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hearts. I have called them back the next hour, and welcomed them with fitful, passionate tenderness, which I could not restrain.

Violet was but an infant at the time of which I am writing; but Lionel was a child of quick, deep feelings, feelings that seemed to go beyond his understanding; and when a storm had been raging in my bosom, and I had striven to still it in caressing my children, I have seen his lip quiver, and though not a word had been uttered of sorrow and suffering, of which at his age he could know nothing, he has cast himself on my bosom and wept away the excitement which something that he did not understand had roused in his feelings. Then I would reproach myself, then I would feel again my unfitness, my unworthiness to train my children. I would deny myself their presence, until the solitude to which their absence condemned me became peopled with torturing thoughts, and again I would summon them to my side, too often to have the same scene repeated, and soothe my boy with fond murmured words of love, which he received with a clinging, anxious tenderness that seemed beyond his trusting, childish years.

Many wearisome days and nights were appointed unto me during these months of Hubert's absence. There were times, however, when with something of the elasticity of youth— for I was still young!-I would endeavour not quite in vain to escape from the crushing weight of my sorrow by entering energetically into some pursuits which would occupy my time and claim my attention. I interested myself in the poor around me. I established systems for giving relief during the severe weather to the many around Earlscourt who had claims on my

care. I felt that I had hitherto neglected these duties. I entered upon them zealously now, as if I thought that even a mountain of good works could cover one sin. It is a feeling common to almost all who are suffering from the pangs of remorse. They think-how vainly !to escape the penalty of their fault by some fancied atonement or effort of their own. I did not really share this error.

I visited schools—I relieved the poor-and when I knew that many voices were raised to bless my name, what did I do then? I buried myself in my chamber, and bowed down my head in shame and agony, feeling as if I had added hypocrisy to my sin.

Again and again, during the childhood of Lionel and Violet would that same shame and agony come upon me when I had with anxious energy devoted myself to them, indulging visions of keeping their pure minds pure by my careful watching of every thought and action; resolving to strengthen them in good; to shut out, as far as might be, all evil from their knowledge. And even whilst I might be speaking to them, dwelling on the beauty of truthfulness, the deep happiness of an open heart-even then has the cloud fallen on my spirit, and alone-alone-I would again writhe under the weight which made the mother's glance sink before that of her own children.

Such were among the feelings which were wont to torture me, even when Violet, an unconscious baby, smiled in my face. Such were some of the feelings that tortured me still, years afterwards, when the spring showers were falling lightly on the grave which covered Violet's broken heart.

And Lionel-my first-born-my pride-what of Lionel?

CHAPTER

DURING the greater part of Hubert's absence from Earlscourt, Maud Courtenaye had been away from home, or doubtless my solitude would have been frequently cheered by her presence.

It was only about a month before my husband's return that the Priory was again inhabited, and when the family returned there, they brought with them a new inmate, a younger sister of Lady Anne Courtenaye's, who was henceforth to reside with them. These two sisters were orphans, and had resided together under the care of their elder brother until the period of Lady Anne's marriage. Their brother had now married, and Lady Edith having been offered a home both by Mr. Courtenaye and her brother, chose the Priory, partly, perhaps, to be with her sister, but more especially, as I thought, when I came to know her well, because of the enthusiastic and boundless affection with which Maud had inspired her.

Lady Edith Howard was unlike any one else whom I had ever known. She was wayward and petulant as a spoilt child, but very warmhearted and affectionate. She had been brought up entirely without control, unless her gentle sister's influence might have been so-called; and as Edith was not seventeen when she came to the Priory, two important years of her life had passed since Lady Anne's marriage, years during which she had been left to her own guidance by her indulgent brother, who thought that since Edith disliked the idea of a governess, it would be very useless to insist upon her having one.

Edith accordingly learnt what she chose, and that had truly been very little in the way of regular study. But she was naturally quick, and although she had not pursued the

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course of study usually considered necessary for girls, her mind was too active to have allowed her to remain idle or ignorant, and in ways of her own she had managed to convince her brother satisfactorily that in indulging her wish to be without a governess, he ran no risk of being ashamed of his sister. Lord Effingham was satisfied, and only made a point of Edith taking some lessons from the best masters in various accomplishments during their short stay in London each spring. Edith did not object to this. She sang well, and she was very willing to cultivate that talent with some care, not only in London, but when she had returned to her more constant home and unfettered life at Effingham Park.

A more complete contrast could scarcely be imagined than that presented by Lady Edith Howard to Maud Courtenaye. I have already attempted to describe Maud. Whereever she was, everything around her seemed to be softened and purified by her silent influence, even as the moonlight softens the scene which sleeps in its silvery radiance. Lady Edith brought with her the brightness of a spring morning. It seemed as if where she was there should always be life and sunshine. Her careless joy, her restless movements, for Edith could not bear to be still or thoughtful,-all was so different from Maud's quiet dignity, that it seemed a strange thing to me at first how such a bright little being as Edith could have been attracted by anyone so almost mournful as Maud seemed beside her. She had, however, been very strongly attracted. She seemed to look up to Maud with a kind of adoration; and Lady Anne, who had been greatly vexed at the independent life that it had pleased Edith to lead since she had left her, told

me that she hoped much from Maud's influence over her somewhat self willed, but very dear sister.

When Hubert returned home, he brought friends with him from London. It seemed that he dreaded one day of solitude with me, whilst I felt as if I could almost for the moment have forgotten our black secret, in the instinctive joy with which I saw him return after so long an absence. It only wanted his greeting to me, his embarrassed manner, his averted eye, to banish my but momentary gleam of light-to recal the spectre that had risen between us, at once binding us together and forcing us apart, -the spectre of our mutual crime.

I sometimes thought that he dreaded reproaches or entreaties from me. When any chance threw us together and alone at that time, there was something so forbidding in his manner, so unlike himself, and he would seize the first opportunity of leaving me; whereas, amongst the numerous guests whom he speedily gathered together, he would treat me with invariable at tention and respect; but, alas! in my lonely misery my heart called for his love, and it called in vain.

light be the same which was so heavy in my bosom now? Could that Hubert whom I only met in a crowd-to whom I could only speak as I might speak to the veriest stranger at our board-could that be the same Hubert who had once shared my every thought, hope, and feeling? Had that happy time gone for ever? Had the father of my children hopelessly estranged himself from me?

Such were the questions wrung from my anguish; and not alwaysno, not always at that time could I endure the true answer which rose from my aching heart. I have sometimes thought that I would struggle, I would make such efforts that I must win back his love. What had I done--I would ask myself-what had I done that I should lose it? Did he think with displeasure that I was brooding over the recollection of that night? Did it anger him to remember my vain entreaties? Did he think that I was despising him for his crime? Did he think that I was watching for an opportunity even now to renew my entreaties? Did he think that my love had paled and withered under the trial, as flowers pale and wither under the There is no more miserable feel- blasts of autumn? Were these his ing than that of pitying oneself. thoughts? Was this his dread? pitied myself at that time. I saw Then I thought that I would hasten myself as I had been during the to him, I would cast myself at his first happy days of my married life. feet, and tell him that never in the I saw myself the object of Hubert's first bliss of our married life had I constant care and devotion. I saw loved him more intensely than now, the very looks of love that were never had I so yearned for his love, wont to rest upon me. I seemed never had I felt it to be so necessary to feel again the glad emotion which to my existence. I would tell him responded to them. I recalled the that our crime made me unworthy joyous sensations of that bright inno- of all other love. I would tell him cent time-the free, frank intercourse that the love of my children was which we held together-our glances bitter anguish to me, from a horrible at the past our visions of the future sense of my unworthiness. I would -our ecstasy in the present. I saw tell him that he-he alone must love all this. I recalled our boy's birth me. He shared the crime--I could -our pride in him-our joy and still claim his love. He could not happiness. I thought of all these cast me off. Outcasts from all other things, and thought was agony. hearts, were we not doubly driven Could the heart which was once so into each other's? I would tell him

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that he should hear no word of suffering, of remorse, if only his love were restored to ine. I would tell him that the affection, the respect, the attention which he might receive from all those around him was a mockery. They loved, they respected, they paid attention to the hospitable host, to the kind friend, to the pleasant companion, to the good landlord, to the man he seemed to be. But I-I alone could know and love him as he really was. I alone had the power of truly loving the man whose soul must be dark as night whilst his life was smiling. only saw that darkness. I only knew the despairing remorse which he had resolutely buried under the false feverish excitement of the life that he led. I would tell him now that I loved him still in his sin; that deep in my heart rose the fountain of love for him that could never be dried up; and that pity, passionate, overwhelming pity, for him-for my self-was all that I could ever feel now on the forbidden subject.

And as such struggles, such efforts filled my imagination, I would meet my husband, I would mark his cold,

distant, manner, and the word son my lip would die away, the pulses that had beat so wildly as I dreamed my frenzied dream of hope, would be stilled; and with an icy chill at my heart, I would return to my solitude to wring my hands in the hopelessness of my sorrow, to compassionate myself, the unloved wife.

Then at such a moment would the haunting memory of the Italian girl's picture return to me, ever bringing with it the shuddering sensation of terror with which I had first gazed upon it. It still hung in that little secret chamber. It seemed to be tacitly understood between us that it should never be brought to light. I had sometimes stolen to these closed chambers, and drawing back the panel in the wall, I had gazed for some minutes on the picture. I had done this when my suffering seemed greatest, as if in desperation. I could not myself account for the feeling which led me there. It seemed as if I wished to know how much I could endure, and still retain my reason. It was a very wretched life.

CHAPTER

EARLSCOURT became again the centre of gaiety. The house was crowded by a succession of guests. Hubert had made many new acquaintances during his absence from home, and consequently many guests hitherto unknown to me visited us.

I was generally indifferent enough as to who went or came. I filled my place as mistress of the house. I joined most of the expeditions that filled the days so replete with pleasure for many amongst us. I was always pleased to see Maud, and I had also learnt to welcome Lady Edith Howard's bright face, as she constantly accompanied Maud in her visits to us; but otherwise I had cared little who came or went. Now,

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however, there were two of Hubert's new acquaintances, whose presence speedily became painfully unpleasant to me. He had met them on the Continent. One was a Frenchman, M. de Beaulieu; the other a young Englishman, Mr. Trevor.

I have said that my husband sought eagerly after excitement, and there was one species of excitement which I greatly dreaded for him, the love of play. Little as I knew of the world, I knew something of the utter wretchedness of a gambler's life, and what I knew, I had mostly learnt from Hubert himself in the earliest days of our marriage. He had told me a tale of a young brotherofficer of his own, which had made

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a deep impression on my mind. know now that such tales are too common, but it was the first time that I had heard of such misery in real life, and the particulars have remained impressed on my memory even to this day. This was the sad story.

Hubert had described to me a young boy, full of life and hope, joining his regiment. He was an only son, and heir to a large fortune. Life had never offered a brighter future to any one than to young Harry Godolphin. He very soon became popular in the regiment. He bought the best horses, spent the most money, and was ready and willing to help any one, with all the unsuspecting generosity of youth.

I need not here tell how by slow but sure degrees the brightness of his youth was darkened-how the nature which he had brought from his childhood's home, pure and open, was sullied. He was the idol of his parents, and Hubert, who knew him well, said that his love and reverence for them was more like the love and reverence of an innocent child than a young man of the world. Bad companions led him astray, and play was the temptation to which he yielded. Night after night he repaired to the gambling-tables, for some time unsuspected by Hubert, who had been at first his greatest friend in the regiment. When Hubert discovered it, it was too late to save him. The thirst for play had become a fever, a delirium; and if by close watching and earnest entreaties, Hubert knew how to draw him from it for a few nights, the fever would return with renewed violence, and again he would seek him and find him given up to its influence.

A few months sufficed to work the ruin of that boy. Hubert told me that he was roused one morning at early dawn from his sleep, and on looking up, he saw young Harry Godolphin standing by his side, pale as death. He told him in few words

that he was utterly, hopelessly ruined. Maddened by his losses, distracted by the thought of his parents' misery if the life that he had led during these months were brought before them, he had that night ventured all on a last chance, and he had lost. · Nothing now could be concealed from his parents. He had long been anticipating and borrowing money on the property which it was known must some day come into his possession, in desperate efforts to retrieve his position. All was lost now. He was ruined.

Hubert said that the unhappy youth proceeded to speak with great excitement to him. He asked him to give him his promise that if anything happened to him, Hubert would go himself to his father-with whom he had some slight acquaintance-and tell him of his fate. Hubert detected the hidden purpose through the poor boy's excitement. He gave the desired promise, and then, endeavouring to soothe him as well as he could, he proceeded to dress himself, resolving not to lose sight of him for a moment. My husband described that scene to me, and I shall never forget it.

Godolphin stood leaning against the closed door, when Hubert insisted on his remaining with him. until he was ready to accompany him to his own room. The dawn of a spring morning was slowly creeping into daylight. Hubert spoke to him of arrangements that might be made; he assured him that much might be done to put his affairs in order; and he pledged himself to go to his father, and tell what must be told. Hubert told me that Godolphin groaned heavily whilst he spoke, that he never answered him, but that once he called aloud on his mother's name in a tone of such heart-rending agony that Hubert was awed into silence. It was during that momentary silence that Hubert heard the sharp click of a pistol. It was the work of a moment

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