“Are you?—Then, it was neither feeling nor generosity; and we were taken in! Good day.” With that he limped slowly to the gate.
Philip answered not the sarcasm even by a look. For at that moment a loud shout was set up by the mob without—they had caught a glimpse of the bride.
“Come, Sidney, this way.” he said; “I must not detain you long.”
Arm in arm they passed out of the church, and turned to the spot hard by, where the flowers smiled up to them from the stone on their mother’s grave.
The old inscription had been effaced, and the name of CATHERINE BEAUFORT was placed upon the stone. “Brother,” said Philip, “do not forget this grave: years hence, when children play around your own hearth. Observe, the name of Catherine Beaufort is fresher on the stone than the dates of birth and death—the name was only inscribed there to-day—your wedding-day. Brother, by this grave we are now indeed united.”
“Oh, Philip!” cried Sidney, in deep emotion, clasping the hand stretched out to him; “I feel, I feel how noble, how great you are—that you have sacrificed more than I dreamed of—”
“Hush!” said Philip, with a smile. “No talk of this. I am happier than you deem me. Go back now—she waits you.”
“And you?—leave you!—alone!”
“Not alone,” said Philip, pointing to the grave.
Scarce had he spoken when, from the gate, came the shrill, clear voice of Lord Lilburne,—