preparations for the approaching marriage
went on.

On the evening preceding the marriage,
I was seated alone in the drawing-
room, my wife having retired early to rest.
Lord Walford was announced. He was
discomposed, but sat down and regarded
me in silence for some minutes.

"Arthur," he said at length, "I little
thought that I should ever have cause to
utter words of reproach to the son of Harriet
Westwood. I must remember that it is her
son to whom I speak. You have sought to
wrong me. A wrong from you was the last
thing I had expected, next to your manner of
inflicting it."

"You have heard, then?" I began.

"I have heard all this evening. I had
hoped that Alice and I would see you and
your wife at our marriage. Your conduct
has been mean and dishonourable. What
have I done, that you should treat me
thus?"

"What have you done?" I replied,
greatly excited. "Garston, you ask me this?"
I hesitated. "I would have prevented your
marriage by every means in my power.
For worlds I would not see you the husband
of that pure and innocent creature."

"One as pure and innocent was once my
wife."

"She was; but she is gone. Forget her. Do
you think that any memorial of her should
exist, raised by your hand?"

He stared at me. My vehemence was
strange to him. He shook his head, and
waved his hand.

I went on.

"The girl—Anna, left our house one day.
You came home late that night, agitated.
We parted at your chamber door. You slept
not that night. There was one likewise who
did not sleep. You left your room. You left
the house. He followed. Along the lane—
into the vale—the digging of the grave—the
body of Anna—the interment—all! He saw
it all! I saw it all!"

True it is that there was horror on Garston's
face when these words were shaken from me.
But this was almost at once displaced by
astonishment, simple astonishment, and
then gratitude. He sank upon his knees, and
clasped his hands towards heaven.

"I thank Thee! I thank Thee!" he exclaimed.
"I have sinned! Thou hast made
my penitence chastise me. Thy mercy
endureth for ever. I am saved!"

His head was bowed down to the floor.
He wept and sobbed unrestrainedly.

I stood aloof, unable to speak. I was not
prepared for this. It was more frightful to
me than what I had anticipated. He arose
at length, and came towards me.

"And you knew this. Yet you trusted me,
you nursed me, like a brother or a son. You
took my hand; you spoke kindly to me; you
consoled me. You saved me from myself.
Surely you see the hand of God in this? He
would not suffer me to perish. You were
his chosen instrument to preserve me. Do
not speak. Let me go on. You saw it all.
But the all that goes on here—in this bosom;
ever being restored; ever beginning anew.
You know not the provocation; the violence
—that was nothing—the taunts, which did
not spare even your mother. I knew not
what I did; I who never before lifted my
hand to a human being, struck her on the
temple, and she fell dead. When I fled away
on that night from her face that, in the
glimmering moonlight, seemed to move!"

He sank into a chair breathless, and
covered his face with his hands. I entreated
him to be composed.

"O! that I had told all sooner, whatever
had befallen! I hesitated, and the occasion
was lost."

What—if anything—was now to be done?
Garston guessed the tenor of my thoughts,
for he exclaimed, suddenly:—

"Arthur, you would not—no, you could
not, take from me my sole chance of happiness
in this world, and of salvation in the next?
I love Alice Mansell because she is like your
mother, and will sustain me in the else
desolate future. Your dear mother speaks
in her, and through her."

Could I resist this, and more, much more
of still more earnest pleading? I could not.
He did not exact it; but I swore that never
should the secret between us pass my lips.
And I bade him begone in peace.

I did not know whether I had acted rightly
or wrongly. That was soon shown to me.
It is so: His ways are not our ways!

The marriage ceremony was over. I walked
to Battenham, to call upon Meredith who—
uninvited, as I knew, to take part in the
festivities at the hall—would most likely be
found at home. But he was out,—he had
been summoned, the clerk told me, on urgent
business.

There was something in the man's look
that excited my curiosity.

"I was bidden to tell nobody—nobody for
the present, Mr. Westwood," he said, reading
my thoughts.

I turned away, and began to retrace my
steps. I had reached the middle of the bridge,
when——

A scene had been enacting at the Hall,
whilst I was resting in Meredith's office, and
talking to his clerk. Meredith appeared
amongst the gay assemblage, wishing to see
Lord Walford on particular business. His
lordship stepped forward.

"You are welcome, Meredith. On a day
like this, I at least should forget. Let us
shake hands. But you look grave. What is
it? Is Arthur ill?"

He led the way to a private room, Meredith
following with slow steps and a heavy
heart.

"Now—what is it?"