The Three Brides

for it.'

'And then,' she lowered her voice, 'it does a little reconcile me that I don't think we ought to go further into it till we can understand. I did make that dreadful vow. I know I ought not now; but still I did, in so many words.'

'You mean against a gambler?'

'If it had only been against a gambler; but I was stung, and wanted to guard myself, and made it against any one who had ever betted! If I go on, I must break it, you see, and if I do might it not bring mischief on him? I don't even feel as if it were true to have come to him on Friday, and now-yet they said it was the only chance for his life.'

'Yes, I think it saved him then, and to disappoint him now might quite possibly bring a relapse,' said Julius. 'It seems to me that you can only act as seems right at the moment. When he is his own man again, you will better have the power of judging about this vow, and if it ought to bind you. And so, it may really be well you do not see more of him, and that his weakness does not lead you further than you mean.'

A tottering step, and an almost agonized, though very short sob under the crape veil, proved to Julius that his counsel, though chiming in with her stronger, sterner judgment, was terrible to her, nor would he have given it, if he had not had reason to fear that while she had grown up, Frank had grown down; and that, after this illness, it would have to be proved whether he were indeed worthy of the high-minded girl whom he had himself almost thrown over in a passion.

But there was no room for such misgivings when the electric shock of actual presence was felt-the thin hollow-cheeked face shone with welcome, the liquid brown eyes smiled with thankful sweetness, the fingers, fleshless, but cool and gentle, were held out; and the faint voice said, 'My darling! Once try to make me hear.'

And when, with all her efforts, she could only make him give a sort of smile of disappointment, she would have been stonyhearted indeed if she had not let him fondle her hand as he would, while she listened to his mother's report of his improvement. With those eyes fixed in such content on her face, it seemed absolutely barbarous to falter forth that she could come no more, for her father was taking her away.

'My dear, you must be left with us,' cried Mrs. Poynsett. 'He cannot spare you.'

'Ah! but my poor father. He is lost without me. And I came of age on Tuesday, and there are papers to sign.'

'What is it?' murmured Frank, watching their faces.

Mrs. Poynsett gave her the pen, saying, 'You must tell him, if it is to be.'

She wrote: 'My father takes me to London to-morrow, to meet the lawyers.'

His face fell; but he asked, 'Coming back-when?'

She shook her head, and her eyes filled with tears, as she wrote: 'Sirenwood is to be put up to auction.'

'Your sister?' began Frank, and then his eye fell on her crape trimmings. He touched her sleeve, and made a low wail. 'Oh! is every one dead?'

It was the first perception he had shown of any death, though mourning had been worn in his room. His mother leant down to kiss him, bidding Lena tell him the truth; and she wrote:

'I am left alone with poor papa. Let me go-now you can do without me.'

'Can I?' he asked, again grasping her hand.

She pointed to his mother and Anne; but he repeated, 'You-you!'

'When you are better we will see how it is to be,' she wrote.

He looked sadly wistful. 'No, I can't now. Something was very wrong; but it won't come back. By and by. If you wouldn't go-'

But his voice was now more weak and weary, tired by the effort, and a little kneeling by him, allowing his tender touch, soothed him, enough to say submissively, 'Good-bye, then-I'll come for you'- wherewith he faltered into slumber.

Rosamond had just seen her off in the pony carriage, and was on the way up-stairs, when she stumbled on a little council, consisting of Dr. Worth, Mr. Charnock, and Grindstone, all in the gallery. 'A widow in her twenty- second year. Good heavens!' was the echo she heard; and Grindstone was crying and saying, 'She did it for the best, and she could not do it, poor lamb, not if you killed her for it;' and Dr. Worth said, 'Perhaps Lady Rosamond can. You see, Lady Rosamond, Mrs. Grindstone, whose care I must say has been devoted, has hitherto staved off the sad question from poor young Mrs. Poynsett, until now it is no longer possible, and she is becoming so excited, that-'

Cecil's bell rang sharply.

'I cannot-I cannot! In her twenty-second year!' cried her father, wringing his hands.

Grindstone's face was all tears and contortions; and Rosamond, recollecting her last words with poor Cecil, sprang forward, both men opening a way for her.

Cecil was sitting up in bed, very thin, but with eager eyes and flushed cheeks, as she held out her hands. 'Rosamond! Oh! But aren't you afraid?'

'No, indeed, I'm always in it now,' said Rosamond, kissing her, and laying her down; 'it has been everywhere.'

'Ah! then they sent him away-Raymond?' then clutching Rosamond's hand, and looking at her with searching eyes, 'Tell me, has his mother any right! Would you bear it if she kept you apart?'

'Ah! Cecil, it was not her doing.'

'You don't mean it was his own? Papa is not afraid. You are not afraid. If it had been he, I wouldn't have feared anything. I would have nursed him day and night till-till I made him care for me.'

'Hush, dear Cecil,' said Rosamond, with great difficulty. 'I know you would, and so would he have done for you, only the cruel fever kept you apart.'

'The fever! He had it?'

'Yes, he had it.'

'But he is better. I am better. Let me be taken to him. His mother is not there now. I heard them say she was in Frank's room. Call papa. He will carry me.'

'Oh! poor, poor Cecil. His mother only went to Frank when he did not need her any more.' And Rosamond hid her face on the bed, afraid to look.

Cecil lay back so white, that Grindstone approached with some drops, but this made her spring up, crying, 'No, no, don't come near me! You never told me! You deceived me!'

'Don't, don't, ma'am-my dear Miss Charnock-now. It was all for the best. You would not have been here now.'

'And then I should be with him. Rosamond, send her away, I can't bear her. She sent him away from me that night. I heard her.'

'My dear Cecil, this will not do. You are making your father dreadfully unhappy. Dear Raymond stayed with you till he really could not sit up any longer, and then he kissed you.'

'Kissed me! Oh, where? Did you see? No, don't ask Grindstone. She made me think he had left me, and fancy- oh, Rosamond! such- such things! And all the time-'

The moaning became an anguish of distress, unable to weep, like terrible pain, as the poor young thing writhed in Rosamond's arms. It was well that this one sister understood what had been in Cecil's heart, and did believe in her love for Raymond. Rosamond, too, had caressing power beyond any other of the family, and thus she could better deal with the sufferer, striving, above all, to bring tears by what she whispered to her as she held her to her bosom. They were a terrible storm at last, but Cecil clung to Rosamond through all, absolutely screaming when Grindstone came near; poor Grindstone who had been so devoted, though mistaken. Weakness, however, after the first violent agitation was soothed, favoured a kind of stunned torpor, and Cecil lay still, except when her maid tried to do anything for her, and then the passion returned. When old Susan Alston came with a message, she was at once recognized and monopolized, and became the only servant whom she would suffer about her.

The inconvenience was great, but relapse was such an imminent danger, that it was needful to give up everything to her; and Mr. Charnock, regarding his daughter's sufferings as the only ones worth consideration, seemed to pursue Rosamond the instant she had sat down by the still feeble, weary, convalescent Terry, imploring her to return to Cecil with the irresistible force of tearful eyes and piteous descriptions; and as Terry had a week's start in recovery, and was not a widow under twenty-two, he had to submit, and lie as contentedly as he could in his solitude.