was so base? What if, on the other | tempter spoke to him, and he listened. Was not the provocation great enough to excuse any thing?-the husband faithless already, and they had not been married two years; the wife so young too, with no brothers to fight for her, no friend to do battle in her behalf, her child dead, nothing to keep her in that unhallowed home! hand, he failed to prove to her that she must remain under Colonel Trevelyan's roof? What had life in store for her? And even if he was successful in his endeavor to promote peace between them, his chivalry no less than his love revolted from the task. It was a position which needed all his tact, all his goodness, all his unselfishness - nay more, all the real love he bore to the woman who stood before him, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, roused by her wrongs into an energy and decision of character of which he had not believed her capable; her blue eyes flashing, color in the sometimes too pale cheeks, the sensitive sweet mouth quivering with emotion, pathetic, pleading, and passionate by turns. Even when most indignant, she looked such a child; it seemed such a short time ago when he had known her to be one, when he might have sheltered her in his strong arms, and they might together have bid defiance to life's worst storms. He loved her so, he would have wished that rough winds should not blow upon her, that even the sorrows and the sickness to which all flesh is heir should not come near her; and now he was called upon to be her adviser and guide under circumstances almost unprecedented. He would have felt for any woman situated as she was; he felt doubly, trebly, fearfully for her; his heart beat, the veins in his forehead seemed to swell nearly to bursting; at that moment he could have killed Colonel Trevelyan, and felt no remorse. For one awful instant the He loved her so dearly, that she would never know what the world thought of her-what she was giving up for his sake-his devotion should make up for all. Colonel Trevelyan was sure to sue for a divorce, and they could be married and live abroad; the circumstances were so exceptional, that in time even good people would visit them, and would realize that it was a case for pity and pardon instead of condemnation. All this passed through his mind in much shorter time than it has taken me to tell it you; and then her own words came suddenly back to him. A great pity came into his heart, a divine pity-for it has in it less of earth than any other human emotion and he talked to her tenderly, wisely, and soothingly. He bade her still hope; he reminded her that things are rarely so black as they seem; that God can and does give strength to those who meet an untoward fate bravely; and that nothing should make us despair but our own sin. She was almost calm, when Colonel Trevelyan's voice sounded on the staircase. All her frenzy seemed to return, and she rushed from the room, exclaiming, "I cannot meet him, I cannot see him! I cannot indeed." Mr. l'Estrange gave her time to make her escape, and then left the house. It was dark already-he had been there for hours-much longer than he had any idea of; and he and Colonel Trevelyan brushed past each other on the staircase without any recognition, except the mere formal one of a passing bow. It was fortunate they did so; for Mr. l'Estrange felt that, to save his life, he could not at that moment have shaken hands with his former friend. He called the next day in Grosvenor Square, and learned that Mrs. Trevelyan was very ill, and could see no one. The same answer was given every day; and one night, three weeks later, when he met Lady St. Clair at dinner, she told him that Geraldine had had a nervous fever; that she had been extremely ill, though never in actual danger; that the doctors had forbid her seeing any one, remaining in London, or going back to Trevelyan for the present, as it was evident she had not at all recovered the shock of the child's death. Colonel Trevelyan had taken a moor in Scotland, to which they would go as soon as she could be moved. So Arthur called several times in Grosvenor Square after this; but evidently the doctor's orders were peremptory, for he was never admitted. He was shown the daily bulletin; and one day, when the report overnight had been infinitely more satisfactory, and he had hoped to have a glimpse of her, the servant informed him that Mrs. Trevelyan was so much better, she had that morning started for Edinburgh in an invalid-carriage, the doctor travelling with them. Weary and heart-sick, Arthur also left London, and went down to his mother for a few weeks; and at last, resisting all her entreaties, he announced that the fever of travel was upon him, and that he must go abroad. And so God saved these two; and some months later, when he was settled at Rome and could think of Geraldine more calmly, he was thankful. On those lovely moonlight nights, which in that sunny clime are nearly as light as day, he thought of little else; he recalled the innocent pathetic face, and was grateful that no remorse mingled with the recollection; that his love had not brought that saddest of all dooms upon the woman who could not, in the sight of God, be his loved and honored wife. At other times he thought of her with a mad and feverish longing—a longing which grew day by day. He would have given the best years of his life to clasp her little hand in his for one moment, to hear her sweet low voice, to look once more upon the face which haunted him. He even accused himself of pusillanimity. Why had he not rescued the woman he loved from a fate like hers? why had he left her to live that death in life? Chained to a man she could not care for-whom she did not even respect-was not any fate preferable to this, and would not God forgive them? What was there to prevent them from passing their lives together-giving up all for each other? God, who had made human beings to love each other, who had created them with such strong and tender feelings, could not intend them to suffer eternally | much older woman than her years, and misery like that which had consumed certainly a sad one. She is very hand his heart for years. God, more merciful than men, would judge them rightly and forgive. He cursed himself for his folly and his weakness; and had almost made up his mind to return to England. Of course his mother took care that he got the English newspapers pretty regularly; and when he had been away a little more than a year, he read of the birth of another heir to Trevelyan. He tried to pray that some sunshine might come into the lonely life of the young mother. But a few months later he missed the paragraph which announced the death of the poor little boy; and thus it came about that he never even wrote to her. He had often longed to do so, but he dared not; he felt that in a letter he must tell her how passionately, and madly, and vainly, he loved her; how he was endeavoring to crush that love out of his life; how he was striving with might and main to think of her only as a friend. Time, the great healer, brought him some relief at last; and he threw himself heart and soul into an historical picture which he had long had in his mind to paint, and which was the largest work he had yet undertaken. CHAPTER XVI. "For already it is gone; God's blessing on her earlier years bestowed, WE pass over five years, and find my heroine again in London, looking a some-handsomer than when first we made her acquaintance. Just as every one had predicted who had seen her in her girlhood, she has developed into a very beautiful woman; but I think a stranger would have pronounced her to be fully three years older than she is. She has dark circles round her eyes, and a worn look in her face; a restless expression too, which some would have called discontent, and others sadness. The rich and beautiful Mrs. Trevelyan, what can she have to make her unhappy?—her husband so handsome and distinguishedlooking; her grand London house; her stately and beautiful country home, with its gardens and conservatories, its vineries and pleasure-grounds. She has a great deal of good society too, and can pick and choose, and go where she pleases; she is always faultlessly dressed, has as much pocket-money or more than she knows what to do with; but she does not look in good health; she has lost the Hebe beauty we remember: the straight profile is really more striking, and the features are so good, that although her lovely color is quite gone, a painter would rather make a study of her face now than when she was seventeen. Her countenance has gained in expression; for, despite indifferent health, she has not been idle; she has become a well-read woman, retaining still much of the old marvellous memory; there is a good deal of intellect in her straight face, though such faces are not supposed to abound in it as a rule. Whatever 'No.' I want you so very much to do me a kindness." His manner is hurried and nervous, and very unlike himself. "You have often heard me speak of Miriam Lisle, the girl whose portrait you so admired some years ago? She is very ill-nothing infectious, or I would not ask you; but her aunt is very poor and very ignorant. The girl has caught a severe cold-not the first, I imagine, this year; it has been neg people may say, she has suffered much since we parted with her five years ago -one more boy had been born and had died, and she has only her little girls now, one of a year and a half old, and the other quite a baby. Colonel Trevelyan's temper has not softened under these trials, nor have they drawn him nearer to his wife. When the first child died-our poor little hero of the picture-gallery-he had for a time felt for her, and in his way sorrowed in her great sorrow; but successive disap-lected, and she is at this moment depointments have hardened his hard heart. He had married to have heirs, and he could not brook the failure of his hopes; in his worst moments he even reproaches Geraldine, and tells her she injures her health by grieving over the children who are gone. They are in London now, and have been ever since the birth of the baby. Geraldine has been very ill, and is listless and apathetic, making her health an excuse for not exerting herself. She has just said she is at home to no one, and wonders that the pealing of the | bell is followed by quick footsteps, which are nearing the drawing-room door. The footsteps sound familiar, and her heart begins to beat wildly, though she knows he is abroad-has been away now considerably more than four years-they seem to her like ten. Mr. l'Estrange is announced; and, the first surprised greetings over, which I always think, after long absence, have in them more of pain than pleasure, he begins to apologize for disturbing her. "Do not scold your servants; it is not their fault. I would not take lirious, without a doctor, a nurse, or the commonest comforts. I have asked Coulthurst to visit her, but I dare interfere no further-the aunt looks at me with so much suspicion. The girl unfortunately talks of me perpetually -why, I know not, except that I have on one or two occasions shown her the most ordinary kindness. Now, will you go and see her? You will be doing a real act of charity, and I know your kind heart cannot fail to be touched by the forlorn position of this poor girl, and the unsuitableness of her surroundings." He spoke almost breathlessly, and Geraldine looked and felt surprised. She had not seen Mr. l'Estrange for several years; she had been very ill, and illness makes us selfish. "I would go with pleasure," she said, with some hauteur, "but I am ill myself." The artist looked at her, and saw the lines of pain about her mouththe weary dissatisfied look in those once sunny eyes. He had been half inclined to resent her manner; but, gazing at her, he could not. He felt "NOTHING LEFT TO LOVE." how much she had suffered; and though his own share of trouble had not been light, the man's true tender heart relented. He had come to ask this favor of her, for he knew no one else to go to; but he never meant to renew the intercourse of the years that were gone. He had suffered too much; the torture was still too fresh. People who have suffered intense mental pain shrink from encouraging or renewing it with the same or with greater cowardice than those who dread physical torture. I never believe in the sufferings of people who parade them for the sympathy of their friends, or who court the memories of great sorrows by keeping anniversaries, and who seem so afraid to forget that every thing outward is brought to bear upon their afflictions, and there is an incessant effort made to recall them to themselves and to others. Depend upon it, the pain has not been the unbearable agony which some griefs can be to some natures when this is the result. Arthur l'Estrange felt he had suffered as much as he could bear, and he intended to see as little of Geraldine in the future as possible. He was afraid, and righteously afraid-afraid of the beseeching eyes, of the innocent face, of the woman, whose husband's faithlessness was now well known, and the common talk of club gossips. He loved her too well and too truly to wish that even a shadow should ever fall upon her name, or that the most incurable of scandal-mongers should have it in his power to couple it for an instant with any man's. 71 "You will go," and be your own kind self. I can trust you to help them with money, and with what is far better, sympathy, as I know you have helped many poor wayfarers already." ," he said, "I am sure, 66 "You know!" she said mournfully. Why, you have been out of England for years, and how should you know any thing about me? And O Arthur, why did you never write to me? Why did you not come? I have been so miserable-both my boys gone, and nothing left to love!" she wailed rather than spoke. The man's heart throbbed almost to breaking. She had never called him Arthur before, not even in the wild scene which had made him know that he must see her no more; that the old familiar intercourse must be as a dream; that he had better put seas between them; that art, and art alone, must be his mistress from henceforth. The pain in his face was so visible, that she said more gently: "You did not forget me, did you?" "Forget you, my poor child!" he answered, sadly; "I should think not! I thought of you-" He stopped abruptly. "I want to know why you should ask such a question." "Oh, because even papa cares for me less than he did. He hardly ever comes to Trevelyan; and when he does, he won't stay. He and Edmund don't get on well together. Nobody remembers me, and that it is hard to bear." She did not say what was hard; but suddenly a better mood came over her; and she spoke with her old sweet ness. |