Grantleys. And the passers in the street "of
the baser sort," as they looked up to the
brilliantly-lighted room, and heard Ella's pure
sweet voice ringing through the open windows,
said one to another, "How happy those swells
must be; nothing to do but to enjoy them-
selves! Why wasn't I born a swell instead of a
poor unfort❜nate cove?" I am afraid very few,
high or low, would have exchanged their lots
had the curtain been removed from the drama
that was being enacted there. They only held
to the popular fallacy that where there is wealth
and luxury and splendour, there must needs be
happiness. And Ella herself, all this time,
seemed to be affected by some unknown dread
of future evil, which she in vain endeavoured to
shake off, and laugh at as a foolish presenti-
ment. A cold chilly fear would come over her
heart in the moments of meditation which were
afforded her, and they were not few nor far
between-an idea not to be disregarded-that
future grief and sorrow loomed in the horizon.
I wonder what the mystic connexion is between |
matter and thought which mercifully warns us
of impending danger. It is fashionable
commonly to laugh at the idea of presentiment,
to decry all such notions as superstitious, and
to ally them with the Highlander's "second
sight," and the Welshman's " corpse candle."
But why is it that ere the blow falls we seem to
have an intuition of its proximity? Why are
our nights sleepless and disturbed, our days
fraught with gloomy foreboding? Shakespeare
-and we may travel further and fare worse in
search of a philosopher-certainly countenances
the idea. Witness the loving injunction of
Cæsar's wife, that her lord stir not forth on the
day of his doom. And in reading the sweet
love-play of "Romeo and Juliet," we can
detect running through the playful badinage of
the loving couple, a tinge of dark forebod
ing. "Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of
this contract to-night. It is too rash, too un-
advised, too sudden." A cold blast, as it
were, of the storm which is so soon to burst
upon the fortunes of the happy lovers.

"Oh, it's all fancy," the young wife would say, and laugh off the presentiment. But it was not to be gotten rid of; and even in the midst of the most enjoyable gathering croquetparty, dinner-party, or what not; amid the din of prattling voices and joyous laughter, a voice seemed to whisper to her heart, "There is trouble and danger in the future." She was tormented just like poor Gretchen in the Cathedral scene in "Faust," who vainly strives to perform her religious duties; for amid the swell of the psalmody, and the rich music of the anthem, demon-voices are whispering in her ear, Lost, lost!" So when Ella Grantley endeavoured to take counsel with herself, and tried to rout the evil presentiment, the terrible fear kept pressing on her heart, turning it to ice within her. "Something will surely happen to one of us," was her shuddering cry. "God keep my dear husband from all danger.' And often the conscience - stricken Grantley

heard her moan and shudder in her sleep, and the next morning her face would be weary and pale, as though to her sleep had brought no balm, no refreshing peace. And then for the thousandth time would he curse his folly, and repent of the evil when it was too late; while the horrible suspicion tortured him that she had got scent of the secret of his life. One consolation only soothed his mind; soon would a babe be born to his loving wife, and all would be forgotten in the sweet maternal instinct. The wee defenceless being would have magic in its cry to scare away the hosts of fear and anxiety.

66

Soon, too soon, the blow came. One morning at breakfast Ella seemed in unusually low spirits. Something keeps weighing on my spirits," she said, apologetically, to her husband's anxious inquiry. I know it is very foolish of me; but I really cannot help it. But here are the letters; a regular pile, I do declare. Four for me: one from mamma; this from Katie-I know her hand well enough; this en invitation-card; and this I am sure I do not know this writing; some new frien suppose. Do you, Harry?"

blanched as he read the direction. If he had Know it? ay, full well. And his face dared, he would have snatched it away; but that would create suspicion, and it was too late. His feelings may be imagined as he recognised Nathalie's hand; and his heart told him what that letter contained-ruin to him-death, perchance, to his wife. Does the reader know the reluctance in the human mind to open a strange letter? People always leave it to the last, and then trifle with the seal, anything to delay the opening of it. Ella read in order the othersa chatty letter from Katie, touching on all a maternal epistle, breathing love and anxiety the news at the Hall, the trifling details of which fell not on Grantley's ear: he was too stunned with fear-then a polite note of invitation to a conversazione-and then the last was taken up and reluctantly opened. He noted ment; saw the envelope opened, the letter taken with despairing eagerness every trifling moveout and unfolded, and his wife's eyes rest on the opening words; and waited for the result.

Something out of the common to work the fearful change in Ella's face-something strange to make her gasp, hoarsely, "It's come at last!" With a form quivering with emotion, horror-stricken eyes and ashen face, Ella read every word, and then the head drooped and fell lifeless on her bosom. She had swooned.

"Ella, Ella! Oh, my God, it has killed her!" groaned the anguished man. Speak to me, my darling." He rushed to the sideboard, and poured out some water; then gently sprinkled the death-white forehead, and chafed the delicate hands, till a little sign of returning animation showed itself, till the colour came back slowly to the cheek, and the eyes were opened, still with that shuddering stare in their depths.

"Oh, Harry, Harry! Tell me that this

horrible letter is untrue. What can it mean? Cruel, cruel, to frighten one so."

He took the letter from her hand, and read; not till he had first drank a great draught of water, and unloosed his necktie, for he felt as though he were choking, and the perspiration stood out in great drops on his forehead. He might have guessed its contents. They were in this wise: no address, no date; simply

MADAM,-It is fitting that you should be aware of Harry Grantley's real character. His wife you are not; nor is he your husband. He has a wife living at this moment-his wife in the sight of heaven-a wife to whom he was legally married. And she writes to warn you in time of the sin you are committing in living with him. Bid him beware, for vengeance surely on his track. May you never know the misery

which he has caused

AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN.

How he ever got to the end of the fatal letter be never could make out. The tempest of conflicting emotions was almost driving him mad. And—as though in a lightning flash-his memory took him back to the day when he had received that bit of pasteboard with Nathalie's name on it. As he was determined then, so he must be now. I have told you that in a crisis a moment of imminent danger, the "cool cap

tain's" nerve never failed him. He must be

room, and when she had reached it dropped her head with a hopeless moan. "That woman at Turlminster, she wrote that letter, I am certain. Heaven help me if it should prove true."

Left to himself, Grantley fell into a painful reverie. Was the woman's oath coming true, then? And was this the first scene of the drama? "Curses on her," he muttered. "She swore that she would be revenged. If it were only myself, I should not care; but my poor Ella!" Then he rushed off to fetch the family doctor, a mild bald-headed little man, with a fussy air about him, as though he had more than he could do.

"My wife is taken very ill, doctor. Could you come at once?"

"Certainly, my dear sir, certain-ly. Poor lady! she looked delicate. I told her to be careful, ve-ry careful." And he rubbed his hands gently together. "But we'll bring her round all right again in no time." He told a different tale, though, after his interview with the suffering wife. "Very serious business, "She indeed," said he, in his softest tones. has evidently sustained a shock; and in her position, you know, Captain Grantley

He turned fiercely round upon the little danger-that she is seriously ill?" doctor. "Do you mean that her life is in

her to-day as long as I can.
Oh, not so much as that. I will stay with
Rest assured I

prompt and decisive now. He met the inquir-will do all I can for her. Pray, don't excite ing gaze o inis wife steadily. yourself, my dear sir; don't excite yourself."

What

"My life, I cannot make this out. reason there can have been for this cruel hoax -for hoax it surely is-I cannot determine. Now tell me, Ella, have you so lost faith and love for me that you will believe an anonymous letter before my word? It may be some delusion; many poor women labour under such, and worse ones, too. Shadow of truth there is none in it." Famous sophistry! But it seemed not so convincing to the wife of his bosom. "It may be some woman whom I have known long ago. You know a soldier's morality, Ella. If so, may God forgive me; I have repented of all those follies long ago. Magnanimous man! It was as though the devil should quote scripture. Still the same horror in Ella's eye. She would not be comforted.

"Harry Grantley, if you have deceived me-" "If I have deceived you, Ella? What can you mean? Am I not your wedded husband? Am I not a soldier and a gentleman? I swear before God that there is not a shadow of truth in this statement. There, there, think no more of it. I won't leave a stone unturned till I find out the writer. It's foolish for you to trouble yourself, my wife."

Harry, it has nearly killed me," she gasped. "The shock. I feel as if I can't breathe, and my heart keeps leaping so."

'I will fetch Doctor Filmer," said Grantley. "Perhaps you had better lie down, my darling, till the shock is over. You'll get over it in a

that. But how would it be with him should
It was easy enough, thought Grantley, to say
his dear wife die? Would he not be her mur-
derer as much as if he had poisoned her with
his own hand? And then the after-remorse.
It was more than he could bear. He rushed
out, like one demented, into the garden outside,
and paced with hurried footsteps, whilst he kept
his eyes fixed
lay his treasure, battling for dear life with the
upon that lighted window where
fell adversary. He tried to pray-unwonted
exercise! And the sickening thought forced
itself upon him that the heavens were as brass
to the cry of such wretches as he. "Oh, God,
take the child if it be Thy will."
spare her life! spare my dear one's life, and
Incoherent
expressions escaped his lips. He felt that he
meanwhile the night shadows fell, and the stars
should go mad if this suspense lasted. And
headed man who walked in that garden. And,
came out, and looked pityingly on the bare-
as if in mockery, the sound of pleasant voices
came from the neighbouring houses; and from
It was their favourite song, as if in hideous
one room pealed forth a duet, "La ci darem."
mockery; and to his distorted imagination the
with outstretched finger to the lighted window,
figure of Nathalie rose before him, and pointed
and said, "This is my revenge."

The suspense was killing him-maddening him. He could bear it no longer. "I must see her, must learn her state." And then he little time." would cast his eyes up to the sick chamber, and More dead than alive, Ella staggered to her watch the figures flitting to and fro in the room

death of the child, and the terrible peril of his | prayer.
wife, whom he loved after a fashion-more
perhaps in the feeling of pride that he had
stolen her from Dalton's arms, than in heart's
affection; for I hold that a man can love but
once all the subsequent attacks are mere base
shams and counterfeits, about as much like the
real thing as are the whispered compliments and
flirtation of an officer in the Line to a garrison
belle, who will be listening with the same atten-
tion and the same sparkling eye to the some-
what cumbrous badinage of a Heavy the next
moment-Grantley's first love was given to
Nathalie, and Ella, I am afraid, came in for but
the cold reversion. Fashionable people as the
Grantleys were-and it is not considered at all
fashionable, we all know, to give way to feelings
of sorrow or regret-fashionable though they
were, still every Sunday they would walk out to
the little country cemetery, where, under a pretty
marble cross wreathed with immortelles (a
shaydoover, so the sculptor, Mr. Phydias of
the New Road, called it, in the pride of his
artist's heart), slept the first-born who looked at
this weary world for a few short hours, and
then, to adopt the usual formula, "left it for a
better, poor lamb;" at least so said Mrs.
Quickly, or Mrs. Gamp, the handmaid of
Lucina.

And as they stood before the little lowly grave, where even now the sweet spring flowers were blooming over the sleeper, and the balmy country breeze stirred the wild rose that curled lovingly round the headstone, a chance thought of amendment may have crossed Grantley's mind, and he may have looked into his wife's eyes, and as he read there the faithful clinging look of devotion, may have vowed to desert the accursed board of green cloth.

"Harry dear, you will stay more with me now that I am so lonely? I have nothing to live for or to hope in this world, only you. Promise me this, my own husband; here, before our darling's grave. Promise me that I shan't have to go out to those dreadful wearisome parties without you; left to face those scandalmongering old women, and those brainless young men, with their vapid talk and fascinating smiles. Promise me that I shan't have to keep any more those dreadful night-watches. It will kill me in time, I know, having to sit up all alone in that large empty house, listening and fancying that every footstep is yours, and torturing myself with the idea that something has happened to you. Let us leave this dreadful London, in which I never have had a moment's happiness, and take a house in the country, where I can be near mamma, and see dear Katie sometimes." (Conclusive evidence of the wedded life's unhappiness this, when the wife longs to fly to the Home Penates so very soon).

She was a foolish little woman, was Ella Grantley, don't you see? And many a fashionable wife, whose only desire was to keep her husband as much from home as possible, would have laughed as she heard Ella's beseeching

Whether it is that the artificial air which surrounds the homes of the rich and fashionable is unfavourable to the growth of home affection, I don't know; it certainly is a rare exotic, and if once removed from the atmosphere of love and honesty, would soon pine and wither. Provided that the husband finds a box at the opera, where the loving wife can show once or twice a week, just by way of ceremony, and not through any regard for the music, which she scarcely condescends to listen to; as long as he provides plenty of pin-money, loads her with jewellery and fine clothes and loves of bonnets, in the purchasing of which she spends many a profitable and delightful afternoon propped up on a high chair at "Swan and Edgar's," listening to the highly-intellectual remarks of the gorgeous young men who attend upon her, and seriously thinking-with a satisfied sigh-that she has managed to get through the time so nicely before dinner, which would otherwise hang so heavily; all this provided, I say, it matters not to the really fashionable wife whether she sees little or much of her husband. They seem to live two really separate existences, happy fulfilment of the oath they took at the altar to become "one flesh." "My husband, you know, dear, is so occupied in his place in the city; he is so much taken up with those business speculations of his, that we really see very little of one another. Then he will go to that horrid club; I really think he prefers a chop there to the best dinner my servants can give him." Quid mirum? my aggrieved madam. If he goes to the club, which you empty the vial of your wrath upon, the chances are that he will meet some men whose intellects are on a par with his own, not over bright or anything very stupendous, but "wide-awake," and up to the affairs of the day, who can wonder with him what the Reform question will come to at last, and whether it is better to hang John Bright, or give him a public monument; how the funds are; and what the odds are on "Jock o' Hazeldean" for the Derby; or even might, perhaps, go so far as to canvas the merits of "Felix Holt," or the last article in the

66

Saturday." On the other hand, supposing that the much-maligned husband finished his day's business, went the round of his patients, pleaded a criminal cause, bought up much scrip on 'Change, so as to reach home before dinner, he would be rewarded by a glimpse of his wife, who would sit opposite him at dinner, and murmur, perhaps, between soup and fish, the astoundingly novel fact that "it has been very hot to-day," a fact which the husband, who has toiled and moiled for her through all the burning heat, could have told her himself. She then either relapses into silence, or entertains him (worse luck!) with choice fragments of conversations held with lady visitors during the dayhow Mrs. Montmorency Jones's pet spaniel was seized with a violent attack of shivering, poor pet! and how Mrs. J. was in a great state in consequence. Whereupon the husband makes some very brutal remarks about there being