"If

"What is it that you keep from me?" he resumed. you longer refuse to confess, I will immediately return to Eaglemount. Listen, I have a clue whereby to solve the mystery of conduct; but I forbear to use it, lest I

expose

your

"Give me my liberty!" interrupted she; "and I will freely avow how much I have wronged myself and you."

"I will make no conditions," he angrily answered; "a wife who wrongs her husband forfeits every privilege." "Good Heaven! cried 'Rina,

my words."

you surely misconstrue

"How? I can only put one interpretation upon them." “I—I—” stammered she, in tremulous agitation, “I cannot-I have not the courage to tell you my story. I will write to you-I will explain all, if you, in return, will restore to me a wife's prerogative."

"You have been answered ; you well know my determination, therefore seek not to change it. As for your story (if you do not wish me to do you injustice) you will instantly disclose it."

"You are firm,” said she, rising proudly; "so am I!”

"Then we'll waste no more time about the matter; good night;" and, stiffly bowing, he quitted the apartment.

'Rina listened to his receding footfall; then started up and hastened to her chamber. After dismissing her maid, she gave way to a passionate burst of tears. Her husband's voice still rang in her ears. Return to Eaglemount! Continue thus estranged from her parents; never! She thought of her mother with a fresh agony; she recalled her devoted attachment and Clo's loving tenderness, and, lastly, her father's bitter disappointment. For hours 'Rina sat communing with herself, and all that time her spirit waxed more and more wrath against her husband. Her heart was filled with resentment, and wild thoughts chased each other through the wretched woman's brain.

"I will no longer call this house my home," she passionately exclaimed. "No, no! I will fly, out into the night. I care not whither. God will guide me."

Opening her chamber door, she stood and hearkened ; all was dark and still, she laid her hand upon her brow (for her

temples throbbed with the fever of delirium), and staggered back into her room.

"This habitation is a desert to me," she cried, in a choked voice; "I have no companionship, no joy, no hope. Where Paul is there will I be also. I cannot breathe beneath this roof."

Unlocking a cabinet she took thence a purse, which she thrust into her pocket. Over her rich evening dress she flung a large mantle, and, putting on her hat, she crept stealthily down the stairs and reached the hall-door without interruption. The lights were all extinguished, the household slept. Out into the night she fled, from her husband and her home. "In what corner of the huge city could she find a shelter at that hour?" she asked herself, as she paused to tie her hat. "I must go on. I cannot now return to him,—'Till death us do part," she repeated, as she hurried out of the square and turned into a narrow street. "Heaven forgive me! falsehood begets falsehood; this is not my first broken vow."

"Cab?" said a coarse voice, inquiringly.

'Rina looked up, and the driver stopped his horse.

"Where to, ma'am?"

“I—I don't know," she stammered, as she sprang into the vehicle.

The man repeated his question.

"To the Euston Square Station," said she, in a bewildered tone.

"All right, ma'am !" and the cab rolled quickly along.

"I am lost," she cried, with a shudder! my father, I am sure, will not receive me.. I will go to Paul; but how -how can I look him in the face after what I have done? I am a runaway wife-perhaps he will scorn and spurn me.”

She closed her eyes as if to shut out some terrible vision, while her cheeks and lips became ashy white.

"No, no!" she resumed, with a desperation that seemed foreign to her nature! he shall not spurn me, for I will convince him how dearly I have loved him-how dearly I love him still.

On reaching the station, she dismissed the cab, and took a place in an early train, just then about to start, for Manchester.

Poor, weak, erring 'Rina! how rashly she had acted. She did not dream of the scandal and contempt which now would fall upon her name; she did not dream of henceforth becoming a reviled, disgraced, and dis arded wife. No, there was but one thought in her heart (and that thought blinded and warped her judgment): Paul-let her be near him, and for the rest-no matter.

The desperate step she had thus madly resolved upon taking was so fatally decisive, that it seemed to exclude all chance of her retracing it, should her better judgment return, and urge her to repair the mischief. Her error was so flagrant, that even if it could be atoned for by sincere repentance, in the sight of Heaven, no such mercy would be extended to her by her fellow-sinners-by society, so unrelenting in its seeming virtue, to those who infringe its laws.

Besides, who could know all the circumstances which, by a chain of natural consequences, led to this sad consum mation? Who, but herself, could know and appreciate the struggles between duty and impulse-the constantly recurring conflicts of thought and emotion-the burning indignation, alternating with the gloom of despair that rent the bosom and overwhelmed the brain of her, who, for the first time in her life, found herself alone, isolated from those dear to her, without sympathy and advice.

Poor 'Rina bitterly has she been made to rue her first . great error-her broken faith to Paul, whose happiness has been wrecked by her inconstancy and false pride. Is not her own happiness now perilled on the same shoals?

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE train reached Manchester at mid-day, and 'Rina stood on the platform for a few minutes, utterly at a loss whither to direct her steps. She saw that everybody regarded her with wonder and suspicion. Her rich dress, in which she had visited the opera on the preceding evening, shone out glaringly conspicuous in the broad light of day; in fact, her appearance altogether was such as to excite remark and general attention.

"Do you want a fly, ma'am-any luggage?" asked a porter.

"Not any," replied 'Rina. "Please, put me into a fly." "Where is he to drive ?" inquired the porter, as he assisted 'Rina into the vehicle.

"To Pemberton Street," she answered; " and tell him to stop at the house, number twelve, opposite the old chapel."

"I am crazed!" she said, shrinking into a corner of the vehicle, and drawing her hat over her brow. "What is to become of me? Oh, mother-sister! how you will weep to hear I have forsaken my husband and my home. Shall I be censured for this act? Alas! I had none to fly to for counsel, and I had not strength to battle with oppression. Of my future I dare not trust myself to think. Oh, that I could undo the past! that I could sunder this knot which fetters me to one I hate."

Slowly the vehicle progressed along the dingy streets and crowded thoroughfares. 'Rina noticed nothing; she was lost in the whirl and tumult of her own sad thoughts, bitter upbraidings, and useless repining; all strove conflictingly within her harassed breast. "Homeless! am I, indeed, homeless?" she muttered, despairingly. "Well, better that I should die for lack of food and shelter, than live a life of mockery and wicked falsehood. Paul! does he still love me? Will he shield me? The world-the sneering world—what will it say? It is now too late—too late to reflect!"

The vehicle stopped abruptly.

"What am I to do, ma'am?" said the driver, addressing Rina. I can't pull up, you see, at number twelve." "Wherefore?"

"Because there's a buryin' there."

'Rina did not rightly comprehend the man's words; nevertheless, she paid him his fare, and alighted. After glancing at the number of the house before her she hurried onward. Suddenly her footsteps were arrested, and she discovered that she was amid a crowd of idle loungers, assembled before the very house she sought. She looked around

in utter bewilderment: she saw a hearse with its black waving plumes she heard the hushed murmur of many voices, and the heavy, shuffling tread of many feet. Her head swam, and the earth seemed to rock her to and fro. She staggered forward, breathless and terrified. Men issued

from the house bearing a coffin.

"Who-who have you there!" she cried, advancing to the bearers, and speaking in a hollow voice. "Who is dead? Speak-speak!"

"Hush!" said a bystander, endeavouring to draw her aside. "Who is dead?" 'Rina repeated, with frantic vehemence. "It's Mr. Grahame's funeral," was the reply.

No cry-no sound passed between 'Rina's white lips as she dropped to the ground.

66

Carry her into the house," said a woman, "she has fainted."

"Good Heavens ! the Duchess of Lissborough!" exclaimed an old gentleman, approaching 'Rina's insensible form. 'Bearers," he continued, addressing the men who were placing the coffin in the hearse-bearers, carry this lady up stairs to Mrs. Godfrey! Quick, quick! I will precede you" and Beckenham (for it was he) hastened to the apartment lately occupied by Paul Grahame.

"What is the matter? Why have you returned?" asked Mrs. Godfrey, raising her eyes, which were red and swollen with weeping.

"Don't be alarmed," replied Beckenham, "they are bringing a ladylady"

"What here?" interrupted she, nervously. "Lady what can a lady want here? Who is she?"