Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 11, Number 46, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 14 May 1881 — Page 6

The If

THE/THE mail

A PAPER A PAPER FOR THE PEPPLE.

MY MARRIAGE.

®Y THE AUTHOR Of "PBNKLOPK," ETC,

ThLt story waa began In The Mail, April Back numbers can be had of newsagent*, or bv sending live centa for each copy to the officc of Tne Saturday Evening Mall.]

2tl.

CHAPTER XVI.

War to the knife! A week later Geor gie Bolves the enigma herself. We are to-getber one wet afternoon Humphrey has gone off to a horse-fair with Chris Delaeourt, and Georgie is spend ingtbe day with me. Luncheon is a thing of the past, and we are sitting in tho great arm-chairs by the fire, In lazy luxurious idleness. The rain is streaming down the window panes. Humph wiTl get very wet but I do not think minds. Georgie is very silent to-day and lam not very cheerful and so tne conversation flags, and at last stops altogether. For flve minutes perhaps there is not a sound but the cracking of tho lire and tliesplash and drip of the rain outside. 1 look over at 6eorgie suddenly, and see such a piteous miserable expression written on Iter face that I exclaim hastily— "What is it Georgie? Has anything gone wrong?" .Hbe looks up and her mouth quivers. "Everything has gone wrong!" she says, "I wish! was dead "Ob, Georgie,"and 1 gazed in dismay, for her head nas gone down upon the arm of the chair, and she is crying as if her heart would break.

Georgie Delaeourt, with all ber strength of mind, is only a woman sfter all the tears she has given way to are bitter and passionate as tho tears of those who seldom weep. I go down upon my knees beside her. "Georgie doar, are you in trouble? Won't vou tell .ne?"

She lifts her face with the tears running ''own like rain. llovr ho would triumph if he saw me -no*', crying like a baby because of tho crupl speech of his!" ••You ineun Sir Jasper Vnne?" I say in a low tone, but with the lirm eonviction that be has -aused this storm of bitter tears. "I suppose you have heard all about it, Mttdgie Georgiesays in a low pained voice, tho hot blood creeping from chin to brow. "I know nothing," I answer. And George laughs an hysterical little laugh. "I thought ail the world know that Sir Jasper Viuio jiltod me two years ago." And then sho dashes awav the drops from hor eyelashes. "Madgio, would you lellevethat Sir Jasper ev«r cared for me '•Georgie, you know that I hare never hojutl anything about it hut 1 have wondered how you could dislike him so much."

Unlike him What an innocent child you are, Madgie! 1 hate him—do you understand I hate the sight of that innu—tho sound of his voice!" The pitiful misery iu hor eyes is drowned by a mist of tour* she sh'akes all over and I Ht-arUat tho agony of her next words. "Hate him! What is the use of sayiug It, when I would die to get one smile from liis eyes? Madgio, Madgie, if I -don't speak to somebody, I shall go mad!''

Ho she tells hor story in a half-detiant, whollv wretched mooa, trying to spdak carolossly when hor voice trembles at every second word. "lie did love mo onco," sho begins. •"No mnttor what anyone says, I know ho did care for mo once and it is the only thing I have to think of now, tho knowledge that I had bis tirst, his whole love and no other woman can ever steal that from me! Oh, Madgio what idiots we tiro to stake our life on a man's love! My story is almost worthy of a novel, I think. I was engaged to be married to Sir Jaapor Vane, and wo were idiotically happy, till something came between us and we quarreled. It was a foolish quarrel but Jasper went oiT in a rage, and I would not ask him to stay, or even come back. And I did mad ttfings to show I did not care, and danced all night at a ball with an old (lame of mine. Some kind person kept Sir Jasper well posted as to my doings and, as stories don't lose in tho telling, ho heard pleasing version of my conduct. It was told him that I was marrying him for his title and his wealth-—l\vlu would have loved him if ho had not one penny! We had one mooting after that, and—— Madgie, it is not a pleasant thing to hear a man tell you he wants to have nothing more to do with you. I laughed all the time ho was sjxaking, for I did not believo he was in earnest. And then can you fancy me with my nrms round a man's neck, telling him*I lovod him better than anything olse in this world—begging for pity? lie hud his triumph then, when with his own hand ho untwisted my fingers and what he said burns and stings me still. I did not care what he thought —h- was stern, and as hard as Hint—but 1 kno'.t at his feet and prayed as a lost HOUI might pray to enter Paradise and

Iv look

he merely looked down, and his eyea

never softened. And 1—I loved him

then and 1 leaven lieip me, I love him sitill!" Georgia end* her unhappy love story with a catching of the breath,, and theii then? falls great unbroken silence between vis.

I hold her bands in uiine, and stroke the poo* shaking fingers tenderly, saving toothing for what comfort can words give in a sorrow like th'-H? Tears atand In my eyes. I look up at her at last her face i-» white and hard, and a dismal little smile flits over her month.

Crvlng for me, Madgie? Your husband won't be pleased if he comes home and finds I have made you unhappy. There— 1 am all right now! listen Maagie I would not l* friends with Sir Jasper Vane III could." (*e«rgle leans I wok abd look* at iw, not knowing how the mute anguish of her eyes contradict her words, she is in her flUftg haW'., and it her gnwvful shapeful figure well. I do not think I ever remember seeing her look so well, in spite of the tears mi her pale cheeks. Georgie Delaeourt is the only womau I have ever met who can cry lieeomingly. Her nt*»e netor gets red. her eyelids never tnrell the great tears just well up and tell passionately, leavingliule trace, like children's faces after a Midden tempest of tours. She g«t* up suddenly,

Ma\ I ring to have my horse brought round? It ta getting late, and I am not good or profltaole company to-day. "But it Is taining, Georgie," "I don't mint." «he carries her point and in my pro'' -tall t:.- home tec and tie ^le I to the chair by the Are. **Nev«tf vpeak of this again, Madgie,n nbo

MVS.

r^r iBXSMm

te of

"1 am sure I cannot tell why

1 spoke of it to-day. I seldom make

confidants, for I think it a bad plan, as a role bnt I can trust you, Madgie." "Yon can indeed," I answer with impulsive earnestness. "I never will repeat to anybody what you have just told me." "Not even your husband," Georgie says, and then adds, "but I suppose husDand's and wives tell each other everything."

As I promise, I think with a little bitterness of heart how few confidence pass between Humphrey and I, how little there is of thai inner communion that is supposed to exist between those who are married. "Perhaps it will come right some day, Georgie," I remark presently in a soft shy voice, for I bate probing other people's wounds. "Come right!" A half scornful smile curls her lips. "Madgie, do you not understand that 1 would not bring things right if I could If by one word I could bring him to my fset that word would remain unspoken!"

Verily, if love like Humphrey's is hard to comprehend, this is something stranger, more incomprehensible still.

As the last words fall from her lii the door of the room opens and a Jasper Vane is announced. I glance at Georgie as I rise to receive him. She is trembling visibly and her mouth has taken its hardest, most rebellious expression.

Sir Jasper advances slowly up the long room, and I can see that the smile on his face is forced, and that his eyes

Seyondmyshoulder

over to that other figure and I sinocrely hope be does not see her agitation. It would be gall and wormwood to her proud spirit to be caught as a love-lorn maiden with the tears scarce dried upon her cheeks "I have brought you a message from your husband, Mis. Carstalre," Sir Jasper says, shaking hands with me ana passing on to Georgie, who has risen pale and defiant, to confront him.

He just touches the reluctant hand held out in chilly greeting. Georgie looks down. I think she can hardly trust those dark eyes of hers to-day to meet his and not reveal some of the misery of her heart.

Sir Jasper turned back to me. "Your husband asked me to call, as he cannot be home till late, and he was afraid you might be an xious. Chris met an old friend, who asked him to dine with him at the hotel and ho persuaded Carstairs to stay too. But they were to come home early and I think I have given my message very correctly." "Thank you it was very kind of you tc call," I say. "You are not going already, Georgie?" For she has risen, and now stand beside me. "Yes I cannot keep the horse standing in the wet," sbe says hastily.

Sir Jasper looks at her, pulls bis moustache, and speaks. Miss Delaeourt, you are not going to ride home in this rain?" "Yes, 1 am," sho answers, not looking at him, but coloring a little under his gaze: "My trap is at the door will you allow me to drive you home?" he says, in quite a humble voice for him. "It is raining vory heavily you will get drenched." 'I do not mind a wetting," she answers right quickly. "Georgie, if vou wait a moment I will order the carriage," I say. "Peter will drive you home In the brougham."

Georgie laughs a laugh that is a failure. "Nonsense, Madgio Sultan will carry me home in a quarter of an hour. Goodbye dear and come and see me soon."

A sudden torrent of rain dashes against tho windows, and Sir Jasper exclaims— "Miss Delaeourt, you are mad to venture out in this! You may bring an illness on yourself." "And, if I do, what then?" she answers lightly.

A half stern but wholly sorrowful expression comes into his eyes. "Am I so great an enemy that you will not spend fifteon minutes in my society?" he asks ^n a low voice, looking into the girl's pale face, which twitches suddenly as if with pain before the passionate words come. "You have spoken the truth, Sir Jasper Vane. And you know I would sooner die than receive even so small a favor at your hands!"

And then she passes out of the room, and we follow lu silence. Sir Jasper goes down 4he steps bareheaded in the rain, puts her on ber horse, and then says something as he looks up for a second into her face. In another moment she is cantering down the avenue in the wind an rain, and Sir Jasj^er comes up tho steps again. "Good-bye, Mrs. Carstairs. I must get home. My poor horse looks liko a drowned rat." "Ob, do stay for a moment and tafes a glass of sherry or something!" I say, avoiding looking at his stern set face.

Hut he declines all refreshment, says "Good-bye" hastily, and drives away looking savage ana grim. And I feel sure that for ail his assumed indifference, he cares for Georgie Delaeourt still.

By virtue of the wedding ring on thy finger. I fall to match making, and have so far built my nay castles In the air that I have reaehwi the spot where through my instrumentality Georgie and Sir Jasper are reconciled, when it suddenly occurs to me that it is against all my expressed principles to advocate matrimony as the end and aim of human happiness. Circumstances alter cases for all that, and so I go on erecting my airy fabric of imnginatioB, till theadvent of Bernard with tho candles anounces the near approach of thediuner hour. "The master is dining out, Bernard," I say.

The prospect of dining alone Is rather dreary but I go up stairs and dress as usual, and wish was here. How cheerful we should be together this evening! I am afraid Humphrey's abse»ce would hardly be notlaed if I*had bright merry Bee to keep me company. It Is dreary work sitting at the head of the long table in the dim shadowy dining room, and my husband's vacant place looks very dismal. Outside I can hear the rain splashing and the wind coming in gusts. In spite of myself I feel lonely, sttd my appetite has deserted me: for who cures to prolong dinner and dawdle over dessert if one is all alone?

In «n incredibly short space of time I am liark in the drawing room in the warmth and the ilrelight, wondering how I am to get through the evening. A long letter to home occupies an hour and then for the first time I find myself listening for my husband's step, waiting to catch the first sound of his voiae. And, when at last he comes, I smile up gladly into his face and say— "Humphrey, I am so glad you kara come home."

I }i\

Christ mi* Is over—the first Christmas I have spent from home—and I am glad that it is past and gone and the new vear, only two weeks ok! as yet, is passing on Its way, beginning its infancy with a tempest of rain that lasts dayafter day. Bnt can bear bad weather— anything, is fact—with equanimity, for tens and iBee are coming next week, and I am counting the wuy days sad hours now. 1 have cfatwen two the prettiest and

®iS8

"Only three days, and Bee and Lena will be with me! We are at breakfast, Humphrey and I. The post-bag has just come and behind the great silver urn I am reading a letter from Bee—a long letter, full of wild delight at the prospect of coming to Carstairs and sbe gives a graphic and amusiug descriptions of Lena's dread that their wardrobes will not be considered fashionable enough for the gay neighborhood. ... "Madgie!" .»

Humphrey's voice breaks in upon friy letter reading, and there Is something in bis tone that tells me it is not an ordinary question he is about to ask. "Well," I say, peeping.round the urn, what is it, Humphrey 7"

He has a letter in his hand—a foreign letter apparently, judging from the thin blue envelope. "Madgie," he says again, trying to eak carelessly, but looking at my face all the time to see the effect of his words, "what do you say to a trip to New York?" "To New York I echo, with eyes opening in amazement. "What do you mean, Humphrey

He looks down at the letter in his hand, and then up at me again. "I have an old friend named Grant dying in New York of consumption. This letter is from him and be asks me, as a last favor, to come and see me be^ fore he dies* and be a guardian to his only sister, poor fellow!

I listen blankly to. his explanation, and then turn my eyes away from my husband's fase. r. "Humphrey, must you go

He gets up and comes over to me. "Listen, child. When I was ill In London, years ago, with no friends, "no one to care if I lived or died, Grant nursed me almost night and day for two months, and worked nl nisei ftotf shadow to procure wine and luxuries for me. Don't you think I ought to go? We shall not be away more than six weeks or two months." i"—with a gasp in my voice. "Do you mean that I am to go, Humphrey "Yes," is all he says, gravely and sternly, and puts his dying friend's letter into my hand, rnd then walks away to the window, while I read the faint blotted handwriting, the last touching appeal of man to man and heart to heart.

Slowly I read the letter, and slowly I fold it up. Humphrey, I think you ought to go," I say in a tearful voice, with astress on the "you" which he cannot fail to understand.

He does uot answer immediately. I look over at his tall figure standing in the window, and wonder what he is thinking of, and why he does not speak. The silence becomes unbearable, and I break it at last, timidly and uncertainly. "Bee and Lena will be so disappointed. Humphrey, would you mind if I stayed at home with them

He turns round suddenly. "Great Heaven, Madgie, do you mean to drive me mad And then, as I rise to my feet and stand smitten dumb with wild frightened eyes at the first wrathful words that have ever passed his lips to me, he cries out, with something like a sob in his voice, "Child, child, you will break my heart!"

I do not speak—I only look back at him, with fast-coming tears and gasping, catching breath. Did I seem glad at the prospect of being alone at Carstairs, with my sisters for company Perhaps I showed gladness in my face. I was hardly conscious of even feeling one throb of pleasure at the prospect but Humphrey's jealous, passionate eyes are keen. Tears roll down my cheeks. "Madgie, Madgie, where is all .your bravery? Wife, don't you know it is your duty to accompany me

It hurts me to hear the pitiful stress on the word "duty" as it fails from his lips. "My duty!" I falter, "with a throb of ty for us'both, and go one step nearer to him. "Your wife must not fail in that, Humphrey."

We must go at once," ray husband says, passing his hand wearily across his forehead and I sigh, and think of the long journey before us.

Just for one second my husband's arms clasp me tightly he bends his fare over mine, and keeps it there. "Madgie, Heaven help us both if pnly d#lv keeps you by my side!"

What is the good of my saying anything. No words of mine can makesny difference,

By and by come* and finds me writ* ins a few h**s» lines to iJce to tell her of our sudden strange journey. Not one word do I *iy in blame of my husband but, in spite of myself, one tear has fallen on the paper and left a blistered stain. Humphrey looks sorrowfullv at my woe-begone face. "Madgie darling, it won't be so tonj after all and then yon can have the

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL

brightest bedrooms, and, with Mrs. Steele's help, they are made pictures of luxurious comfort, with laoeand ribbons, and some of Humphrey's pictures on the dark walls. The beas are got up in the white and pink common to the dainty bedrooms provided by novelists for the reception of their heroines. In darlings Bee's room I have placed a writing table well stocked with paper, pens, and ink and at one end of the room stands a book ease into which I have put every book I can find, for if Bee writes she must aead, and out of this heterogeneous mass sle will surely find food for ber mind.

Humphrey laughs at my plans but I think he looks a little sad too. And one evening he says, half smiling, half serious— "I shall be nothing to my wife now, when Bee and Lena come"—putting bis bands on my shoulders as he speaks. And then he laughs at the piteous dismay in my upturned face. "Never mind, my little woman! Be as happy as you can." "Humphrey, I am happy with you very often," I whisper ever so low, and feel his arms close round me tightly. "Wife, darling, will there ever be a time when you cannot be happy without me!"

Drawing back my head, I leok up into his face and read the passionate love there, and a great pity comes into my heart for him. "Humphrey, if I get to care for you as much as Bee, will you be content

A smile comes into his eyes. His voice takes a lower, more loving tone. "Content—but not satisfied. It must be more than Bee, Madgie." "I couldn't, Humphry! I could never love any man as much as Bee!" "Not as much but more—but more," he answers softly.

CHAPTER XVII.

long girts

for the whole summer if yon like." "Am 1 very foolish?" I say, and smile up at him a little.^ One of my repent-

ant fits comes suddenly, and I lean my cheek upon his hand. "Humphrey, I wonder when yon will begin to hate me?** "I will tell you when the time comes. And now, mv child, I want to start the day after to-morrow. Can you be ready?" "Yes," I answer, with a lump in in throat, but rmry resolute and dot to asv I wcmld be rosdy in half it be so willed it.

an hoar

There is ft great deal to be done, and 'r

Mrs. Steele is at ber wits' end and with a pang I hear her giving orders for the dismantling of the two pretty rooms that have besn gotten ready for Lena and Bee. Boxes are packed, and the whole house is in confusion. Chris Delaeourt comes over and offers to do anything in his power.

I think on.r neighbors believe we are crasy for flying off to America to see a dying man and the day before our departure we are besieged with visitors. Nobody seems to believe that we are actually going. The house has a deserted air already. Mrs. Steele is promising herself a field-day in the drawing room after I am gone and I hear murmurs for holland coverings, as she thinks it sacrilege to have the ancient drab brocade exposed for every-day use.

On the day of our departure the china and ornaments disappear into some mysterious cupboards, and the long dim drawing room has a dismantled appearance. We are not to start till the afternoon, and to-morrow we shall be on the salt sea, our faces set towards the New World. In spite ot myself, and notwithstanding my disappointment, I am filled with a not un pleasurable excitement at the prospect of a sea-voyage, «nd all the new sights that lie before us.

The morning is raw and cold, and the air outside is heavy. Drops hang from every bare, black branch and tiny twig, and the world has a soddened look that would be depressing if I had time to think about it. The postman is coming up the avenue. I expect a letter from home, and go out into the hall myself to take the pile of letters and papers from Bernard. Tossing them all down by Humphrey, I seize an euvelope bearing mamma's handwritiug, and, tearinjfii open, see a few scrawled lines, evidently written in a great hurry and I read, with a wild beating heart, tnat Bee—my darling Bee—is ill—scarlatina, the doctors say. "Madgie, what has happened?" Humphrey asks. And I look up and feel myself growing white to the lips. "Bee is ill. I must go to her," I say, slowly and with difficulty. And, without speaking, Humphrey takes the letter from my hand and reads it through. "Scarlatina! Have you had it, Madgie?" "I? No I think not." And then I

Sumpbrey?"

up. "How soon can I go to her, looking up to nim with a sort of dumb appeal, for something tells me if I go to Bee it will be against my husband's wish. And I set my lips together firmly when his low, steady words come. "Madgie, Bee's illness is infectious you cannot go to her." "Imust! Don't try to stop me, Humphrev." lie pauses to prepare himself for the conflict of will against will but he is very oalm and quiet yet. "My darling, if it was anything in reason1, you know I would yield to your wishes, but I cannot allow you to put your life in danger."

But I am deaf to reason. Bee, bright merry Bee, is ill. The life of the one being dearer to me than all else in this world is in danger, and go to her I must and will.

Humphrey," I say desperately, with a choking voice, "you cannot keep me from Bee. I must go to-ttay we areonlv losing time. If you love me you will not say anything more." "If I love yonr" and his voice is as unsteady as my own. "It is because I love you so rnueh that I cannot let you go. Listen, child, Bee has her sisters and her mother with her. She may have taken this illtt&H very lightly and when we come home she will, please Heaven, be well and strong again.'' "You don't mean to take me to New York?" I cry, and then burst into bitter weeping. "Humphrey, Humphrey, I cannot go! Bee may die, and I must, oh I must go to her!"

I sit and sob, and my husband walks up and down and presently I feel his hand on my shoulder. "Darling, you know that I feel for you."

I raise my face and say in a whisper: "Then you will allow me to go to-day? No one eould nurse her as I could. She loves me more than them all."

I thought when I married I should never find any difficulty in obeying my husband. To-day it seems as If this is the hardest of all my vows to keep. "No good could come of you going," Humphrey says gloomily. "It would only trouble Bee and make her anxious for your sake. Don't look, dear, as if I were unkind in saying this, or harsh when I tell you that I absolutely forbid you going to your sister."

Shall I disobey him? Shall I rise to my feet and say I will go my own way? For a moment my heart rises in hot rebellion, and then something in the grave, tender face looking at me in pity, not anger, brings me all at once to my better S©li "What do you wish me to do, Humphrey?" I say very sorrowfully. "Tell me what you think best."

He looks very sad when he speaks— not at once, but as if he were weighing his words. "Madgie, I am fot selfish enough to ask you to accompany me, when I know that in your heart you would rather be at home but,if I allow you to stay here, will you promise not to go to Bee? Will you give me your word now?"

I look into his face as I speak. "I could not promise that, Humphrey.'" "Then, mv child, I must take you with me to l*ew York." Very quietly and patiently he gives his decision, Mia I listen with a sense of desperation. "Madgie, I leave it with yourself to decide." "I will stay her*," I answer, with the feeling that, of the two evils, it is better to choose the least. "And you will promise toot to run away home to Bee?" he urges gently still but I can see how anxiously he waits for my answer. "If Bee is dying," I say, with qtrivering lips, "I must go to her. No promise could keep me from her then." "Bee is young and strong. Why should she die? Madgie, give me your word that, unless the worst comes, you a "I promise"—whispering the words reluctantly. "Now I shall be better satisfied, when I am far away, to know that you are saf* at home."" Then my husband says with a wistful tenderness: "Msdgie, you will write to me every mail "Yes," I answer, thinking little of his loneliness, but my mind, dwelling upon Bee, out of sight and sound of my face and voice, ill, dying perhaps, and my word passed that I sm not to go to her, unless it is for a last good-bye.

The remainder of tho day drags with leaden hours. Humphrey** grave face is a constant reproach. Ones I am will go with you,

SM n^rrlod up to my Me Hester laying my tttng*T*ek in thp wardrobes. "I don't like leaving you here alone, Msdgie/' Humphrey draws very near tor his dspaituj*. I wish ^teo Del»cou£ w^ bere, sho eould have stayed with you whae I am

Giwfettr

0,1

visit,bavlng

4

VM

beaten a cowardly retreat and left the field dear to Sir Jasper Vane. "I shall not mind being alone," I sav bravely. "And I dare say Georgie will be home before you, Humphrey."

My husband's spirits get lower and lower as the hour of his departure draws near. One little act shows his kind heart and his love for me. Shortly before it is time to start, he calls me into the library and hands mo a cheque for one hundred pounds. "For Bee," he says. "I know what an expensive hing an illness is." "Humphrey—how kind!" I say, with a mist of tears in my eyes amd a swelling at my heart.

He listens to my faltering thanks, holds out his arms, and I know the time is come to say good-bye, and I cling to him—sobbing.

Humphrey, I know I ought to have th you. fore you

go foi

me witl Say you forgive me be-

Good-bye, mi

ay wife—my darling!"

His voice is not like his own. Heaven keep you, Madgie! Good-bye!" A few minutes afterwards I am standingalone, white andtearful, and Humphrey is gone. *v

Bee's illness turns out to be very slight, and in a week's time she is out of dsnger. It is the very mildest form of scarlatina. Isabel and Regy take it too,

equally lightly. I am dreadfully 1 seem interminable. My first letter Humphrey causes me much thou especially how to address him. "Dear Humphrey" looks formal, but I have written it down, and there it stays and the orthodox ending, "Your affectionate wife," looks strangely oold. It is a very short letter but 1 don't know what to say and there is a whole half sheet staring me in the faoe in its spotless purity. I road my letter over again, and it seems stiffer and more stilted than ever. So over the blank half sheet I write, "I do miss you very much, Humphrey."

lonely, and the days

I know long afterwards that he kissed that one little sentence again and again, and that the postscript was the only part of the letter he cared to read—the few words lu which I told him that I missed him.

And I do miss him every hour of the day—for time hangs heavily on my hands, and the house is dreadfully, painfuilly still. Humphrey's own room, with the unfinished pictures standing against the wall, looks dreary in the extreme. I miss the form I am so accustomed to see sitting at the easel, but always looking up with a smile when I appear. I 'long—yes I absolutely long to near Humphrey's voice, for a sight of bis gray eyes—the eyes that are always full of sympathy for me.

I must be getting fond of him I say to myself, or I sMbuld not miss him so mush and then I think it is only liecause I am lonely that I miss his presence and put imaginary cases to myself.

Which would I rather see arrive— Humphry

or

Bee. I know that I would

a thousand times rather hear Bee's merry voice than my husband's deep tender tones.

Humphrey or Lena? There is a little doubt here, "but Lena carries the day. Humphrey or Helen? I think that Humphrey would get the gladder welcome.

And so the scale of my affections runs thus—I like Humphrey nearly, but not quite as well as Lena. Though better than Helen. But oh, how immeasurable low is my standard of love for him compared with my love for Bee!

With Bee's returning health my spirits revive, and the sickening anxiety at post time abates. I can eat and sleop now, oease to

start at

avory

I think everyone is a little surprisod at my not going with Humphrey and I fancy that the outward world regards my anxiety about Bee as an excuse to stay at home. "So you were afraid to cross the seas, Mrs. Carstairs?"says Captain Delaeourt. "I don't wonder at this time of Arear it is far more comfortable on shore." •'I was not afraid," I answer. "But how could 1 go when my sister was ill

Ho smiles, and says in a low voice— "We are the gainers and it would have been selfish of Carstairs totakeyouaway when winter is tho gayest time here." "Yes, but I cannot go to any of tho gayeties when Humphrey is away." "Oh, you must—you cannot shut •oursolf up! Georgie talks of coming _iome soon, and she won't be content to live quietly."

Chris sitting at the end of the table turns his smiling blue eyes on me. "Clive is beating sbout the bush, Mrs. Carstairs ho wants to get up private theatricals, and I believe your presence and assistance are indispenssble."

Oh, I couldn't act! I never did such a thing in my life!" I exclaim." "There is to be no aeting Captain Delaeourt hastily interposes. It's only tableaux vivants: ancl you have merely to standstill. They are awfully good fun if well got up and you must help us, Mrs. Carstairs." "You must wait till Georgie comes home, Clive," Mr. Delaeourt says. "I expect her home in about three weeks. And a month hence will do for the tableaux—the getting up of these things half the fun.T' "What are they like!" I ask. "I have never seen any."

Captain Delaeourt proceeds to explain, "living pictures, you know. You can take any subject you liko—from Beauty and the Beast to Mary Queen of Scots on the eve of her execution. Of le as near like the group them after „, through a gauze, the wVole thing is very effective when properly lhrhted. Will you be Mary Queen of Sccts, Mrs. Carstairs?" "I will be anything you like," I answer. "Mrs. Steele told me that there used to be a trunk full of brocaded silks and all kind of antiquities at Carstairs: but she is not sure where the box is. I intended to search for it when my sisters came. Perhaps the things would be of use for the tableaux."

Captain Delaeourt looks delighted. "The very thing, Mrs. Carstairs. It is a mercy thai you did not go to New ^'cfcptain Delaeourt evidently goes* in heart and souMor anything that ne undertakes.

After luncheon, every book in the house is searched for suitable subjects for tableaux. Chris declares himself inca all something modern, Clive—'Arrival of Shab/Ksy/

am awfully lazy about history and that sort of thing. Dont ssk me to tngfl—* anything albout books. Have

mmam

knock,

be­

lieving every sound to be a summons to call me home. Mrs. Steele is very anxious about me, and comes repeatedly to see how I am getting on. She scolds me if she finds me crying. "For illness, ma'am, is a dispensation of Providence. Tears won't make the young lady well and your own health is to be considered."

But Bee is out of danger now. The weather is fine—a mild green winter it is—and weather prophets foretell a wliite March. So I go out into the world again, accept an invitation to lunch at Ripley, and find that Captain Delaeourt is home on leave.

"Don't brother, Chris." Captain Delaeourt has a sheet of paper and a pencil to write down anything that is thought of. He has a number of books around him.

Mrs* Delaeourt suggests will impossible scenes from the Waverly Novels, which are negatived immediately by her dutiful son Clive. "We must have something tragic, and a few desperately sentimental scenes those are the only tableaux that are in the least effective," he says. 'The Huguenot*?" suggests Chris, his eves lighting on the pictures on the wall." "What do you say to that Clive?" "I put that down long ago, also. 'The Black Bruiiswicker.'" "But who will take those characters?" says Chris, in his lazy honest way. "No girl would stand like that with a fellow unless she knew him very well." "Ob, bosh!" cries Captain Delaeourt— "Leave me) to choose the characters, Chris, and they will bo all right." "Wouldn't Klaine make a pretty tableaux?" I say looking over Tennyson." "Yes, lying ou the barge or it would be better to havo her polishing the shield. That would be less hackneyed," Captain Delaeourt returns. "So Blaine goes down on tho list, and we progress swimmingly. "Have something with a soldier in it. Your uniform would came in handy, Clive."

This is another idea from Chris brought out, as usual, aftor long deliberation. "By Jove, yos! Good idea from Chris! Mrs. Carstairs suggests something with a red eoat in it."

Our combined thought results In a scene ,with a doad soldier and angels hovering round. "An awfully jolly idea!" Captain Delaeourt declares. "But how are we to get the angels I do not know. The girls in this region are simply frightful! Mrs. Carstairs, will you bo an angel? But I think I have you in every tableau, and it is hardly fair to give you so much to do." "Besuty and the Beast." This Is also from Chris, who seeuis to have a fortilo imagination. "You and your husband," Captain Delaeourt savs quickly, and then colors crimson. "Oh, I leg your pardon! 1 don't mean anyUiing, Mrs. Carstairs but Carstairs issHch a big fellow, with a beard and all that, and of course thero could bo no one more suitable than yourself to act Beauty." "Of course not," I say, laughing— "Have Beauty and the lteust if you liko. I am sure Humphry would not mind. "We need notdeefda upon thorn all today," Chris observes. "We have lots of time, and ideas may come to ns." [TO HK CONTINUK1».]

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