Chapter Eighty One.

Chapter Eighty One.Consent at Last.Since our last visit to it, Vernon Hall had changed from gay to grave.Only in its interior. Outside, its fine façade presented the same cheerful front to its park; the Corinthian columns of its portico looked open and hospitable as ever.As ever, elegant equipages came and went; but only to draw up, and remain for a moment in the sweep, while their occupants left cards, and made inquiries.Inside there was silence. Servants glided about softly, or on tiptoe; opened and closed the doors gently, speaking in subdued tones.It was a stillness, solemn and significant. It spoke of sickness in the house.And there was sickness of the most serious kind—for it was known to be the precursor of death.Sir George Vernon was dying.It was an old malady—a disease of that organ, to which tropical climes are so fatal—in the East as in the West.And in both had the baronet been exposed; for part of his earlier life had been spent in India.Induration had been long going on. It was complete, and pronounced incurable. At the invalid’s urgent request, the doctors had told him the truth—warning him to prepare for death.His last tour upon the Continent—whither he had gone with his daughter—had given the finishing blow to his strength; and he was now home again, so enfeebled that he could no longer take a walk, even along the soft, smooth turf of his own beautiful park.By day most of his time was spent upon a sofa in his library, where he lay supported by pillows.He had gone abroad with Blanche, in the hope of weaning her from that affection so freely confessed; and which had been ever since a sore trouble to his spirit.How far he had succeeded might be learnt by looking in her sad thoughtful face; once blithe and cheerful; by noting a pallor in her cheek, erst red as the rose leaf; by listening to sighs, too painful to be suppressed; and, above all, to a conversation that occurred between her and her father not long after returning from that latest journey, that was to be the last of his life.Sir George was in his library reclining, as was his wont. The sofa had been wheeled up to the window, that he might enjoy the charm of a splendid sunset: for it was a window facing west.Blanche was beside him; though no words were passing between them. Having finished adjusting his pillow, she had taken a seat near the foot of the sofa, her eyes, like his, fixed on the far sunset—flushing the horizon with strata-clouds of crimson, purple, and gold.It was mid-winter; but among the sheltered copses of Vernon Park there was slight sign of the season. With a shrubbery whose foliage never fell, and a grass ever green, the grounds immediately around the mansion might have passed for a picture of spring.And there was bird music, the spring’s fit concomitant: the chaffinch chattering upon the taller trees, the blackbird with flutelike note fluttering low among laurels and laurustines, and the robin nearer the window warbling his sweet simple lay.Here and there a bright-plumed pheasant might be seen shooting from copse to copse; or a hare, scared from her form, dashing down into the covert of the dale. Farther off on the pastures of the park could be seen sleek kine consorting with the antlered stag, both browsing tranquil and undisturbed. It was a fair prospect to look upon; and it should have been fairer in the eyes of one who was its proprietor.But not so Sir George Vernon, who might fancy that he was looking at it for the last time. The thought could not fail to inspire painful reflections; and into a train of such had he fallen.They took the shape of an inquiry: who was to succeed him in that fair inheritance, handed down from a long line of distinguished ancestors?His daughter Blanche was to be his inheritor—since he had no son, no other child; and the entail of the estate ended with himself.But Blanche might not long bear his name; and what other was she to bear? What escutcheon was to become quartered upon that of the Vernons?He thought of Scudamore; he had been long thinking of it, hoping, wishing it; but now, in the hours darkened by approaching death, he had doubts whether this union of armorial bearings would ever be.In earlier days he had resolved on its being so, and up to a late period. He had spoken of compulsion, such as he held by testamentary powers. He had even hinted it to Blanche herself. He had made discovery how idle such a course would be; and on this he was now reflecting. He might as well have thought of commanding yonder sun to cease from its setting, yonder stag to lay aside its grandeur, or the birds their soft beauty. You may soften an antipathy, but you cannot kill it; and, obedient child though she was, not even her father’s will, not all the powers upon earth, could have removed from Blanche Vernon’s mind the antipathy she had conceived for her cousin Scudamore.In the same way you may thwart an affection, but not destroy it; and a similar influence would not have sufficed to chase from Blanche Vernon’s mind the memory of Captain Maynard. His image was still upon her heart, fresh as the first impression—fresh as in that hour when she stood holding his hand under the shade of thedeodara! Her father appeared to know all this. If not, her pale cheek, day by day growing paler, should have admonished him. But he did know, or suspected it; and the time had come for him to be certain.“Blanche!” he said, turning round, and tenderly gazing in her face.“Father?” She pronounced the word interrogatively, thinking it was some request for service to the invalid. But she started as she met his glance. It meant something more!“My daughter,” he said, “I shall not be much longer with you.”“Dear father! do not say so!”“It is true, Blanche. The doctors tell me I am dying; and I know it myself.”“O father! dear father!” she exclaimed, springing forward from her seat, falling upon her knees beside the sofa, and covering his face with her tresses and tears.“Do not weep, my child! However painful to think of it, these things must be. It is the fate of all to leave this world; and I could not hope to be exempted. It is but going to a better, where God Himself will be with us, and where we are told there is no more weeping. Come, child! compose yourself. Return to your seat, and listen; for I have something to say to you.”Sobbingly she obeyed—sobbing as though her heart would break.“When I’m gone,” he continued, after she had become a little calmer, “you, my daughter, will succeed to my estates. They are not of great value; for I regret to say there is a considerable mortgage upon them. Still, after all is paid off there will be a residue—sufficient for your maintenance in the position to which you have been accustomed.”“Oh, father I do not speak of these things. It pains me!”“But I must, Blanche; I must. It is necessary you should be made acquainted with them; and necessary, too, thatIshould know—”What was it necessary he should know? He had paused, as if afraid to declare it.“What, papa?” asked she, looking interrogatively in his face, at the same time that a blush, rising upon her cheek, told she half divined it.“What should you know?”“My dear daughter!” he rejoined, shunning a direct answer. “It is but reasonable to suppose you will be some day changing your name. I should be unhappy to leave the world, thinking you would not; and I could leave it all the happier to think you will change it for one worthy of being adopted by the daughter of a Vernon—one borne by a man deserving to be my son!”“Dear father?” cried she, once more sobbing spasmodically, “pray do not speak to me of this! I know whom you mean. Yes; I know it, I know it. O father, it can never be!”She was thinking of the name Scudamore; and that it could never be here!“Perhaps you are mistaken, my child. Perhaps I did not mean any name in particular.”Her grand blue eyes, deeper blue under their bedewing of tears, turned inquiringly upon her father’s face.She said nothing; but seemed waiting for him to further explain himself.“My daughter,” he said, “I think I can guess what you meant by your last speech. You object to the name Scudamore? Is it not so?”“Sooner than bear it, I shall be for ever content to keep my own—yours—throughout all my life. Dear father! I shall do anything to obey you—even this. Oh! you will not compel me to an act that would make me for ever unhappy? I do not, cannot love Frank Scudamore; and without love how could I—how could he—”The womanly instinct which had been guiding the young girl seemed suddenly to forsake her. The interrogatory ended in a convulsive sob; and once more she was weeping.Sir George could no longer restrain his tears, nor expression of the sympathy from whence they proceeded.Averting his face upon the pillow, he wept wildly as she.Sorrow cannot endure for ever. The purest and most poignant grief must in time come to an end.And the dying man knew of a solace, not only to himself, but to his dear, noble daughter—dearer and nobler from the sacrifice he had declared herself willing to make for him.His views about her future had been for some time undergoing a change. The gloom of the grave, to one who knows he is hastening towards it, casts its shadow alike over the pride of the past, and the splendours of the present. Equally does it temper the ambitions of the future.And so had it effected the views of Sir George Vernon—socially as well as politically. Perhaps he saw in that future the dawning of a new day—when therégimeof the Republic will be the only one acknowledged upon earth!Whether or not, there was in his mind at that moment a man who represented this idea; a man he had once slighted, even to scorn. On his deathbed he felt scorn no longer; partly because he had repented of it; and partly that he knew this man was in the mind of his daughter—in her heart of heart. And he knew also she would never be happy without having him in her arms!She had promised a self-sacrifice—nobly promised it. A command, a request, a simple word would secure it! Was he to speak that word?No! Let the crest of the Vernons be erased from the page of heraldry! Let it be blended with the plebeian insignia of a republic, rather than a daughter of his house, his own dear child, should be the child of a life-long sorrow!In that critical hour, he determined she should not. “You do not love Frank Scudamore?” he said, after the long sad interlude, recurring to her last speech. “I do not, father; I cannot!”“But you love another? Do not fear to speak frankly—candidly, my child! You love another?”“I do—I do!”“And that other is—Captain Maynard?”“Father! I have once before confessed it. I told you I loved him, with my whole heart’s affection. Do you think that could ever change?”“Enough, my brave Blanche!” exclaimed the invalid, raising his head proudly upon the pillow, and contemplating his daughter, as if in admiration. “Enough! dearest Blanche! Come to my arms! Come closer and embrace your father—your friend, who will not be much longer near you. It will be no fault of mine, if I do not leave you in other arms—if not dearer, perhaps better able to protect you!”The wild burst of filial affection bestowed upon a dying parent permits not expression in speech.Never was one wilder than when Blanche Vernon flung her arms around the neck of her generous parent, and showered her scalding tears upon his cheek!

Since our last visit to it, Vernon Hall had changed from gay to grave.

Only in its interior. Outside, its fine façade presented the same cheerful front to its park; the Corinthian columns of its portico looked open and hospitable as ever.

As ever, elegant equipages came and went; but only to draw up, and remain for a moment in the sweep, while their occupants left cards, and made inquiries.

Inside there was silence. Servants glided about softly, or on tiptoe; opened and closed the doors gently, speaking in subdued tones.

It was a stillness, solemn and significant. It spoke of sickness in the house.

And there was sickness of the most serious kind—for it was known to be the precursor of death.

Sir George Vernon was dying.

It was an old malady—a disease of that organ, to which tropical climes are so fatal—in the East as in the West.

And in both had the baronet been exposed; for part of his earlier life had been spent in India.

Induration had been long going on. It was complete, and pronounced incurable. At the invalid’s urgent request, the doctors had told him the truth—warning him to prepare for death.

His last tour upon the Continent—whither he had gone with his daughter—had given the finishing blow to his strength; and he was now home again, so enfeebled that he could no longer take a walk, even along the soft, smooth turf of his own beautiful park.

By day most of his time was spent upon a sofa in his library, where he lay supported by pillows.

He had gone abroad with Blanche, in the hope of weaning her from that affection so freely confessed; and which had been ever since a sore trouble to his spirit.

How far he had succeeded might be learnt by looking in her sad thoughtful face; once blithe and cheerful; by noting a pallor in her cheek, erst red as the rose leaf; by listening to sighs, too painful to be suppressed; and, above all, to a conversation that occurred between her and her father not long after returning from that latest journey, that was to be the last of his life.

Sir George was in his library reclining, as was his wont. The sofa had been wheeled up to the window, that he might enjoy the charm of a splendid sunset: for it was a window facing west.

Blanche was beside him; though no words were passing between them. Having finished adjusting his pillow, she had taken a seat near the foot of the sofa, her eyes, like his, fixed on the far sunset—flushing the horizon with strata-clouds of crimson, purple, and gold.

It was mid-winter; but among the sheltered copses of Vernon Park there was slight sign of the season. With a shrubbery whose foliage never fell, and a grass ever green, the grounds immediately around the mansion might have passed for a picture of spring.

And there was bird music, the spring’s fit concomitant: the chaffinch chattering upon the taller trees, the blackbird with flutelike note fluttering low among laurels and laurustines, and the robin nearer the window warbling his sweet simple lay.

Here and there a bright-plumed pheasant might be seen shooting from copse to copse; or a hare, scared from her form, dashing down into the covert of the dale. Farther off on the pastures of the park could be seen sleek kine consorting with the antlered stag, both browsing tranquil and undisturbed. It was a fair prospect to look upon; and it should have been fairer in the eyes of one who was its proprietor.

But not so Sir George Vernon, who might fancy that he was looking at it for the last time. The thought could not fail to inspire painful reflections; and into a train of such had he fallen.

They took the shape of an inquiry: who was to succeed him in that fair inheritance, handed down from a long line of distinguished ancestors?

His daughter Blanche was to be his inheritor—since he had no son, no other child; and the entail of the estate ended with himself.

But Blanche might not long bear his name; and what other was she to bear? What escutcheon was to become quartered upon that of the Vernons?

He thought of Scudamore; he had been long thinking of it, hoping, wishing it; but now, in the hours darkened by approaching death, he had doubts whether this union of armorial bearings would ever be.

In earlier days he had resolved on its being so, and up to a late period. He had spoken of compulsion, such as he held by testamentary powers. He had even hinted it to Blanche herself. He had made discovery how idle such a course would be; and on this he was now reflecting. He might as well have thought of commanding yonder sun to cease from its setting, yonder stag to lay aside its grandeur, or the birds their soft beauty. You may soften an antipathy, but you cannot kill it; and, obedient child though she was, not even her father’s will, not all the powers upon earth, could have removed from Blanche Vernon’s mind the antipathy she had conceived for her cousin Scudamore.

In the same way you may thwart an affection, but not destroy it; and a similar influence would not have sufficed to chase from Blanche Vernon’s mind the memory of Captain Maynard. His image was still upon her heart, fresh as the first impression—fresh as in that hour when she stood holding his hand under the shade of thedeodara! Her father appeared to know all this. If not, her pale cheek, day by day growing paler, should have admonished him. But he did know, or suspected it; and the time had come for him to be certain.

“Blanche!” he said, turning round, and tenderly gazing in her face.

“Father?” She pronounced the word interrogatively, thinking it was some request for service to the invalid. But she started as she met his glance. It meant something more!

“My daughter,” he said, “I shall not be much longer with you.”

“Dear father! do not say so!”

“It is true, Blanche. The doctors tell me I am dying; and I know it myself.”

“O father! dear father!” she exclaimed, springing forward from her seat, falling upon her knees beside the sofa, and covering his face with her tresses and tears.

“Do not weep, my child! However painful to think of it, these things must be. It is the fate of all to leave this world; and I could not hope to be exempted. It is but going to a better, where God Himself will be with us, and where we are told there is no more weeping. Come, child! compose yourself. Return to your seat, and listen; for I have something to say to you.”

Sobbingly she obeyed—sobbing as though her heart would break.

“When I’m gone,” he continued, after she had become a little calmer, “you, my daughter, will succeed to my estates. They are not of great value; for I regret to say there is a considerable mortgage upon them. Still, after all is paid off there will be a residue—sufficient for your maintenance in the position to which you have been accustomed.”

“Oh, father I do not speak of these things. It pains me!”

“But I must, Blanche; I must. It is necessary you should be made acquainted with them; and necessary, too, thatIshould know—”

What was it necessary he should know? He had paused, as if afraid to declare it.

“What, papa?” asked she, looking interrogatively in his face, at the same time that a blush, rising upon her cheek, told she half divined it.

“What should you know?”

“My dear daughter!” he rejoined, shunning a direct answer. “It is but reasonable to suppose you will be some day changing your name. I should be unhappy to leave the world, thinking you would not; and I could leave it all the happier to think you will change it for one worthy of being adopted by the daughter of a Vernon—one borne by a man deserving to be my son!”

“Dear father?” cried she, once more sobbing spasmodically, “pray do not speak to me of this! I know whom you mean. Yes; I know it, I know it. O father, it can never be!”

She was thinking of the name Scudamore; and that it could never be here!

“Perhaps you are mistaken, my child. Perhaps I did not mean any name in particular.”

Her grand blue eyes, deeper blue under their bedewing of tears, turned inquiringly upon her father’s face.

She said nothing; but seemed waiting for him to further explain himself.

“My daughter,” he said, “I think I can guess what you meant by your last speech. You object to the name Scudamore? Is it not so?”

“Sooner than bear it, I shall be for ever content to keep my own—yours—throughout all my life. Dear father! I shall do anything to obey you—even this. Oh! you will not compel me to an act that would make me for ever unhappy? I do not, cannot love Frank Scudamore; and without love how could I—how could he—”

The womanly instinct which had been guiding the young girl seemed suddenly to forsake her. The interrogatory ended in a convulsive sob; and once more she was weeping.

Sir George could no longer restrain his tears, nor expression of the sympathy from whence they proceeded.

Averting his face upon the pillow, he wept wildly as she.

Sorrow cannot endure for ever. The purest and most poignant grief must in time come to an end.

And the dying man knew of a solace, not only to himself, but to his dear, noble daughter—dearer and nobler from the sacrifice he had declared herself willing to make for him.

His views about her future had been for some time undergoing a change. The gloom of the grave, to one who knows he is hastening towards it, casts its shadow alike over the pride of the past, and the splendours of the present. Equally does it temper the ambitions of the future.

And so had it effected the views of Sir George Vernon—socially as well as politically. Perhaps he saw in that future the dawning of a new day—when therégimeof the Republic will be the only one acknowledged upon earth!

Whether or not, there was in his mind at that moment a man who represented this idea; a man he had once slighted, even to scorn. On his deathbed he felt scorn no longer; partly because he had repented of it; and partly that he knew this man was in the mind of his daughter—in her heart of heart. And he knew also she would never be happy without having him in her arms!

She had promised a self-sacrifice—nobly promised it. A command, a request, a simple word would secure it! Was he to speak that word?

No! Let the crest of the Vernons be erased from the page of heraldry! Let it be blended with the plebeian insignia of a republic, rather than a daughter of his house, his own dear child, should be the child of a life-long sorrow!

In that critical hour, he determined she should not. “You do not love Frank Scudamore?” he said, after the long sad interlude, recurring to her last speech. “I do not, father; I cannot!”

“But you love another? Do not fear to speak frankly—candidly, my child! You love another?”

“I do—I do!”

“And that other is—Captain Maynard?”

“Father! I have once before confessed it. I told you I loved him, with my whole heart’s affection. Do you think that could ever change?”

“Enough, my brave Blanche!” exclaimed the invalid, raising his head proudly upon the pillow, and contemplating his daughter, as if in admiration. “Enough! dearest Blanche! Come to my arms! Come closer and embrace your father—your friend, who will not be much longer near you. It will be no fault of mine, if I do not leave you in other arms—if not dearer, perhaps better able to protect you!”

The wild burst of filial affection bestowed upon a dying parent permits not expression in speech.

Never was one wilder than when Blanche Vernon flung her arms around the neck of her generous parent, and showered her scalding tears upon his cheek!

Chapter Eighty Two.A Consoling Epistle.“Never more to see her—never more to hear of her! From her I need not expect. She dares not write. No doubt an embargo has been laid upon that. Parental authority forbids it.“And I dare not write to her! If I did, no doubt, by the same parental authority, my epistle would be intercepted—still further compromising her—still further debarring the chance of a reconciliation with her father!“I dare not do it—I should not!“Why should I not? Is it not after all but a false sentiment of chivalry?“And am Inotfalse to myself—to her? What authority over the heart is higher than its own inclining? In the disposal of the hand, this, and this alone, should be consulted. Who has the right to interpose between two hearts mutually loving? To forbid their mutual happiness?“The parent claims such right, and too often exercises it! It may be a wise control; but is it a just one?“And there are times, too, when it may not be wisdom, but madness.“O pride of rank! how much happiness has been left unachieved through thy interference—how many hearts sacrificed on the shrine of thy hollow pretensions!“Blanche! Blanche! It is hard to think there is a barrier between us, that can never be broken down! An obstruction that no merit of mine, no struggle, no triumph, no probation, can remove! It is hard! hard!“And even should I succeed in achieving such triumph, it might be too late? The heart I have now might then be another’s?”“Ah!it may be another’s now! Who knows that it is not?”It was Captain Maynard who made these reflections. He was in his own studio, and seated in his writing chair. But the last thought was too painful for him to remain seated; and, springing to his feet, he commenced pacing the floor.That sweet presentiment was no more in his mind—at least not strongly. The tone and tenour of his soliloquy, especially its last clause, told how much he had lost belief in it. And his manner, as he strode through the room—his glances, gestures, and exclamations—the look of despair, and the long-drawn sigh—told how much Blanche Vernon was in his mind—how much he still loved her!“It is true,” he continued, “she may by this have forgotten me! A child, she may have taken me up as a toy—no more to be thought of when out of sight. Damaged too; for doubtless they’ve done everything to defame me!“Oh! that I could believe that promise, made at the hour of our parting—recorded, too, in writing! Let me look once more at the sweet chirograph!”Thrusting his hand into the pocket of his vest—the one directly over his heart—he drew forth the tiny sheet, there long and fondly treasured. Spreading it out, he once more read:—“Papa is very angry; and I know he will never sanction my seeing you again. I am sad to think we may meet no more; and that you will forget me. I shall never forget you, never—never!”The reading caused him a strange commingling of pain and pleasure, as it had done twenty times before; for not less than twenty times had he deciphered that hastily-scribbled note.But now the pain predominated over the pleasure. He had begun to believe in the emphatic clause “we may never meet more,” and to doubt the declaration “I shall never forget you.” He continued to pace the floor wildly, despairingly.It did not do much to tranquillise him, when his friend, Roseveldt, entered the room, in the making of a morning call. It was an occurrence too common to create any distraction—especially from such thoughts. And the Count had become changed of late. He, too, had a sorrow of a similar kind—a sweetheart, about the consent of whose guardian there was a question.In such matters men may give sympathy, but not consolation. It is only the successful who can speak encouragement.Roseveldt did not stay long, nor was he communicative.Maynard did not know the object of his late-sprung passion—not even her name! He only thought it must be some rare damsel who could have caused such a transformation in his friend—a man so indifferent to the fair sex as to have often declared his determination of dying a bachelor!The Count took his leave in a great hurry; but not before giving a hint as to the why. Maynard noticed that he was dressed with unusual care—his moustache pomaded, his hair perfumed!He confessed to the motive for all this—he was on the way to make a call upon a lady. Furthermore, he designed asking her a question.He did not say what; but left his old comrade under the impression that it wasthe proposal.The interlude was not without suggestions of a ludicrous nature; that for a time won Maynard from his painful imaginings.Only for a short time. They soon returned to him; and once more stooping down, he re-read Blanche Vernon’s note that had been left lying upon the table.Just as he had finished a startling knock at the door—the well-known “ra-ta”—proclaimed the postman.“A letter, sir,” said the lodging-house servant, soon after entering the room.There was no need for a parley; the postage was paid; and Maynard took the letter.The superscription was in the handwriting of a gentleman. It was new to him. There was nothing strange in that. An author fast rising into fame, he was receiving such every day.But he started on turning the envelope to tear it open. There was a crest upon it he at once recognised. It was the crest of the Vernons!Not rudely now was the cream-laid covering displaced but carefully, and with hesitating hand.And with fingers that shook like aspen leaves, did he spread out the contained sheet, also carrying the crest.They became steadier, as he read:—“Sir,—“Your last words to me were:—‘I hope the time may come when you will look less severely on my conduct!’ Mine to you, if I remember aright, were ‘NOT LIKELY!’“Older than yourself, I deemed myself wiser. But the oldest and wisest may be at times mistaken. I do not deem it a humiliation to confess that I have been so, and about yourself. And, sir, if you do not think it such to forgive my abrupt—I should rather say, barbarous—behaviour, it would rejoice me once more to welcome you as my guest. Captain Maynard! I am much changed since you last saw me—in the pride both of spirit and person. I am upon my deathbed; and wish to see you before parting from the world.“There is one by my side, watching over me, who wishes it too. You will come!“George Vernon.”In the afternoon train of that same day, from London to Tunbridge Wells, there travelled a passenger, who had booked himself for Sevenoaks, Kent.He was a gentleman of the name ofMaynard!

“Never more to see her—never more to hear of her! From her I need not expect. She dares not write. No doubt an embargo has been laid upon that. Parental authority forbids it.

“And I dare not write to her! If I did, no doubt, by the same parental authority, my epistle would be intercepted—still further compromising her—still further debarring the chance of a reconciliation with her father!

“I dare not do it—I should not!

“Why should I not? Is it not after all but a false sentiment of chivalry?

“And am Inotfalse to myself—to her? What authority over the heart is higher than its own inclining? In the disposal of the hand, this, and this alone, should be consulted. Who has the right to interpose between two hearts mutually loving? To forbid their mutual happiness?

“The parent claims such right, and too often exercises it! It may be a wise control; but is it a just one?

“And there are times, too, when it may not be wisdom, but madness.

“O pride of rank! how much happiness has been left unachieved through thy interference—how many hearts sacrificed on the shrine of thy hollow pretensions!

“Blanche! Blanche! It is hard to think there is a barrier between us, that can never be broken down! An obstruction that no merit of mine, no struggle, no triumph, no probation, can remove! It is hard! hard!

“And even should I succeed in achieving such triumph, it might be too late? The heart I have now might then be another’s?”

“Ah!it may be another’s now! Who knows that it is not?”

It was Captain Maynard who made these reflections. He was in his own studio, and seated in his writing chair. But the last thought was too painful for him to remain seated; and, springing to his feet, he commenced pacing the floor.

That sweet presentiment was no more in his mind—at least not strongly. The tone and tenour of his soliloquy, especially its last clause, told how much he had lost belief in it. And his manner, as he strode through the room—his glances, gestures, and exclamations—the look of despair, and the long-drawn sigh—told how much Blanche Vernon was in his mind—how much he still loved her!

“It is true,” he continued, “she may by this have forgotten me! A child, she may have taken me up as a toy—no more to be thought of when out of sight. Damaged too; for doubtless they’ve done everything to defame me!

“Oh! that I could believe that promise, made at the hour of our parting—recorded, too, in writing! Let me look once more at the sweet chirograph!”

Thrusting his hand into the pocket of his vest—the one directly over his heart—he drew forth the tiny sheet, there long and fondly treasured. Spreading it out, he once more read:—

“Papa is very angry; and I know he will never sanction my seeing you again. I am sad to think we may meet no more; and that you will forget me. I shall never forget you, never—never!”

The reading caused him a strange commingling of pain and pleasure, as it had done twenty times before; for not less than twenty times had he deciphered that hastily-scribbled note.

But now the pain predominated over the pleasure. He had begun to believe in the emphatic clause “we may never meet more,” and to doubt the declaration “I shall never forget you.” He continued to pace the floor wildly, despairingly.

It did not do much to tranquillise him, when his friend, Roseveldt, entered the room, in the making of a morning call. It was an occurrence too common to create any distraction—especially from such thoughts. And the Count had become changed of late. He, too, had a sorrow of a similar kind—a sweetheart, about the consent of whose guardian there was a question.

In such matters men may give sympathy, but not consolation. It is only the successful who can speak encouragement.

Roseveldt did not stay long, nor was he communicative.

Maynard did not know the object of his late-sprung passion—not even her name! He only thought it must be some rare damsel who could have caused such a transformation in his friend—a man so indifferent to the fair sex as to have often declared his determination of dying a bachelor!

The Count took his leave in a great hurry; but not before giving a hint as to the why. Maynard noticed that he was dressed with unusual care—his moustache pomaded, his hair perfumed!

He confessed to the motive for all this—he was on the way to make a call upon a lady. Furthermore, he designed asking her a question.

He did not say what; but left his old comrade under the impression that it wasthe proposal.

The interlude was not without suggestions of a ludicrous nature; that for a time won Maynard from his painful imaginings.

Only for a short time. They soon returned to him; and once more stooping down, he re-read Blanche Vernon’s note that had been left lying upon the table.

Just as he had finished a startling knock at the door—the well-known “ra-ta”—proclaimed the postman.

“A letter, sir,” said the lodging-house servant, soon after entering the room.

There was no need for a parley; the postage was paid; and Maynard took the letter.

The superscription was in the handwriting of a gentleman. It was new to him. There was nothing strange in that. An author fast rising into fame, he was receiving such every day.

But he started on turning the envelope to tear it open. There was a crest upon it he at once recognised. It was the crest of the Vernons!

Not rudely now was the cream-laid covering displaced but carefully, and with hesitating hand.

And with fingers that shook like aspen leaves, did he spread out the contained sheet, also carrying the crest.

They became steadier, as he read:—

“Sir,—

“Your last words to me were:—‘I hope the time may come when you will look less severely on my conduct!’ Mine to you, if I remember aright, were ‘NOT LIKELY!’

“Older than yourself, I deemed myself wiser. But the oldest and wisest may be at times mistaken. I do not deem it a humiliation to confess that I have been so, and about yourself. And, sir, if you do not think it such to forgive my abrupt—I should rather say, barbarous—behaviour, it would rejoice me once more to welcome you as my guest. Captain Maynard! I am much changed since you last saw me—in the pride both of spirit and person. I am upon my deathbed; and wish to see you before parting from the world.

“There is one by my side, watching over me, who wishes it too. You will come!

“George Vernon.”

In the afternoon train of that same day, from London to Tunbridge Wells, there travelled a passenger, who had booked himself for Sevenoaks, Kent.

He was a gentleman of the name ofMaynard!

Chapter Eighty Three.Both Pre-engaged.Scarce a week had elapsed since that somewhat lugubrious interview between Count Roseveldt and Captain Maynard in the room of the latter, when the two men once more met in the same apartment.This time under changed circumstances, as indicated in the countenances of both.Both seemed as jolly and joyous as if all Europe had become republican!And not only seemed it, but were so; for both of them had reason.The Count had come in. The Captain was just going out.“What luck!” cried the latter. “I was starting in search of you!”“And I’ve come in search of you! Captain, I might have missed you! I wouldn’t for fifty pounds.”“I wouldn’t have missed you for a hundred, Count! I want you in a most important matter.”“I want you in one more important.”“You’ve been quarrelling, Count? I’m sorry for it I’m afraid I shall not be able to serve you.”“Reserve your regrets for yourself. It’s more like you to be getting into a scrape of that kind.Pardieu! I suppose you’re in one?”“Quite the reverse! At all events, if I’m in a scrape, as you call it, it’s one of a more genial nature. I’m going to be married.”“Mein Gott! so am I!”“She’s consented, then?”“She has. And yours? I needn’t ask who it is. It’s the yellow-haired child, I suppose?”“I once told you, Count,that child would yet be my wife. I have now the felicity to tell youshe will.”“Mère de Dieu! it is wonderful. I shall henceforth believe in presentiments. I had the same when I first sawher!”“Her? You mean the future Countess de Roseveldt? You have not told me who is destined for your honour?”“I tell you now,cher capitaine, that she is the prettiest, dearest, sweetest little pet you ever set eyes on. She’ll give you a surprise when you do. But you shan’t have it till you’re introduced to her right in front of the altar; where you must go with me. I’ve come to bespeak you for that purpose.”“How very odd! It was for that I was going to you.”“To engage me for best man?”“Of course; you once consented to be my second. I know you won’t refuse me now?”“It would be ungrateful if I did—requiring from you a similar service. I suppose you consent to reciprocate?”“By all means. You may count upon me.”“And you upon me. But when are you to be ‘turned off’ as these Britishers term it?”“Next Thursday, at eleven o’clock.”“Thursday at eleven o’clock?” repeated the Count in surprise. “Why, that’s the very day and hour I am myself to be made a benedict of!Sacré Dieu! We’ll both be engaged in the same business then at the same time! We won’t be able to assist one another!”“A strange coincidence!” remarked Maynard; “very awkward too!”“Peste! isn’t it? What a pity we couldn’t pull together?”Of the hundreds of churches contained in the great city of London, it never occurred to either, that they might be married in the same.“What’s to be done,cher capitaine?” asked the Austrian. “I’m a stranger here, and don’t know a soul—that is, enough for this! And you—although speaking the language—appear to be not much better befriended! What’s to be done for both of us?”Maynard was amused at the Count’s perplexity. Stranger as he was, he had no fears for himself. In the great world of London he knew of more than one who would be willing to act as his groomsman—especially with a baronet’s daughter for the bride!“Stay!” cried Roseveldt, after reflecting. “I have it! There’s Count Ladislaus Teleky. He’ll do for me. And there’s—there’s his cousin, Count Francis! Why shouldn’t he stand up for you? I know you are friends. I’ve seen you together.”“Quite true,” said Maynard, remembering; “Though I didn’t think of him, Count Francis is the very man. I know he’ll consent to see me bestowed. It’s not ten days since I assisted in making him a citizen of this proud British Empire, in order that he might do as I intend doing—marry a lady who ranks among the proudest of its aristocracy. Thank you, my dear Count, for suggesting him. He is in every way suitable; and I shall avail myself of his services.”The two parted; one to seek Count Ladislaus Teleky, the other Francis, to stand sponsors for them in that ceremony of pleasant anticipation—the most important either had ever gone through in his life.

Scarce a week had elapsed since that somewhat lugubrious interview between Count Roseveldt and Captain Maynard in the room of the latter, when the two men once more met in the same apartment.

This time under changed circumstances, as indicated in the countenances of both.

Both seemed as jolly and joyous as if all Europe had become republican!

And not only seemed it, but were so; for both of them had reason.

The Count had come in. The Captain was just going out.

“What luck!” cried the latter. “I was starting in search of you!”

“And I’ve come in search of you! Captain, I might have missed you! I wouldn’t for fifty pounds.”

“I wouldn’t have missed you for a hundred, Count! I want you in a most important matter.”

“I want you in one more important.”

“You’ve been quarrelling, Count? I’m sorry for it I’m afraid I shall not be able to serve you.”

“Reserve your regrets for yourself. It’s more like you to be getting into a scrape of that kind.Pardieu! I suppose you’re in one?”

“Quite the reverse! At all events, if I’m in a scrape, as you call it, it’s one of a more genial nature. I’m going to be married.”

“Mein Gott! so am I!”

“She’s consented, then?”

“She has. And yours? I needn’t ask who it is. It’s the yellow-haired child, I suppose?”

“I once told you, Count,that child would yet be my wife. I have now the felicity to tell youshe will.”

“Mère de Dieu! it is wonderful. I shall henceforth believe in presentiments. I had the same when I first sawher!”

“Her? You mean the future Countess de Roseveldt? You have not told me who is destined for your honour?”

“I tell you now,cher capitaine, that she is the prettiest, dearest, sweetest little pet you ever set eyes on. She’ll give you a surprise when you do. But you shan’t have it till you’re introduced to her right in front of the altar; where you must go with me. I’ve come to bespeak you for that purpose.”

“How very odd! It was for that I was going to you.”

“To engage me for best man?”

“Of course; you once consented to be my second. I know you won’t refuse me now?”

“It would be ungrateful if I did—requiring from you a similar service. I suppose you consent to reciprocate?”

“By all means. You may count upon me.”

“And you upon me. But when are you to be ‘turned off’ as these Britishers term it?”

“Next Thursday, at eleven o’clock.”

“Thursday at eleven o’clock?” repeated the Count in surprise. “Why, that’s the very day and hour I am myself to be made a benedict of!Sacré Dieu! We’ll both be engaged in the same business then at the same time! We won’t be able to assist one another!”

“A strange coincidence!” remarked Maynard; “very awkward too!”

“Peste! isn’t it? What a pity we couldn’t pull together?”

Of the hundreds of churches contained in the great city of London, it never occurred to either, that they might be married in the same.

“What’s to be done,cher capitaine?” asked the Austrian. “I’m a stranger here, and don’t know a soul—that is, enough for this! And you—although speaking the language—appear to be not much better befriended! What’s to be done for both of us?”

Maynard was amused at the Count’s perplexity. Stranger as he was, he had no fears for himself. In the great world of London he knew of more than one who would be willing to act as his groomsman—especially with a baronet’s daughter for the bride!

“Stay!” cried Roseveldt, after reflecting. “I have it! There’s Count Ladislaus Teleky. He’ll do for me. And there’s—there’s his cousin, Count Francis! Why shouldn’t he stand up for you? I know you are friends. I’ve seen you together.”

“Quite true,” said Maynard, remembering; “Though I didn’t think of him, Count Francis is the very man. I know he’ll consent to see me bestowed. It’s not ten days since I assisted in making him a citizen of this proud British Empire, in order that he might do as I intend doing—marry a lady who ranks among the proudest of its aristocracy. Thank you, my dear Count, for suggesting him. He is in every way suitable; and I shall avail myself of his services.”

The two parted; one to seek Count Ladislaus Teleky, the other Francis, to stand sponsors for them in that ceremony of pleasant anticipation—the most important either had ever gone through in his life.

Chapter Eighty Four.The Meet at Church.For Maynard a happy morn!It was that of the day on which Blanche Vernon was to become his bride!His presentiment was upon the point of being fulfilled; thechildwas to be hiswife!Not by abduction; not by clandestine marriage; but openly, in the face of the world, and with the consent of her father!Sir George had conceded—arranged everything, even to the details of the marriage ceremony.It was to be soon—at once.Before dying, he desired to see his daughter bestowed and under protection.If he had not chosen the arms that were to protect her, he no longer opposed her choice.He had now sanctified it by a free formal approval. His future son-in-law was no more a stranger-guest in the mansion at Sevenoaks, Kent.The nuptials were not to be celebrated there. Not that Sir George would have felt any shame in such celebration; but because he did not deem it opportune.He knew that ere long sable plumes would be seen waving there, with a black hatchment upon the wall. He wished not that these funereal emblems should so soon fling their blighting shadow over the orange blossoms of the bridal.It could be conveniently avoided. He had a sister living in Kensington Gore; and from her house his daughter could be married.Besides, the old parish church of Kensington was that before whose altar he had himself stood, some twenty years ago, with Blanche’s mother by his side.The arrangement would be altogether appropriate.It was determined upon; and Captain Maynard was requested to present himself upon a certain day, at a certain hour, in the church of Saint Mary’s, Kensington.He came, accompanied by Count Francis Teleky; and there met his bride attended by her maids.They were not many, for Blanche had expressed a desire to shun ostentation. She only wanted to be wed to the man who had won her heart!But few as were her bridesmaids, they were among the noblest of the land, each of them bearing a title.And they were of its loveliest too; every one of them entitled to the appellation of “belle.”The bridegroom saw them not. Having saluted each with a simple bow, his eyes became bent upon his bride; and there stayed they.No colours blend more harmoniously than those of the sunbeam and the rose. Over none drapes the bridal veil more becomingly.Blanche Vernon needed not to blush. She had colour enough without that.But as her gaze met his, and his voice, like the challenge to some beleaguered citadel, seemed to sound the death-knell of her maiden days, she felt a strange sweet trembling in her heart, while the tint deepened upon her cheeks.She was but too happy to surrender.Never in Maynard’s eyes had she looked so lovely. He stood as if spell-bound, gazing upon her beauty, with but one thought in his mind—a longing to embrace her!He who has worshipped only in churches of modern structure can have but little idea of the interior of one such as that of Saint Mary’s, Kensington. Its deep pews and heavy overhanging galleries, its shadowy aisles flanked by pillars and pilasters, make it the type of the sacred antique; and on Maynard’s mind it produced this impression.And he thought of the thousands of thousands who had worshipped within its walls, of knights and noble dames, who had knelt before its altar, and whose escutcheons were recorded in the stained glass of its windows, as in brass palimpsests set in the flags beneath his feet. How suggestive these records of high chivalric thought, penetrating the far past, and flinging their mystic influence over the present!It was upon Maynard, as he stood regarding them.

For Maynard a happy morn!

It was that of the day on which Blanche Vernon was to become his bride!

His presentiment was upon the point of being fulfilled; thechildwas to be hiswife!

Not by abduction; not by clandestine marriage; but openly, in the face of the world, and with the consent of her father!

Sir George had conceded—arranged everything, even to the details of the marriage ceremony.

It was to be soon—at once.

Before dying, he desired to see his daughter bestowed and under protection.

If he had not chosen the arms that were to protect her, he no longer opposed her choice.

He had now sanctified it by a free formal approval. His future son-in-law was no more a stranger-guest in the mansion at Sevenoaks, Kent.

The nuptials were not to be celebrated there. Not that Sir George would have felt any shame in such celebration; but because he did not deem it opportune.

He knew that ere long sable plumes would be seen waving there, with a black hatchment upon the wall. He wished not that these funereal emblems should so soon fling their blighting shadow over the orange blossoms of the bridal.

It could be conveniently avoided. He had a sister living in Kensington Gore; and from her house his daughter could be married.

Besides, the old parish church of Kensington was that before whose altar he had himself stood, some twenty years ago, with Blanche’s mother by his side.

The arrangement would be altogether appropriate.

It was determined upon; and Captain Maynard was requested to present himself upon a certain day, at a certain hour, in the church of Saint Mary’s, Kensington.

He came, accompanied by Count Francis Teleky; and there met his bride attended by her maids.

They were not many, for Blanche had expressed a desire to shun ostentation. She only wanted to be wed to the man who had won her heart!

But few as were her bridesmaids, they were among the noblest of the land, each of them bearing a title.

And they were of its loveliest too; every one of them entitled to the appellation of “belle.”

The bridegroom saw them not. Having saluted each with a simple bow, his eyes became bent upon his bride; and there stayed they.

No colours blend more harmoniously than those of the sunbeam and the rose. Over none drapes the bridal veil more becomingly.

Blanche Vernon needed not to blush. She had colour enough without that.

But as her gaze met his, and his voice, like the challenge to some beleaguered citadel, seemed to sound the death-knell of her maiden days, she felt a strange sweet trembling in her heart, while the tint deepened upon her cheeks.

She was but too happy to surrender.

Never in Maynard’s eyes had she looked so lovely. He stood as if spell-bound, gazing upon her beauty, with but one thought in his mind—a longing to embrace her!

He who has worshipped only in churches of modern structure can have but little idea of the interior of one such as that of Saint Mary’s, Kensington. Its deep pews and heavy overhanging galleries, its shadowy aisles flanked by pillars and pilasters, make it the type of the sacred antique; and on Maynard’s mind it produced this impression.

And he thought of the thousands of thousands who had worshipped within its walls, of knights and noble dames, who had knelt before its altar, and whose escutcheons were recorded in the stained glass of its windows, as in brass palimpsests set in the flags beneath his feet. How suggestive these records of high chivalric thought, penetrating the far past, and flinging their mystic influence over the present!

It was upon Maynard, as he stood regarding them.

Chapter Eighty Five.The Climax of a Criminal Scheme.Despite the archaeological attractions of Saint Mary’s Church, the bridegroom began to grow impatient With such a bride before him, no wonder he wished quick conduct to the altar!And there was reason too, on account of the long detention. At such a crisis the shortest delay was difficult to be endured.It mattered but little that he knew the cause; for he did know it.Summoned at eleven o’clock, he had been there at the appointed time; but to find that he and his bride were not the only couple to be made happy on that same day, and at the same hour! There was a party that had precedence of his!On first coming into the church, he had seen signs of it—women in white dresses and drooping veils, with flower fillets upon their hair.He had only glanced at them in passing. His own bride was not among them; and his eyes were only for her!While registering his name in the vestry, he had learned incidentally, that not one, but two couples were to be married before him, both together! He was told that the parties were friends.This information was imparted by the officiating curate; who, after giving it, hurried off to perform the ceremony of making four hearts happy at one and the same time.As Maynard and his groomsman returned into the church, they saw standing before the altar, in crescent shape, a row of ladies and gentlemen. There were in all eight of them—two brides, two bridegrooms, with a like number of “maids” and “men.”It was only after again saluting his own bride, and feasting his eyes upon her beauty, that it occurred to him to take a look at those whose happiness was by some ten minutes to take precedence of his.His first glance caused him a singular impression. It was almost ludicrous from the coincidence that declared itself.Count Roseveldt was standing before the shrine, with Ladislaus Teleky by his side, at the same instant recognised by the man at Maynard’s side—his cousin!But who was the lady on Roseveldt’s left, holding him by the hand?Cornelia Inskip!Another coincidence; still another was in store for him; equally strange and far more startling!Following the crescent curvature, he scrutinised the couple on Count Roseveldt’s right. They were the other two standing up to be married.It was with difficulty he could restrain an ejaculation, on recognising Julia Girdwood as the bride, and Richard Swinton the bridegroom!With an effort he controlled himself. It was no business of his; and he only made the muttered remark:—“Poor girl! there’s something noble about her. What a pity she should throw herself away on such a scamp as Dick Swinton!”Maynard knew onlysomeof Dick Swinton’s antecedents. He had no suspicion that the ex-guardsman was at that moment in the act of committingbigamy!It had not yet reached fulfilment. It was upon the verge of it. As Maynard stood in speechless contemplation, the clergyman came to that solemn question, proceeding from his lips in the form of a demand:—“I require and charge of you in the... if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.”There was the usual interval of silence, but not so long as is usual. It was shortened by a response, a thing altogether unusual! This came not from bride or bridegroom, but a third party, who suddenly appeared upon the scene!A woman, young and beautiful, well-dressed, but with a wild look in her eye, and anger in her every movement, shot out from behind one of the supporting columns, and hastily approached the altar! She was followed by two men, who appeared to act under her orders.“If they don’t know any impediment, I do,” cried she; “one that will hinder them from being joined in matrimony. I mean these two!” she added, pointing to Swinton and Julia!“On what ground do you interfere?” gasped the clergyman, as soon as he had recovered from the shock of surprise. “Speak, woman!”“On the ground that this man is married already. He is my husband, and would have been mymurderer, but for—Here, men!” she commanded, dropping the explanatory tone as she turned to the two plain-clothes policemen who attended her, “take this gentleman in charge, and see that you keep him in safe custody. This is your warrant.”The two representatives of the executive did not stay to examine the piece of stamped paper. They were already acquainted with its character; and before the bigamous bridegroom could speak a word of protest, their horny hands were laid upon his shoulder, ready, at resistance, to clutch him by the collar!He made none—not even a show of it. He looked like a man suddenly thunderstruck—trembling from head to foot; and, trembling, he was conducted out of the church! It is not in the power of the pen to describe the scene he had so unwillingly forsaken. The tableau, of which he had formed part, was broken up by his involuntary departure. It became transformed into a crowd—a confusion of talking men and shrieking women.Julia Girdwood was not among them. At the first interruption of the ceremony, by that excited intruder, she had comprehended all. Some instinct seemed to warn her of her woe; and guided by it, she glided out of the church, and took solitary shelter in a carriage that was to have borne her home a bride, with a husband by her side!A new tableau, with characters all changed, was soon after formed in front of the altar.It was not disturbed, till after Captain Maynard had placed the ring on Blanche Vernon’s finger, saluted her as his wedded wife, and listened to the prayer that sanctified their union!Then there was a hand-shaking all round, a kissing on the part of pretty bridesmaids, a rustling of silk dresses as they filed out of the church, a getting into grand carriages, and then off to the aunt’s residence in Kensington Gore!That same evening a gentleman travelled to Tunbridge Wells, with a lady by his side, on whose finger glittered a plain gold ring newly placed there. It was not lonely for them, having a whole carriage to themselves. They were the most contented couple in the train!

Despite the archaeological attractions of Saint Mary’s Church, the bridegroom began to grow impatient With such a bride before him, no wonder he wished quick conduct to the altar!

And there was reason too, on account of the long detention. At such a crisis the shortest delay was difficult to be endured.

It mattered but little that he knew the cause; for he did know it.

Summoned at eleven o’clock, he had been there at the appointed time; but to find that he and his bride were not the only couple to be made happy on that same day, and at the same hour! There was a party that had precedence of his!

On first coming into the church, he had seen signs of it—women in white dresses and drooping veils, with flower fillets upon their hair.

He had only glanced at them in passing. His own bride was not among them; and his eyes were only for her!

While registering his name in the vestry, he had learned incidentally, that not one, but two couples were to be married before him, both together! He was told that the parties were friends.

This information was imparted by the officiating curate; who, after giving it, hurried off to perform the ceremony of making four hearts happy at one and the same time.

As Maynard and his groomsman returned into the church, they saw standing before the altar, in crescent shape, a row of ladies and gentlemen. There were in all eight of them—two brides, two bridegrooms, with a like number of “maids” and “men.”

It was only after again saluting his own bride, and feasting his eyes upon her beauty, that it occurred to him to take a look at those whose happiness was by some ten minutes to take precedence of his.

His first glance caused him a singular impression. It was almost ludicrous from the coincidence that declared itself.

Count Roseveldt was standing before the shrine, with Ladislaus Teleky by his side, at the same instant recognised by the man at Maynard’s side—his cousin!

But who was the lady on Roseveldt’s left, holding him by the hand?Cornelia Inskip!

Another coincidence; still another was in store for him; equally strange and far more startling!

Following the crescent curvature, he scrutinised the couple on Count Roseveldt’s right. They were the other two standing up to be married.

It was with difficulty he could restrain an ejaculation, on recognising Julia Girdwood as the bride, and Richard Swinton the bridegroom!

With an effort he controlled himself. It was no business of his; and he only made the muttered remark:—“Poor girl! there’s something noble about her. What a pity she should throw herself away on such a scamp as Dick Swinton!”

Maynard knew onlysomeof Dick Swinton’s antecedents. He had no suspicion that the ex-guardsman was at that moment in the act of committingbigamy!

It had not yet reached fulfilment. It was upon the verge of it. As Maynard stood in speechless contemplation, the clergyman came to that solemn question, proceeding from his lips in the form of a demand:—

“I require and charge of you in the... if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.”

There was the usual interval of silence, but not so long as is usual. It was shortened by a response, a thing altogether unusual! This came not from bride or bridegroom, but a third party, who suddenly appeared upon the scene!

A woman, young and beautiful, well-dressed, but with a wild look in her eye, and anger in her every movement, shot out from behind one of the supporting columns, and hastily approached the altar! She was followed by two men, who appeared to act under her orders.

“If they don’t know any impediment, I do,” cried she; “one that will hinder them from being joined in matrimony. I mean these two!” she added, pointing to Swinton and Julia!

“On what ground do you interfere?” gasped the clergyman, as soon as he had recovered from the shock of surprise. “Speak, woman!”

“On the ground that this man is married already. He is my husband, and would have been mymurderer, but for—Here, men!” she commanded, dropping the explanatory tone as she turned to the two plain-clothes policemen who attended her, “take this gentleman in charge, and see that you keep him in safe custody. This is your warrant.”

The two representatives of the executive did not stay to examine the piece of stamped paper. They were already acquainted with its character; and before the bigamous bridegroom could speak a word of protest, their horny hands were laid upon his shoulder, ready, at resistance, to clutch him by the collar!

He made none—not even a show of it. He looked like a man suddenly thunderstruck—trembling from head to foot; and, trembling, he was conducted out of the church! It is not in the power of the pen to describe the scene he had so unwillingly forsaken. The tableau, of which he had formed part, was broken up by his involuntary departure. It became transformed into a crowd—a confusion of talking men and shrieking women.

Julia Girdwood was not among them. At the first interruption of the ceremony, by that excited intruder, she had comprehended all. Some instinct seemed to warn her of her woe; and guided by it, she glided out of the church, and took solitary shelter in a carriage that was to have borne her home a bride, with a husband by her side!

A new tableau, with characters all changed, was soon after formed in front of the altar.

It was not disturbed, till after Captain Maynard had placed the ring on Blanche Vernon’s finger, saluted her as his wedded wife, and listened to the prayer that sanctified their union!

Then there was a hand-shaking all round, a kissing on the part of pretty bridesmaids, a rustling of silk dresses as they filed out of the church, a getting into grand carriages, and then off to the aunt’s residence in Kensington Gore!

That same evening a gentleman travelled to Tunbridge Wells, with a lady by his side, on whose finger glittered a plain gold ring newly placed there. It was not lonely for them, having a whole carriage to themselves. They were the most contented couple in the train!

Chapter Eighty Six.Still Later.With mingled emotions do we bring our tale to a close. Some of its scenes may have given pain; while others, it is to be hoped, have been suggestive of pleasure.And with like mingled emotions, must we part from its conspicuous characters: leaving some with regret, others with gladness.There are those of them whose after fate cannot fail to cause pain. Perhaps more than all that of Julia Girdwood.It is told in three words: a disgust with all mankind—a determination never to marry—and its consequence, a life of old maid-hood!She still lives it, and who knows that she may not like it? If not now, when her mother takes departure from the world, leaving her to the enjoyment of a million dollars.But Mrs Girdwood has not done so yet; and says she don’t intend to for a score of years to come!She would herself get married, but for that crooked clause in the deceased storekeeper’s will, which is all-powerful to prevent her!“Poor Fan Swinton!”So a moralist might have said, who saw her, six months after, driving through the Park, with a parasol upon her whip, and a pair of high-steppers in the traces—both whip and steppers paid for by one who is not her husband.Perhaps there were but few moralists in the Park to make the reflection!“And poor Dick Swinton!”There were still fewer to say that, as the ex-guardsman stood in the dock of a criminal court, charged not only with an attempt at bigamy, but murder!Fewer still, after both charges had been proved; and with hair close cropped he took forced departure for a far-distant land!The “other count” went in the same ship with him, into a like involuntary exile, and from causes somewhat similar!And the Honourable Geraldine Courtney in time followed suit: she losing her luxuriant tresses for having changed from the profession of “horse coper” to the less reputable calling of coiner!She had a long “innings,” however, before it came to that: time enough to bring to ruin more than one young swell—among others Frank Scudamore, the “spooney” of the Haymarket supper.Sir Robert Cottrell still lives; and still continues to make grand conquests at the cheapest possible price.And alive, too, are Messrs Lucas and Spiller, both returned to America from their European tour, and both yet bachelors.The former may be seen any day sauntering along the streets of New York, and frequently flitting around that Fifth Avenue House, where dwells the disconsolate Julia.Notwithstanding repeated repulses, he has not lost hope of consoling her, by effecting a change in her name!His shadow, Spiller, is not so much seen along with him—at least upon the flags of the Fifth Avenue.Cornelia Inskip, the star that should have attracted him thither, is no longer there. The daughter of the Poughkeepsie retailer has long since changed, not only her name, but place of abode. She can be found in the capital of Austria, by any one inquiring for the Countess von Roseveldt.More fortunate than her ambitious cousin, who sought a title without finding it, Cornelia found one without seeking it!It seems like dealing out dramatic justice, but the story is true. Not much of a tragedy, since we have but one death to record. That, too, expected, though painful.Sir George Vernon died; but not till after having seen his daughter married to the man of her choice, and given his blessing both to theChild Wifeand her chosen husband.It has long made them happy in their English home; and, now, in a far foreign land—the land where they first saw one another—that blessing still clings to them.Maynard believes in Blanche, and she in him, as at that hour when she saw him lifted in the arms of big-bearded men, and carried on board the Cunard steamer!That proud triumph over the people has made an impression upon her heart, never to be effaced! And to win such a wife,who would not be true to the people!The End.

With mingled emotions do we bring our tale to a close. Some of its scenes may have given pain; while others, it is to be hoped, have been suggestive of pleasure.

And with like mingled emotions, must we part from its conspicuous characters: leaving some with regret, others with gladness.

There are those of them whose after fate cannot fail to cause pain. Perhaps more than all that of Julia Girdwood.

It is told in three words: a disgust with all mankind—a determination never to marry—and its consequence, a life of old maid-hood!

She still lives it, and who knows that she may not like it? If not now, when her mother takes departure from the world, leaving her to the enjoyment of a million dollars.

But Mrs Girdwood has not done so yet; and says she don’t intend to for a score of years to come!

She would herself get married, but for that crooked clause in the deceased storekeeper’s will, which is all-powerful to prevent her!

“Poor Fan Swinton!”

So a moralist might have said, who saw her, six months after, driving through the Park, with a parasol upon her whip, and a pair of high-steppers in the traces—both whip and steppers paid for by one who is not her husband.

Perhaps there were but few moralists in the Park to make the reflection!

“And poor Dick Swinton!”

There were still fewer to say that, as the ex-guardsman stood in the dock of a criminal court, charged not only with an attempt at bigamy, but murder!

Fewer still, after both charges had been proved; and with hair close cropped he took forced departure for a far-distant land!

The “other count” went in the same ship with him, into a like involuntary exile, and from causes somewhat similar!

And the Honourable Geraldine Courtney in time followed suit: she losing her luxuriant tresses for having changed from the profession of “horse coper” to the less reputable calling of coiner!

She had a long “innings,” however, before it came to that: time enough to bring to ruin more than one young swell—among others Frank Scudamore, the “spooney” of the Haymarket supper.

Sir Robert Cottrell still lives; and still continues to make grand conquests at the cheapest possible price.

And alive, too, are Messrs Lucas and Spiller, both returned to America from their European tour, and both yet bachelors.

The former may be seen any day sauntering along the streets of New York, and frequently flitting around that Fifth Avenue House, where dwells the disconsolate Julia.

Notwithstanding repeated repulses, he has not lost hope of consoling her, by effecting a change in her name!

His shadow, Spiller, is not so much seen along with him—at least upon the flags of the Fifth Avenue.

Cornelia Inskip, the star that should have attracted him thither, is no longer there. The daughter of the Poughkeepsie retailer has long since changed, not only her name, but place of abode. She can be found in the capital of Austria, by any one inquiring for the Countess von Roseveldt.

More fortunate than her ambitious cousin, who sought a title without finding it, Cornelia found one without seeking it!

It seems like dealing out dramatic justice, but the story is true. Not much of a tragedy, since we have but one death to record. That, too, expected, though painful.

Sir George Vernon died; but not till after having seen his daughter married to the man of her choice, and given his blessing both to theChild Wifeand her chosen husband.

It has long made them happy in their English home; and, now, in a far foreign land—the land where they first saw one another—that blessing still clings to them.

Maynard believes in Blanche, and she in him, as at that hour when she saw him lifted in the arms of big-bearded men, and carried on board the Cunard steamer!

That proud triumph over the people has made an impression upon her heart, never to be effaced! And to win such a wife,who would not be true to the people!

The End.

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