little party, given to the English by some friends
of Sir Percival's—Mr. and Mrs. Markland.
Mrs. Markland had the reputation of sketching
very beautifully; and some of the guests
prevailed on her to show us her drawings. We all
admired them—but something I said attracted
her attention particularly to me. 'Surely you
draw yourself?' she asked. 'I used to draw a
little once I answered, 'but I have given it
up.'  'If you have once drawn,' she said, 'you
may take to it again one of these days; and, if
you do, I wish you would let me recommend
you a master.' I said nothing—you know why,
Marian—and tried to change the conversation.
But Mrs. Markland persisted. 'I have had all
sorts of teachers,' she went on; 'but the best
of all, the most intelligent and the most
attentive, was a Mr. Hartright. If you ever take up
your drawing again, do try him as a master.
He is a young man—modest and gentleman-like
—I am sure you will like him,' Think of
those words being spoken to me publicly, in the
presence of strangers—strangers who had been
invited to meet the bride and bridegroom! I
did all I could to control myself—I said
nothing, and looked down close at the drawings.
When I ventured to raise my head again, my
eyes and my husband's eyes met; and I knew,
by his look, that my face had betrayed me. 'We
will see about Mr. Hartright,' he said, looking
at me all the time, 'when we get back to
England. I agree with you, Mrs. Markland—I
think Lady Glyde is sure to like him.' He laid
an emphasis on the last words which made my
cheeks burn, and set my heart beating as if it
would stifle me. Nothing more was said—we
came away early. He was silent in the carriage,
driving back to the hotel. He helped me out,
and followed me up-stairs as usual. But the
moment we were in the drawing-room, he
locked the door, pushed me down into a chair,
and stood over me with his hands on my
shoulders. 'Ever since that morning when you
made your audacious confession to me at
Limmeridge,' he said, 'I have wanted to find out
the man; and I found him in your face, to-night.
Your drawing-master was the man; and his
name is Hartright. You shall repent it, and he
shall repent it, to the last hour of your lives.
Now go to bed, and dream of him, if you like—
with the marks of my horsewhip on his
shoulders.' Whenever he is angry with me
now, he refers to what I acknowledged to
him in your presence, with a sneer or a threat.
I have no power to prevent him from putting
his own horrible construction on the
confidence I placed in him. I have no influence
to make him believe me, or to keep him silent.
You looked surprised, to-day, when you heard
him tell me that I had made a virtue of
necessity in marrying him. You will not be
surprised again, when you hear him repeat it, the
next time he is out of temper—Oh, Marian!
don't! don't! you hurt me!"

I had caught her in my arms; and the sting
and torment of my remorse had closed them
round her like a vice. Yes! my remorse. The
white despair of Walter's face, when my cruel
words struck him to the heart in the summer-house
at Limmeridge, rose before me in mute,
unendurable reproach. My hand had pointed
the way which led the man my sister loved, step
by step, far from his country and his friends.
Between those two young hearts I had stood, to
sunder them for ever, the one from the other—
and his life and her life lay wasted before me,
alike, in witness of the deed. I had done this;
and done it for Sir Percival Glyde.

For Sir Percival Glyde.

I heard her speaking, and I knew by the tone
of her voice that she was comforting me—I,
who deserved nothing but the reproach of her
silence! How long it was before I mastered
the absorbing misery of my own thoughts, I
cannot tell. I was first conscious that she was
kissing me; and then my eyes seemed to wake
on a sudden to their sense of outward things,
and I knew that I was looking mechanically
straight before me at the prospect of the lake.

"It is late," I heard her whisper. "It will
be dark in the plantation." She shook my arm,
and repeated, "Marian! it will be dark in the
plantation."|

"Give me a minute longer," I said—"a
minute, to get better in."

I was afraid to trust myself to look at her yet;
and I kept my eyes fixed on the view.

It was late. The dense brown line of trees
in the sky had faded in the gathering darkness,
to the faint resemblance of a long wreath of
smoke. The mist over the lake below had
stealthily enlarged, and advanced on us. The
silence was as breathless as ever—but the horror
of it had gone, and the solemn mystery of its
stillness was all that remained.

"We are far from the house," she whispered.

"Let us go back."

She stopped suddenly and turned her face f
rom me towards the entrance of the boat-house.

"Marian!" she said, trembling violently.
"Do you see nothing? Look!"

"Where?"

"Down there, below us."

She pointed. My eyes followed her hand;
and I saw it, too.

A living figure was moving over the waste
of heath in the distance. It crossed our
range of view from the boat-house, and passed
darkly along the outer edge of the mist. It
stopped, far off, in front of us—waited—and
passed on; moving slowly, with the white cloud
of mist behind it and above it—slowly, slowly,
till it glided by the edge of the boat-house, and
we saw it no more.

We were both unnerved by what had passed
between us that evening. Some minutes elapsed
before Laura would venture into the plantation,
and before I could make up my mind to lead her
back to the house.

"Was it a man, or a woman?" she asked, in
a whisper, as we moved, at last, into the dark
dampness of the outer air.

"I am not certain."