As, when it came to the question of the
signing, Laurence Grantley had gone too far
to retreat with honour, he was forced to know
himself overreached. So the farce went on with
its intended splendour, though the principal
actor had lost half his fees, and the tinsel
garlands all their bloom. May Sefton was a
bridesmaid—- all the beauties of the county were
bridesmaids—- and her beauty never looked so
bewitching as when she stood behind Laurence
Grantley's "fish." Laurence felt his haughty
heart rise bitterly as he led her from the
altar; bound, fettered, married for life;
married to her, with May Sefton following on
their steps, talking gaily and, as it seemed,
unconcernedly with the groomsman. Bitter,
bitter were the man's thoughts in that short
passage from the altar to the vestry; dully
triumphant the ungainly bride's; undefined and
somewhat, tumultuous May Sefton's, who could
not help thinking that Laurence Grantley had
once liked her better than all the rest, and even
now spoke to her differently than he spoke to
the rest. May knew how to keep her own
secrets.

In the vestry Laurence nearly lost his
selfcontrol, when Annie, in a strange tone of
familiarity and command, desired him to pick up her
handkerchief, which she had let fall. It was the
Wife's voice, the possessor's, the command of
rightful ownership and public pledge. But he did
her bidding, gracefully and gallantly; for he was
too proud to give the world occasion for talk,
and, come what might, he was resolved that no
one should learn his secret. Annie smiled, and
looked round with dull complacency, as if
a showman had shown off his spaniel's latest
trick.

The breakfast passed decorously enough, and
they went off on the wedding-tour with all
pomp and circumstance. Mrs. Grantley said
to herself that Laurence would now be able to
mould her to his own—- will brides are so
malleable! —- and that if things were not in true
shape when they returned, then she, Mrs. Grantley,
queen and autocrat of the county, would
undertake the task.

CHAPTER III

"MRS. LAURENCE GRANTLEY at home."

The neighbourhood received cards bearing this
notification, and the neighbourhood went up in
family parties to the Hall.

"Every one may come once," was Annie's
silent decision; "that is, for the Grantleys;
but I will arrange who comes twice."

The war had begun. It had virtually begun
in the vestry when Annie paraded her
newmade husband's obedience, and settled
herself in her place as the dominator of the
whole. It had been going on ever since;
and a war with Annie was no trifle. Worse
to bear than the most passionate outbursts of
violence and wrath, was her inert resistance:
that smooth, unangular, undefined resistance
which offers no point of hold to an antagonist,
and simply fails to succumb. Had she ever
refused a request in anger, ever argued a point
openly, ever spoken vehemently or with the
exaggeration of passion? Never; but she sat with
the half imbecile expression upon her which she
assumed when obstinate. She would have held
her point to the Day of Judgment. She had
an irresistible argument in her power of appointing
her heir; for she had reserved this right
absolutely and unconditionally, and held it like
a coiled lasso over the head of her husband.
So that if Laurence Grantley wished his
marriage to be of any real ulterior advantage to
him, he must keep her in good humour; which
meant, that he must let her have her own way
unchecked.

Even Mrs. Grantley's position was precarious.
"I think it would be better if your mother had
a separate establishment before we return," said
Annie one day, at Rome; and Laurence, who
knew his bride a little better now than at first,
knew that his mother's tenure of royalty was at
an end.

He made no reply, but wrote home at once,
repeating what his wife had said, but somewhat
more roundly and offensively; for, as Laurence
had no love, though a vast deal of admiration, for
his mother, and as she had no reversions which
might keep him in check, he never cared to
diplomatise with her, or to soften what might
be offensive.

Mrs. Grantley received his letter scornfully.
"It will be strange if I cannot maitriser such
a nonentity as Annie Sibson," she wrote: and
stayed on.

Annie never resumed the subject while abroad;
but, while they were crossing the Channel to
England, she said, letting her words fall like
water drops, without clearness of enunciation,
emphasis, or expression: "Has Mrs. Grantley
left the Hall yet?"

' No," said Laurence, shortly.

' I think she had better," said Annie.

' She has no wish to do so," said Laurence.

"Neither do / desire it."

' I think she had better," repeated Annie.

' Tell her so yourself, Mrs. Grantley. Take
my mother in hand and manage her to your own
liking; perhaps you will not find the task so easy
as you imagine."

"I think she had better go," was all Annie's
answer; and the subject dropped.

When they got home, they found Mrs. Grantley
still lady paramount; receiving Annie graciously,
and patronising her on her return with
marvellous effects of black velvet and costly lace.
Annie hung her lip and looked stupid,
received all these demonstrations very coldly, and
did not in any manner respond to them; but
before an hour was out, and before Mrs. Grantley
knew what had happened, she found herself
set aside, her orders opposed, her assertions
contradicted flatly — without passion or excitement,
but unequivocally —the servants made to understand
who was now the real mistress; and the
whole reins of management taken, without force,
but irresistibly, from her hands. Mrs. Grantley's
tactics were of no avail against a system