roughly back.

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

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

Where now is all my nervousness, my childish terror? My blood flames into life. For the time I am actually mad with passion, as mad as I imagined her a little while ago. A cruel, uncontrollable longing to kill her—to silence forever the bitter, mocking tones, to shut the vindictive eyes that seem to draw great drops of blood from my heart—takes possession of me. I catch hold of a heavy ruler that lies on a Davenport near, and make a spring towards her.

But I am as an infant in the hands of my opponent; I feel myself flung violently to one side against a wall, while the ruler falls crashing into an opposite corner.

"Bah!" she cries through her teeth. "Can English blood get warm? I did not believe it until now. So you love the handsome husband, do you? That, after all, is not a husband, see you, but a lover. This is my house, Mees! I This is my room! Leave it, I command you!"

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

"I do not believe one word of all your vile story," I declare, doggedly, knowing I am lying as I speak; "it flavors too much of the melodrama to be real. You are an impostor; but you calculate foolishly when you think to gain money from me by your false tale. You have been seen more than once about these grounds before now.—-"

"Ay"—interrupting me with a rapid shrug of her finely formed shoulders—"I pined, I hungered for a sight of your English baby face.—I the mistress of it all—skulked about these walls, and was hunted through your shrubberies like a common thief. Twice was I near detection; twice through my native cunning I evaded your stupid bulldogs of men. And each time I hugged myself to think I had the revenge here" laying both hands lightly on her bosom where the fatal paper once more lies.

"I do not believe you," I reiterate, stupidly: "it is nothing but a wicked invention of your own. I am silly to feel even annoyance. My husband will soon be in then we shall hoar the truth."

"We shall—the whole truth. His face will betray it. Then you shall hear of the happy evenings spent in Florence, beneath the eternal blue of the sky, when Carlotta Veschi lay with her dark head reclined upon her English lover's breast; when words of love fell hotly upon the twilight air; when vows were interchanged; when his lips were pressed, warmly, tenderly, to—mine."

"Be silent, woman!" I cry, passionately, breathing hard and painfully. Oh, the anguish! the torture! I raise my head a little higher, but my hand goes out and grasps unconsciously a friendly chair, to steady my failing limbs.

"Does it distress you, Anima, all these loving details? From his lips they will possibly fall more sweetly. I am but an interloper—only the despised worm that crawls into the rose's heart. Mine is the hand (unhappy one that I am) to lay waste the nest of the doves."

"Here he is!" I cry joyfully, as I hear my husband's footsteps pass the window. The very crunching of the gravel beneath his heel rouses me. Hope once again springs warm within my breast. It is not, it cannot be true. He will send this horrible woman away, and reduce all my ridiculous fears to ashes.

I run to him with unusual eagerness as he enters, and, smiling, he holds out his arms. But even before I can throw myself into them, what is it that comes across his face? What is this awful whiteness, this deadly look of terror? Why does he stagger back against the wall? Why do his hands fall lifeless to his sides? Why do his eyes grow large with unearthly horror?

The woman stands where last she stood. She has not moved on his entrance, or made the faintest advance. Though slightly paler, the evil mockery still lingers is her eyes.

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

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

No reply. Both his shaking hands go up to hide his face. I run to him, and fling my arms around his neck.

"Marmaduke, speak!" I cry. "Tell her she lies. 'Duke, 'Duke, raise your head and send her from this place. Why are you silent? Why will you not look at me? It is only I—your own Phyllis. Oh, Marmaduke, I am horribly frightened. Why don't you tell her to begone?"

"Because he dare not," says my visitor, slowly. "Well, Marmaduke, have you no welcome for your wife?"

He puts me roughly from him, and, going over to her, seizes her by the wrists and drags her into the full light of the window.

"You fiend!" he hisses, beneath his breath. "It was all false, then, the news of your death? You are alive? You are still left to contaminate the earth? Who wrote the tidings that set me, as I believed, free?"

"I did," replies the woman, quietly. "I was tired of you. Your milk-and-watery affection, even at the very first, sickened me. I wished to see you no more. I had begun to hate you, and so took that means of ridding myself of you forever. But when I heard of the rich uncle's death—of the money, the grandeur, all that had come to you—I regretted my folly, and started to claim my rights. I am here: repudiate me if you can."

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

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

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

I go nearer, and attempt to take his hand.

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

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

I feel turned to stone—not faint or sick; only numbed, and unable to reason. The Italian bursts into a ringing laugh.

"What a situation!" cries she. "What a scene! It is a tragedy, and the peasant is the heroine. I—Carlotta—am the wife, while the white, delicate, proud miladi is only the mist—-"

Before the vile word can leave her lips, Marmaduke's hand is on her throat. His face is distorted with passion and madness: there is upon it a settled expression of determination that terrifies me more than all that has gone before. His thin nostrils are dilated with rage. His very lips are gray. Already the woman's features are growing discolored.

"Marmaduke!" I shriek, tearing at the hand that pinions her to the shutter, "Marmaduke, for my sake—remember—have pity. Oh, what is it you would do?"

By a superhuman effort my weak fingers succeed in dragging his hand away, He shivers, and falls back a step or two, while the Italian slowly recovers.

"Would you murder me?" she gasps. "Ah! wretch—dog—`beast! But I have a revenge!"

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

I turn to my—to Marmaduke.

"It is true?" I ask.

"It is true," he replies, and as he speaks I can scarcely believe the man who stands before me, crushed and aged and heart-broken, is the same gay, handsome young man who entered the room all smiles a few minutes ago.

"If she is your wife, what am I?" I ask, with unnatural calmness.

"Phyllis! Phyllis! my life! forgive me!" he cries, in an anguished tone; and then the room grows suddenly dark; I fall heavily forward into the blackness, and all is forgotten.

----

When I recover consciousness, I find myself in my own room, lying upon my bed. The blinds are all drawn down, to cause a soothing darkness. There is a general feel of dampness about my hair and forehead; somebody is bending anxiously over me. Raising my eyes in languid scrutiny, I discover it is my mother.

"Is that you, mamma?"

"Yes, my darling."

"I did not know you were coming to-day. How is it you are here just now? and why am I lying on my bed?"

I uplift myself upon my elbow, and peer at her curiously. Her eyelids are crimson; her voice is full of the thick and husky sound that comes of much weeping.

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

"You were not well, dearest. A mere faint—nothing more: but we thought you would feel better if kept quiet quiet. I was driving over to see you to day, and very fortunately arrived just as I was wanted. Lie down again and try to sleep."

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

"Oh, no, darling," in trembling tones; "you only imagine it. Perhaps it is the uncertain light."

"Nonsense," I insist angrily; "you know you have. I can see it in your eye, I can hear it in your voice. Why do you try to deceive me! Something has happened—I feel—it and you are keeping it from me. Let me think—-"

With a nervous gesture mother raises a cup from a table near, and puts it to my lips.

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

"No, I shall think first. There is something weighing on my brain, and—on my heart. Why don't you help me to remember?"

I put my hands to my head in deep perplexity. Slowly, slowly the truth comes back to me; slowly all the past horrible scene revives itself.

"Ah!" I gasp, affrightedly. "I remember! I know it all now. I can see her again! She said—But," seizing mother's wrists fiercely, "It is not true, mother? Oh mother! say it is not true! Oh! mother! mother!"

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

"Deny it!" I cry, passionately flinging my arms around her waist, and throwing back my head that I may watch her face. Poor face! so filled with the bitterest of all griefs, the want of power to solace those we love. "Why do you cry? Why don't you say at once it was a lie? You are as bad as Marmaduke; he stood there too, deaf as a stick or a stone to my entreaties. Oh, will no one help me? Oh, it is true then!—it is true!"

I push her from me, and, burying my head on my arms rock myself to and fro, in a silent agony of despair. Not a sound breaks the stillness, but mother's low suppressed sobbing; it maddens me.

"What are you crying for?" I ask, roughly, raising my tearless face; "my eyes are dry. It is my sorrow, not yours not any one's. What do you mean by making moan?"

She makes no answer, and my head drops once more upon my arms. I continue my ceaseless, miserable rocking. Again there is silence.

A door bangs somewhere in the distance.

"I will not see him!" I cry, starting up wildly "Nothing on earth shall induce me. I cannot, mother. Tell him he must not come in here."

"Darling, he is not coming. But even if he were, Phyllis, surely you would be kind to him. If you could only see his despair! He was quite innocent of it. Phyllis, I implore you, do not foster bitter thoughts in your heart towards Marmaduke."

"It is not that. You mistake me. Only—it is all so horrible—I fear to see him. Yesterday he was my husband—no, no—I mean I thought he was my husband; to-day what is he?"

"Oh, darling! try to be calm."

"I am calm. See, my hand does not even tremble," holding it up before her. "Oh, what have I done, that this should happen to me? What odious crime have I committed, that I should be so punished? Only six months married—married, did I say—I must learn to forget that word!"

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

"Shall I ever sleep again, I wonder, with that scene before me always? It has withered me. Her eyes how they burned into mine! Her very touch had venom in it! And yet why should I be so hard on her, poor creature? Was she not in the right? He is her husband, not mine. She has the prior claim. She is the deserted wife, while I am only—-

"Phyllis! Phyllis!"

"And all my life before me!" I cry, with passionate self-pity, clasping my hands. "How shall I bear it? What are those words, mother? Do you recollect? Something beginning,—-

'So young, so young, I am not used to tears to-night, Instead of slumber; nor to prayer With sobbing breath, and hands out-wrung.'"

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

"Poor mother! do I make you sad? Do your tears relieve you? I suppose so, as I have none. I think my sorrow is too great for that. It was like a dream, the whole thing. I could not realize it then. It is only now I, fully understand how alone I am in the world."

"My own girl, you still have me."

"And so I have, dear, dearest mother; but I will live alone, for all that. Disgrace has fallen upon me, but I will not ask others to bear my burden. Was it not well Dora's marriage took place last month? My position cannot affect hers now."

"Oh Phyllis! do not talk of disgrace. What disgrace can attach to you, my poor innocent child?"

"I cannot lie here any longer," I say, abruptly, getting off the bed; "I shall go mad, if I stay still and think. And my hair,"—fretfully—"it has all come down; it must be settled again. Oh, no; I cannot have Martha; she would look doleful and sympathetic, as if she knew everything, and I should feel inclined to kill her."

"Let me do it, darling. Your arms are tired," says mother, meekly, and proceeds to shake out and comb with softest touch the heavy masses of hair that only yesterday I gloried in. Even this morning, when it lay all about my shoulders, how happy I was!

"Do you know, mother," I say, drearily, "it seems to me now as though between me and this morning a whole century had rolled?"

"Phyllis," says mamma, earnestly, "I don't like your manner. I don't like the way you are taking all this. A little while ago your grief was vehement, but natural; now there is an indifference about you that frightens me. You will be ill, darling, if you don't give way a little."

"Ill? with a chance of dying you mean? Why, that would be famous! But don't fear, mother: no such good fortune is in store for me. I shall probably outlive every one of you." I laugh a little. "How nicely you use the brush! you do not drag a single hair. And it is nearly seven months now since last you brushed my hair; and I was then almost a child, was not I? And we have never thought, you and I, such bad luck was in store for the poor little scapegrace of the family. Yes, roll it back like that. Oh! did you ever see so miserable a face? I hate it," making a faint, grimace at my own image in the glass. "How white it is!"

"Too white!"

"Yes, but not so white as hers; and her eyes, so large and black. I have read that Italian women are revengeful. I think if she had had a knife then she would have killed me."

"Phyllis, you are overwrought. Darling, do let me put you into bed again, and try to swallow some of this composing draught. Or see, this comfortable couch—will you lie here?" coaxingly.

"Do you think she will come back again, mother? that would be worse than anything. She muttered some bad words, or some threat, as she was leaving the room: and yet do you know it was my hand kept Marmaduke from murdering her? Murder; has not that an ugly sound? Poor 'Duke! he was half mad, I think."

"Of course he was. Do not let your mind dwell on it. Look what large soft cushions; only put your head on them, and you will sleep. And I will tuck you up, and sing to you, and imagine you my own little baby Phyllis again."

"But what an old, old baby! I feel as old as yourself to-day. This morning I remember I laughed for nearly five minutes without stopping over some absurd story of Martha's. I fear I offended her at last; but I am punished now; much laughing, you know, goes before crying. Shall I cry much, later on I wonder?"

"No, no, my love, I hope not. Come; if you will lie down here, and drink this, I will lie with you, and then you will not be lonely."

"No, I want to walk. I feel so restless. Where is my hat, mother? Can you see it? Ah! you are not much better than Martha after all; she never knows where anything is. How light my head feels! Do not pity me, mother? is it not hard to bear? Ah—-" I fling my arms above my head, and fall senseless at her feet.

----

It is evening of the same day—a dark sullen December evening, dark as the thoughts that throng my breast. I feel unsympathetic, cold, almost dead. Much as I have tried during the past few hours, I cannot quite reconcile myself to the idea that it is I—I myself—who am principally concerned in all this horror that has taken place.

I argue in my own mind. I represent the case a for a third person. I cannot realize that the one most to be pitied is I—Phyllis Phyllis what?

I have at length consented to see Marmaduke, and am lying upon a sofa in a hopelessly dishevelled state, as he enters. I have not shed a single tear; yet the black hollows beneath my eyes might have come from ceaseless weeping.

I half rise as he comes across the room, yet cannot raise my head to meet his gaze. I dread the havoc despair and self torture will have wrought in his face. He moves slowly, lingeringly, until he reaches the hearthrug, and there stands and regard me imploringly. This I feel and know, though through some other sense beside sight.

"Will you not even look at me?" he says, presently in a change, almost agonized, tone.

I force my eyes to meet his, but drop them again almost immediately.

"Is forgiveness quite out of the question?"

"No," I return; "of course I forgive you. It was not your fault. There is nothing to forgive. But in the first instance you deceive me; that I feel the hardest. Even to myself my voice sounds cold and strange.

"I acknowledge it. But how was I to tell this would be the end of it? It appeared impossible you should ever know the truth. It was only known to myself and one other.—-"

"And that was—-"

"Mark Gore. The woman, as I believed, was dead, and who could betray the secret? The whole miserable story was so hateful to me that to repeat it to you—whom I so devotedly loved—was more than I had courage for. How could I tell you such a sickening tale! How could I watch the changes—the dislike, it might be—that would cloud your face as I related it? By your own confession, I knew you bore me none of that love that would have helped me safely through even a worse revelation, and I dreaded lest the bare liking you entertained for me should have an end, and that you, a young girl, would shrink from a widower, and the hero of such a story."

"Still, it would have been better if you had spoken; I can forgive anything but deceit."

"Once or twice I tried to tell you the only secret I had from you, but you would not listen, or else at the moment spoke such words as made me doubt the expediency of ever mentioning the affair at all. But now that it is too late, I regret my duplicity, or cowardice, or whatever it was that swayed me."

"Too late, indeed!" I repeat almost mechanically.

After a minute or two, he says, in a low voice:—-

"Have you no interest, no curiosity, that you do not ask? Will you let me tell you now all the real circumstances of the case?"

"What need?" I answer wearily. "Of course it is the old story. I seem to have heard it a hundred times. You were a boy, she was a designing woman; she entrapped you: it is the whole thing."

"I was no boy; I was an over-honorable man. She was an Italian woman, with some little learning, of rather respectable parentage, and who (a wonderful thing among her class) could speak a good deal of English. She was handsome, and for the time I fancied I loved her. No thought of evil towards her entered my heart; I asked her to marry me and the ceremony was performed, privately but surely, in the little chapel near her home, her brother being the principal witness. Hardly a month had passed before I fully understood the horrible mistake I had made—before I learned how detestable was the woman with whom I had linked my fate. Her coarse, harsh manner, her vile, insolent tongue, her habits of drunkenness, nay, more, her evident preference for a low, illiterate cousin, were all too apparent. I left her, she declaring herself as glad to see the last of me as I was to be rid of her. Does the whole thing disgust you, Phyllis?"

He pauses, and draws his hand wearily across his forehead.

I shake my head, but make no further reply; and presently he goes on again in a low tone:

"I was, comparatively speaking, poor then; yet, out of the allowance my uncle had made me, I sent her regularly as much, indeed, more, than I could afford; but dread of discovery forced me to be generous. Then one day came the tidings of her death. Even now, Phyllis—now, when I am utterly crushed and heart-broken—I can feel again the wild passion of delight that overcame me as I pictured myself once more free. Again I mixed with the world I had for some time avoided, and was received with open arms, my uncle's death having made me a rich man; and then—then I met you. Oh, Phyllis, surely my story in a sad one, and deserving of some pity."

"It is sad," I say, monotonously, "but not so sad as mine."

Coming over, he kneels down beside my sofa, and gently, almost fearfully, he takes one of my hands in both his.

"Oh not so sad as yours, my poor love, my own darling," he murmurs painfully, "but still unhappy enough. To think that I, who would willingly have shielded you with my life, should be the one to bring misery upon you I."

He hides his face upon the far edge of the cushion on which my aching head is reclining. I can no longer see him, but can feel his whole frame trembling with suppressed emotion. With some far-off, indistinct sensation of pity, I press the hand that still holds mine.

Presently I rouse myself, and, rising to a sitting posture, I fix my dull eyes upon the opposite wall, and speak.

"I suppose it is to my old home I must go."

As though the words stung him, Marmaduke gets up impetuously, and walks back to his former position upon the hearthrug. I noticed that his face has grown, if possible, a shade paler than before. A sudden look of fear has over-read it.

"Yes, yes; of course you shall go home for a little time if you wish it," he says, nervously.

"Not for a little time; forever," I return. A horrible pain is tugging at my heart.

"Phyllis," cries he almost fiercely, "what are you saying? You cannot mean it. Forever? Do you know what that means? If you can live without me, I tell you plainly I would rather ten thousand times be dead than exist without you. Are you utterly heartless, that you can torture me like this? Never to see you again; is that what you would say?" Coming nearer, so close that he touches me, while his eyes seek and read with desperate eagerness my face, "Speak, speak, and tell me you were only trying to frighten me."

"I cannot. I meant just what I said," I gasp, consumed by a sudden dread of I scarcely know what. "Why do you disbelieve? What other course is open to me?"

"Listen,"—trying to speak calmly, and seizing hold of my hands again; "why should you make this wretched story public? As yet, no one is the wiser; you and I alone hold the secret. This woman, this fend, will go anywhere will do anything, for sufficient money, and I can make it worth her while to be forever silent. When she returns to Italy, who then will know the truth?"

"The truth—ah! yes—-"

"Are you not my wife? Has not my love bound you to me by stronger ties than any church laws? Why should this former detested bond ruin both our lives?"

"A little while ago you spoke of yourself as an 'over-honorable' man. Is what you now propose honorable or right? Marmaduke, it is impossible. As our lives have shaped themselves, so must they be. I cannot live with you."

"Think of what the world will say. Phyllis, can you bear their cruel speeches? It is not altogether for my own sake I plead, though the very thought of losing you is more than I can bear. It is for you, yourself, I entreat. Remember what your position will be. Have pity upon yourself."

"No, no! I will not listen to you. I will not, Marmaduke."

He flings himself on his knees before me.

"Darling, darling, do not forsake me," he whispers despairingly.

"Let me go," I cry wildly. "Is this your love for me? Oh, the selfishness of it. Would you have me live with you as—-"

"Be silent!" exclaims he, in a terrible voice. A spasm of pain contracts his face. Slowly he regains his feet.

"You madden me," he goes on, in an altered tone. "I forget that you, who have never loved, cannot feel as I do. Phyllis, tell me the truth; have you no affection for me. Are you quite cold?"

"I am not!" I cry, suddenly waking from my unnatural apathy, and bursting into bitter tears, the first I have shed to-day. As the whole horrible truth comes home to me, I rise impulsively and fling myself into my husband's arms—for my husband he has been for six long months. "I do love you, 'Duke—'Duke; but, oh! what can I do? What words can I use to tell you all I feel? I am young, and silly, and ridiculous in many ways, I know; but yet there is something within me I dare not disobey—something that makes me know the life you propose would be a life of sin, one on which no blessing could fall. Help me, therefore, to do the right, and do not make my despair greater than it is."

He is silent, as he holds me clasped passionately to his breast.

"We must part," I go on, more steadily. "I must leave you: but, oh, Duke, do not send me home. I could not go there."

I shudder violently in his embrace at the bare thought of such a home-coming. How could I summon courage to meet all the whispers, the suppressed looks, the very kindnesses, that day by day I should see?

"And here I could not stay, either," I sob, mournfully: "memory would kill me. 'Duke, where shall I go? Send me, you—somewhere."

I wait for his answer with my head pillowed on his chest. I wait a long time. Whatever struggle is going on within him takes place silently. He makes no sign of agony; he does not move; his very heart, on which I lean, has almost ceased to beat. At length he speaks, and as the words cross his lips I know that he has conquered, but at the expense of youth and joy and hope.

"There is Hazelton," he says; "it is a pretty place. It was my mother's. Will you go there? And—-"

"Yes, I will go there," I answer, brokenly.

"What servants will you take with you?" he asks me, presently, in a dull, subdued way; all impatience and passion have died within him.

"I will take none," I reply, "not one from this place. You must go to Hazelton and get me a few from the neighborhood round it—just three or four, who will know nothing of me, and seek to know nothing."

"Oh, my darling, at least take your own maid with you, who has known you all your life. And Tynon, he is an old and valued servant; he will watch over you, and take care of you."

"I will not be watched," I say, pettishly; "and I detest being taken care of. I am not ill. Even when a heart is sick unto death, there is no cure for it. And I would not have Tynon on any account. Every time I met his eyes I would know what he was thinking about. I would read pity in every glance and gesture, and I will not be made more wretched than I am by sympathy."

"Then take Martha. You know how attached to you she is.—-"

"No; I will have no one to remind me of the old life. Do not urge me, 'Duke. Give me my own way in this. Believe me, if you do, I shall have a far better chance of—peace."

"I wish, for your sake, I was dead," says 'Duke, hoarsely.

At this I begin to cry again, weakly. I am almost worn out.

"You will at least write to me, now and then, Phyllis?"

"It will be better not."

"Why? I have sworn not to see you again, but I must and will have some means of knowing whether you are dead or alive. Promise me that twice a year, once in every six months, you will let me have a letter. It is only a little thing to ask, out of all the happy past."

"I promise. But you—will you stay here?"

"Here?" he echoes, bitterly. "What do you take me for? In this house, where every room and book and flower would remind me of your sweet presence? No, we will leave it together: I shall look my last on it with you I will not stay to see it desolate and gray and cold without its mistress. You must let me be your escort to your new home, that people may have less to wonder at."

"And where will you go?"

"Abroad—India, Australia, America—anywhere: what does it matter? If I travelled to the ends of the earth, I could not fly my thoughts."

"And"—timidly—"what of her?"

"Nothing," he answers, roughly: "I will not talk of her again to you."

There is a low, apologetic knock at the door. Instantly I seat myself on the sofa in as dignified an attitude as I can assume, considering my hair is all awry and my eyelids crimson. 'Duke lowers the lamp prudently, and falls back to the hearthrug, standing with his hands clasped carelessly behind him, before he says, in a clear, distinct tone:—-

"Come in."

"Dinner is served," announces Tynon, softly, with the vaguest, discreetest of coughs. How is it that servants always know everything?

"Very good," returns Marmaduke, in his ordinary voice. "Let Mrs. Vernon know." Then, as though acting on a second thought:—-

"Tynon."

"Yes, sir."

"It may be as well to let you know now that Mrs. Carrington and I are leaving home next week for some time.

"Indeed, sir? yes, sir." Tynon's face is perfectly impassive, except at the extreme corners of the mouth: these being slightly down-drawn indicate regret and some distress.

"We both feel much disappointed at being obliged to leave home at this particular time the Christmas season being so close at hand; but the business that takes us is important, and will admit of no delay. I shall leave behind me the usual sum of money for the poor, with an additional gift from Mrs. Carrington, which I will trust you and Mrs. Benson" (the housekeeper) "to see properly distributed."

"Thank you, sir: it shall be carefully attended to."

"I am quite sure of that," kindly. Then, with a return to the rather forced and stilted manner that has distinguished his foregoing speech, he goes on: "It is altogether uncertain when we shall be able to come back to Strangemore, as the business of which I speak will necessitate my going abroad; and as Mrs. Carrington's health will not allow her to accompany me, and as she has been ordered change of air, she will go to Hazelton, which she has not seen, and await my return there. You quite understand, Tynon?"

"Perfectly, sir," replies the old butler, with his eyes on the ground. And as I watch him, I know how perfectly indeed he understands, not only what is being said, but also what is not being said.

'Duke weary of lying, draws his hand across his forehead. "You will please let the other servants know of our movements. Although my absence may be more prolonged than I think, I shall wish them all to remain as they now are so that the house may be in readiness to receive us at any moment. But," turning his gaze for the first time fully upon Tynon and speaking very sternly, "I will have no whispering or gossiping about things that don't concern them: mind that. I leave you in charge, Tynon, and I desire that all such conduct be punished with instant dismissal. You hear?"

"Yes, sir; you may be sure there shall be no gossiping or whispering going on in this house."

"I hope not." Then, having noticed the quavering voice and depressed air of this old servitor, who has known him from his youth up, he adds more gently, "you may go now. I know I can trust you. I do not think I have any more directions to give you at present."

Tynon bows in a shaky, dispirited way, and leaves the room. Outside in the dusk of the corridor, I can see him put his hand to his eyes. But he is staunch, and even now compels himself to turn and say, with deference and with a praiseworthy show of ignorance of what the preceding conversation may mean:—-

"I hope you will excuse my mentioning it, sir, but if there is one thing beyond another that raises Mrs. Cook's irritableness, and makes her perverse towards the rest of the household, it is to hear the soup was allowed to grow cold."

"All right, Tynon: Mrs. Harrison's nerves shall not be upset this evening. We will go down now," says 'Duke, with a smile—a very impoverished specimen of its kind, I must own, but still a smile.

I rush into the next room—my dressing-room is off my boudoir—and having bathed my poor eyes and hastily brushed my hair and given myself a general air of prosperity make for the dining-room. On the stairs we encounter mother, looking so pale and wan, and almost terrified, that I take my hand off Marmaduke's arm and slip it round her waist. It will never do for her to present such a woful countenance to the criticism of servants.

"Try to look a little more cheerful, darling," I whisper, eagerly; "it will not be for long: as it has to be gone through, let us be brave in the doing of it."

She looks at me with a relieved astonishment; and truly the strength of will that bears me through this interminable evening amazes no one so much as myself.

----

Hazelton down by the sea, I have gained your shelter at last. Only yesterday, Marmaduke and I finished our miserable journey here, and took a long, a last, farewell of each other.

How can I write of it, how describe the anguish of those few minutes, in which a whole year's keenest torture was compressed? How paint word by word the mad but hopeless clinging, the lingering touch of hands that never more should join, the despair, the passion, of the final embrace.

It is over, and he is gone, and I have fallen into a settled state of apathy, and indifference to what is going on around me, that surely bears some resemblance to a melancholy madness.

Hazelton is a very pretty, old-fashioned house, about half the size of Strangemore—with many straggling rooms well wainscoted almost three parts up each wall. Some of the floors are of gleaming polished oak, some richly, heavily carpeted. It is a picturesque old place, that at any other time, and under any other circumstances, would have filled me with admiration.

Afar off one can catch a glimpse of the sea. From the parlor windows it is plainly visible; in the other rooms a rising hill, and in summer the foliage, intercept the view, In reality, it is only a mile and a half distant from the house, so that at night when the wind is high, the sullen roar of it comes to the listening ear.

The few servants who have had the house in charge have been retained, and three more have been added. These have evidently made up their minds to receive me with open arms; but as a week passes, and I show no signs of interest in them, or their work, or the gardens, or anything connected with my life, they are clearly puzzled and disappointed. This I notice in a dull wondering fashion. Why can they not be as indifferent to me as I am to them?

All the visitors that should call do call; it is not a populous neighborhood, but as I decline, seeing them, and do not return their visits the would-be acquaintance drops. On Monday, the vicar, a slight, intellectual-looking man, rides up to the door, and, being refused admittance, leaves his card, and expresses his intention of coming again some day soon. Which message, being conveyed to me by the respectable person who reigns here as butler, raises my ire, and induces me to give an order on the spot that never, on any pretence whatever, is any one—vicar or no vicar—to be admitted to my presence.

Sunday comes, but I feel no inclination to clothe myself and go forth to confess my sins and pour out my griefs in the house of prayer. All days are alike to me, and I shrink with a morbid horror from presenting myself to the eyes of my fellows. In this quiet retreat I can bury myself, and nurse my wrongs, and brood over my troubles without interference from a cruel world.

I find some half-finished work among my things, and taking it to my favorite room, bend over it hour by hour more often it falls unheeded on my lap, while I let memory wander backward, and ask myself, sadly, if such a being ever really lived as wild, merry careless Phyllis Vernon.

The days go by, and I feel no wish for outdoor exercise, My color slowly fades.

One morning, the woman who has taken Martha's place, and who finds much apparent delight in the binding and twisting of my hair into impossible fashions, takes courage` to address me.

"The gardens here, ma'am, are so pretty, the prettiest for miles round."

"Are they? I must go and see them."

"'Deed, m'm, and it would do you good. A smart walk now once in a way is better'n medicine, so I'm told. And the grounds round here is rare and pretty to look at, though to be sure winter has a dispiritin' effect on everything."

"It is cold," I say, with a shiver.

"It is, m'm surely"—leaving the mighty edifice she is erecting on the top of my head to give the fire a vigorous poke—"but with your fur cloak and hat you won't feel it. Shall I bring them to you after breakfast, ma'am?"

"Very well; do," reply I, with a sigh of resignation.

Much pleased with her success, the damsel retreats, and punctually to the moment, as I rise from my breakfast-table, appears again, armed with cloak and gloves and hat. Thus constrained, I sally forth, and make a tour round the gardens that surround what must be for evermore my home.

And very delicious old gardens they are, as old-fashioned as the house, and quite as picturesque. There is a total want of method, of precision, in the arrangement of them, that instinctively charms the eyes. I wander from orchard into flower-garden, and from flower-garden on again to orchard, without a break of any sort—no gates divide them: it is all one pretty happy medley.

The walks, though scrupulously neat, are ungravelled, and here and there a dead leaf, crisp and dry, displays itself. The very trees, though bereft of leaves, do not appear so foolish, so melancholy, in this free land of theirs, as they always look elsewhere.

I feel some animation creeping in my blood; my step is more springy. At the garden gate the father of all this sweetness steps up to me. He is a rosy-checked, good-humored-looking man, a brilliant contrast to the unapproachable Cummins; he presents me with a small bouquet of winter flowers.

"I am proud to see you ma'am," he says, with a touch of interest in his tone. "I am sorry I have nothing better worth offering you than these 'ere." He tenders the bouquet as he speaks—a very marvel of a bouquet, considering the time of year.

"Thank you," I say, with a gracious smile, born of my brisk and pleasant promenade: "it is lovely. It is far prettier in my eyes than the summer one, because so unexpected."

"I pass on, leaving him, bowing and scraping and much gratified, in the middle of the path, with the unwonted smile still upon my lips."

But, as the evening draws on, this faintest, glimmer of renewed hope dies, and I sink back once more into my accustomed gloom.

----

"What will you please to order for dinner to-day, mum?" asks cook from the doorway. I have never yet given directions for that meal, much to that worthy creatures despair, whose heart and thoughts are in her stew-pans.

I glance up with languid surprise.

"Anything you please," I say; "you are always very satisfactory. I told you I would leave everything to you. Why do you ask me to-day in particular?"

"Law, mum, sure it's Christmas day, and I thought may be as 'ow—-"

"Christmas-day, is it," I exclaim, curiously. "Then I have been a whole fortnight in this place."

"Yes, mum. A whole fortnight and one day, by five o'clock this hevening, precisely. I took the liberty of asking you to order dinner for this one night, thinking as you might put a name to something or other dainty that you fancies."

"Indeed I have no choice, cook, and I am not at all hungry."

"Likely enough, mum, considering it is now only twelve o'clock; but for a lady like yourself, as eats no luncheon to speak of, you will for certain be starved by seven."

"I thought a Christmas dinner never varied, cook. You can have the usual thing, I suppose."

"In course, mum," says cook, undaunted. She is a fine, fat, healthy-looking woman, with a large eye, and a slightly wheezy intonation, as though she were constantly trying to swallow some of her own good things that had inadvertently stuck in her throat. It seems to me that I ought to love this comfortable creature, who is so obstinately bent on flattering me against my will. "But whatever folks may say, a plum pudding for a delicate lady like you is uncommon 'eavy on the 'art and mind when bed-hour comes. If you would just say anything that would please you—something light that I might try my hand on—an ice-pudding, now?"—this with as near an attempt at coaxing as respect will permit.

But the word "ice-pudding" calls up old memories: I remember my ancient weakness for that particular confection. My brows contract; a sharp pain fills my breast.

"No, no! anything but ice-pudding," I say, hastily: "I—hate it."

"Dear me, mum! now do you? Most of the quality loves it. Then what would you say? I'm a first-class hand in the pastry line—-"

"Make me—a meringue," I murmur, in despair, seeing I shall have to give in, or else go through a list from the cookery book, and fortunately remembering how I once heard a clever housekeeper say there were few sweets so difficult to bring to perfection. But the difficulty, if there is any, only enchants my goddess of the range.

"Very good, mum; you shall 'ave it," she says, rapturously; and retires with flying colors, having beaten me ignominiously.

A month—two months—go by, and still my self-imposed seclusion is unbroken.

Now and again I receive a letter from former friends, but these I discourage. From mother I hear regularly once a week, whether I answer her or not. Poor mother! She has begged and prayed for permission to visit me, to see how time is using me, whether I am well or ill; but all to no avail. I will not be dragged out of the gloomy solitude in which I have chosen to bury myself.

From Dora, on her return from Rome, comes such a kindly, tender letter as I had not believed it possible the chilly Dora could pen. It is wound up by a postscript from Sir George, as warm-hearted in tone as he is himself. It touches me, in a far-off, curious manner; but I shrink from the invitation to join them that it contains, and refuse it in such a way as must prevent a repetition of it.

Monotonous as is my existence, I hardly note how time flies. March winds rush by me, and I scarcely heed them. But for the hurtful racking cough they leave me as a legacy, ere taking their final departure, I would not have known they had been among us. This cough grows and increases steadily, rendering more pallid my already colorless cheeks, while the little flesh that still cleaves to my bones becomes less and less as the hours go on. It tears my slight frame with a cruel force, and leaves me sleepless when all the rest of the world is wrapped in slumber.

Oh, the weary days; the more than weary nights, when oblivion never comes to drown my thoughts, or, coming, only wraps me in dreams from which I wake, damply cold, or sobbing with a horror too deep for words!

There are times when I fight with Fate, with all that has brought me to this pass; when I cry aloud and wring my hands and call on death to rescue me, in the privacy of my own room, from the misery that weighs me down and keeps me languishing in the dust. But these times are rare, and come to me but seldom—at such weak moments as when a feeling of deadly sickness or overpowering regret gains mastery over me.

In very truth, my life is a sad one—a mistake—a blot, there is no proper place for me in the universe that seems so great. There is no happiness within me, no spring of hope. I appear to myself a thing apart—innocent, yet marked with a disgraceful brand. With an old writer—whom I now forget—I can truly say:—-

"For the world, I count it not an inn, but an hospital; and a place not to live, but to die in."

At last I wake to the fact that I am ill—dreadfully ill. There can be no doubt of it; and yet my malady has no name. I have lost all appetite; my strength has deserted me; great hollows have grown in my cheeks, above which my eyes gleam large and feverish. When I sit down I feel no desire to rise again.

Towards the middle of April I rally a little, and an intense craving for air is ever on me. Down by the sea I wander daily, getting as close to it as my strength will allow, the mile that separates me from it being now looked upon as a journey by my impoverished strength. Somewhat nearer to me than the shore is a high, level plain of sand and earth and grass, that runs back inland from a precipice that overlooks the ocean. On this I sit, and drawing sometimes up to the edge, peer over, and amuse myself counting the waves as they dash on to the beach far, far below.

This plain, forming part of the grounds belonging to Hazelton, possesses the double charm of being easier of access than the strand, and of being strictly private.

It is the 17th of April—a cold day, but fresh, with little sunshine anywhere. I am sauntering along my usual path to my sandy plain, thoughtless of anything in the present, innocent of presentiments, when suddenly before me, as though arisen out of the earth, stands Sir Mark Gore.

How long is it since last I saw him?—not months surely?—it seems more like yesterday. Why do I feel no surprise, no emotion? Is the mind within me indeed dead? I am more puzzled by my own unnatural calmness at this moment than even by an event so unexpected as his presence here.

We both stand still and gaze at each other. As far as I am concerned, time dies; I forget these weary months at Hazelton. I think of our parting at Strangemore. His eyes are reading, examining with undisguised pain, the changes in my face and form. At length he speaks.

"I hardly thought to meet you here, Mrs. Carrington," he says, advancing slowly, and addressing me in the low, hushed tone one adopts towards the sick or dying. He appears agitated.

I regard him with fixed coldness.

"You, who know all," I say, with quiet emphasis, "why do you call me by that name? Call me Phyllis; that, at least still remains to me."

He flushes crimson, and a pained look comes into hie eyes.

"I suppose," I go on, curiously, "that last warning you gave Marmaduke at the library door at home—at Strangemore," correcting myself without haste, "had reference to—that woman? Am I right?"

"Yes; I regret now having ever uttered it."

"Regrets are useless, and your words did no harm. Thinking of things since, I knew they must have meant an allusion to her."

"How calmly you speak of it!" he says, amazed.

"I speak as I feel," I reply.

There is rather an awkward pause. Now that he is here, the question naturally presents itself—for what reason has he come? At length—-

"Will you not say you are glad to see me?" ventures Sir Mark, uneasily.

"I am neither glad nor sorry," is my unmoved return; "I have forgotten to be emotional. I believe my real feeling just now is indifference. Considering how unlooked-for is your presence here, it astonishes even myself that I can call up so little surprise. Curious, is it not? You look thin, I think, and older—not so well as when last we met."

He grows a shade paler.

"Do I?" Then, drawing a hard, quick breath—"And you, child, what have you been doing with yourself? Except for your eyes, it is hardly you I see. So white, so worn, so changed; this place is killing you."

"It is a very quiet place. It suits me better than any other could."

"I tell you it is killing you," he repeats, angrily. "Better to face and endure the world's talk at once, than linger here until body and soul part."

"I shall never face the world," return I, quietly. "Here is my convent; at least within its walls I find peace. I see no one, therefore hear no evil talk. I have no wish to be disturbed."

"So you think now; but as time goes on you must—you cannot fail to tire of it. Is it natural to one so young to lock herself voluntarily away from people of her own age? Why, how old are you, child?"

"Almost nineteen."

"Almost, nineteen!" cries he, with an unmirthful laugh, "and you may live for fifty years! Are you going to immure yourself within these same four walls for fifty years."

"I shall not live for fifty years."

"But you may; without excitement of any description I see no reason why you should not live for a century."

"I shall not live for two years," returned I, impressively.

"Phyllis what are you saying?" cries he, with a shudder.

"The truth. I am dying slowly, and I know it. I am glad of it. I have no energy, no hope, no wish for life. Do you wonder much? At times I have a strange fancy that I am already dead; and then—-" I break off dreamily.

"What abominable morbid fancy! It is horrible!" exclaims Sir Mark, excitedly. "You must see a doctor without delay; if you were well no such mournful ideas would occur to you."

"Mournful!" I smile a little. "Yes, perhaps so—when I wake again to—find I am alive."

"Nonsense," impatiently. "Why have your people left you so much alone? It is shameful, unheard of! Phyllis, promise me you will see a doctor if I send one."

"Who shall minister to a mind diseased?" say I, still smiling. "No, I will not see your doctor. My ailment has no name; I do not suffer; quiet is my best medicine."

We walk on a little way in silence.

"You do not ask after your friends," says he, abruptly.

"Have I still any left? Well, tell me. I should like to know how is Marmaduke? and where?"

"Do you not hear from him, then?" turning to gaze suspiciously in my face.

"No; why should I? We parted forever when he brought me here. Oh," with a sudden, sharp uplifting of my voice—"how long ago it seems! what years, and years, and years! Tell me you—where is he?"

"Abroad somewhere; we none of us know where. You think of him incessantly?" still with his eyes searching and reading my face; "it is for him the color has left your cheeks, the light has died from your eyes? Is it the old life, or is it merely him you regret?"

"I think I regret nothing but my youth," return I, wearily.

"Had you never, at any time, any idea of the truth?" asks he, in a low tone, presently.

"Never. How should I. He kept it from me, fearing it would cause me pain."

"He deceived you grossly."

"Yes but, as he thought, for my good. Where was the use of enlightening me? The story was told; the woman was dead—or so he believed. He chose to hide it from me."

"Yes, he hid it from you."

"Well, what of that?" I cry, impatiently; "it was a mistake, I think, but a kindly one. He was always thinking of my happiness. It was perhaps a worse shock to him than it was to me. He had no faintest thought of her being alive until she stood before him."

He is silent. Something in his manner, in the very way he keeps his eyes bent resolutely upon the ground, chills me. Upon his face a curiously determined expression has gathered and grown.

"No faintest thought," I repeat, sharply, watching him now as keenly as he watched me before; "of course he had not. He had heard of her death years before he ever met me. Had he even doubted on the subject, his treachery would have been unequalled. But you cannot think that: it is impossible you can think it: therefore say so!"

Still he is silent—ominously so, as it seems to me. His eyes are still downcast; the evil determination in his face is stronger; his cane is digging deep furrows in the sandy loam.

"Why don't you speak," cried I, fiercely; "what do you mean by standing there silent, with that hateful expression upon your face? Do you mean to insinuate that there was a doubt in his mind? Look at me, and answer truly. Do you believe Marmaduke knew that woman to be living when he married me?"

I am half mad with suspense and fear. Placing both my hands upon his arm, I put forth all my puny strength, and actually compel him, strong man as he is, to meet my gaze.

For a moment he hesitates—a long moment—and then the right triumphs. Though in his own mind he is firmly convinced that can he but endue my mind with this doubt of Marmaduke's integrity he will substantially aid his own cause, still, being a gentleman born and bred, he finds a difficulty in bringing his lips to utter the miserable falsehood.

"No: I don't believe he did know," he answers, doggedly.

"You are sure of this?" I ask, feverishly.

"I would give my oath of it," he replies, with increased sullenness.

"Coward!" murmur I bitterly, taking my hands from his arm, and turning away.

The excitement of the past few minutes has been terrible to my weakened frame; I feel a vague dizziness, a coldness creeping over me. I am a good half-mile from home: should I faint, there will be nothing for it but for Sir Mark to carry me there, and to have that man's arms round me for so long a time is more than I could endure. The bare thought of it nerves me to action.

Hurriedly drawing a pin from some secret fold of my dress, I press it deep into my arm, so deep that presently I feel a warm sluggish drop ooze out and trickle slowly down my flesh, Until it sinks into the lining of my sleeve. The little dull pain that follows rouses me, and puts an end to all fear of my becoming insensible.

I draw a long breath and gradually awaken to the fact that my companion is again speaking.

"In spite of all that, he has wronged you horribly," he is saying with much deliberation. "What has he made you? A woman without a name—one whom the virtuous world would not recognize. He has driven you to bury yourself in this remote corner of the earth, cut off from all that makes life acceptable. He has destroyed your youth, and ruined your health: this is all you have to thank him for."

"The undeniable truth of your words renders them all the more pleasing." I say, bitterly. "Have you come all the way down here to tell me what I know so well already?"

"Yes, and for something more, to ask you to be my wife. Hush! let me speak. I know the answer you would make me, but I do not think you have fully weighed everything. Were you to endure this life you are now leading but for a season, for a year, even for several years, I would say nothing; but until this woman, this Carlotta, dies, you can never be his wife. Remember that. And who ever knew any one to die quickly whose death was longed for? Look at annuitants, for instance; they live forever: therefore this isolation of yours will know no end."

I am motionless, speechless, from rage and amazement.

"Then by your own words and actions," he goes on in the same measured fashion, suppressing forcibly the fire and agitation that lie beneath his cold exterior, "I have seen a hundred times how little real affection you entertain for Carrington; therefore you are not bound to him by the ties of love. Will you not consider for your own sake? I offer you my name, my rank, everything that I possess. Few men would be tempted to do as much, perhaps."

"Sir," say I, feeling half choked, "believe me, I fully appreciate all the sacrifices you would make for my sake. Pray spare both me and yourself the recital of them."

"Sacrifices?" interrupts he, eagerly: "no, indeed! I never thought of it in that light. I only meant to put the case clearly before you exactly as it is, without any false lights. I tell you that so far from my present proposition to you being a sacrifice on my part, I would gladly go on my knees to you this moment, if by doing so I could gain your consent to my plans. I will take you to any part of the world you may choose to name, at home or abroad. I shall be prouder, more blest than I can say, if you will consent to be my wife."

"Have you quite done?" say I, in a tone treacherously calm. "Have you anything more to say? No? Are you sure? Now listen to me. Even if the circumstances were totally different—if I were free as air—if you were the last man on earth I would not marry you. Whether I do or do not love Marmaduke, is a question I decline to answer to you. At all events, to my own way of thinking, I am his wife now, and shall ever remain so—until death divides us. But as to whether or not I love you, I feel no hesitation about answering that. I look upon you as the lowest, the meanest of men, to come here behind your friend's back to traduce him, and insinuate lies about him, so as to do him injury in the eyes of the woman he loves. I loathe and detest you, with all my heart."

I am staring him valiantly in the face as I utter these denunciations. My cheeks are crimson with rage, my eyes are flashing; for the moment all my old strength, and more than my old spirit have returned to me. I have worked myself through the force of my eloquence into such a passion that I literally tremble from head to foot. I feel humbled and insulted in my own eyes. All these months of lonely weariness have failed to bring home to me the fact that I am not a married woman. This man's complete acceptance of it has maddened me.

"Thank you," says he, slowly; "but pray do not stop yet. There must be something more you wish to say. Don't mind me; don't take my feelings into consideration."

"I don't," I reply, viciously stamping my foot. "But, as it happens, I have said all I ever wish to say to you. You may take from my lips now the very last words I shall condescend to utter to you. Leave me; I hate and despise you!"

"I will," cries he, furiously, losing sight of all the self-imposed restraint that has bound him daring the last fifteen minutes. "But I shall take something else too. As you decree we shall part here never to meet again, I shall at least kiss you in farewell, for the insolence you have shown me."

His face is full of anger and settled purpose; he is white to the lips; his eyes gleam steadily. There is no sign of wavering or relenting about him.

Oh, how I regret my intemperate speech. An awful fear seizes hold of me. I can almost fancy his committing murder with that look in his eyes. I forget all but a wild desire to escape, and, breaking from him, I rush madly towards the bare, unwalled cliff that overhangs the sea.

But a very little space divides me from the edge, as his hand catches and closes on my arm and drags me roughly backwards.

"Are you mad?" he pants hoarsely, all the passion gone from his face, leaving only cold horror in its place. "Are you out of your senses? Come home directly. What! would you prefer death to a kiss from me? At last you have effectually put an end to my absurd infatuation. I have no great fancy for any woman's loathing."

So saying, he leads me homewards, tired, worn out with conflicting emotions. His hand still clutches my arm, as though he fears I will again break loose and try to accomplish my wicked purpose.

Silent and obedient I go with him, until we reach the small gate by which I generally leave and return.

Here he stops, and, putting me inside, shuts the wicket again between us, he being on the outside.

"Now go home," he says, sternly, "and go to bed. You are as white as death. Do you hear me?"

I answer, "Yes," very meekly, feeling somewhat frightened and subdued.

"As I shall take very good care not to put myself in your way again," he goes on, in the same tone, "I would wish to say, before leaving, that in the future, when you stigmatize me as mean and dishonorable, I would have you also remember that to-day I came to do you the kindest turn any man could do you under the circumstances."

After this remark, without further glance or gesture he turns and leaves me.