"Only for a week, darling," he whispered, as he kissed the | with brass, which had belonged to her mother, and had been pale, cold face. She did not answer him; and he felt that she was shivering. "My dearest girl, be brave," he said, cheerily. "It is not such a hard road to happiness, after all; and it shall be no fault of mine if your future life is not all happiness." CHAPTER XVII. OTHING happened to prevent Grace Redmayne's elopement; and having once given her promise, she had no thought of breaking it. Her fate was sealed from that moment in the lane when she said, "I will come." Perjury to him was a crime she could not contemplate. Yet throughout the intervening week she keenly felt any little kindness, any show of interest or motherly care, from sharptongued Aunt Hannah, and was moved to tears more than once by her uncle's rough tenderness. She was going from them almost for ever, she thought. It was hardly likely that Mr. | Walgrave-who was a proud man, she fanciel, despite his friendly ways at Brierwood-would allow his wife to associate much with her homely kinsfolk. "He will not part me from my father," she said to herself. "That would be too cruel. But I don't suppose he will let me see my uncle and aunt very often." She suffered bitterly during that brief interval-suffered sharp agonies of self-reproach, feeling herself the vilest of deceivers. If the time had been longer, she could hardly have borne up against all this mental misery, and held to her promise. Perhaps Mr. Walgrave had foreseen this when he made the time so short. She could neither eat nor sleep under this burden of secret care; spent her nights in watching for the morning, her days in a strange, unsettled state; wandering about the farm in the chill November weather; creeping in and out of the rooms, touching familiar things absently-wondering when she would see them again. The piano which her father had given herthe dear old piano which she had been so proud of possessing as her very own--would her husband let her send for that by-andby when they were settled? Not the finest grand that Erard or Broad wood ever made could be so precious to her as this clumsy old cottage, by a nameless manufacturer. Their marriage was to be secret, he had told her; but what did that mean? Secret so far as his world was concerned, she supposed; not secret from hers. He had given her permission to say what she pleased to her aunt in her farewell letter; therefore there was no secrecy insisted upon there. And byand-by, when their honeymoon was over, he would bring her to Brierwood to see her aunt and uncle, perhaps. She brightened at the thought. How proud she would be to appear before them, leaning on his arm! How proud they must needs feel to see her married to a gentleman! and would it not be a pleasant surprise for her father on his coming home to find his darling had achieved such high fortune? So, in a strange flutter of doubt and fear, lightened now and then by brief flashes of hopefulness, the days went by until the cheerless morning which was to see Grace Redmayne's farewell to Brierwood. On the previous night she made no attempt to rest-what rest had she had since that meeting in the lane?-nay, had she ever known pure and perfect repose after that fatal hour in which she first loved Hubert Walgrave? She had her small preparations to make, and trifling as these were, in her fluttered and nervous state of mind, they occupied a long time. She packed a carpet-bag with the things which seemed most essential for her to take. She had no elaborate traveling-bag bristling with silver-gilt lids and stoppers, like a small battery of guns, such as Miss Vallory considered indispensable for the briefest journey. esteemed very costly and splendid articles in their time; these she left behind her with a sigh of regret. How many little girlish treasures-shreds of ribbon and morsels of lace, cornelian necklaces and silver bodkins-she had hoarded in the secret recesses of these receptacles! She fancied she would have made a more dignified entrance into her new life armed with that desk and work-box, nor had she the faintest suspicion that the brass-inlaid mahogany boxes were splendors of a bygone age. There was her wedding-dress to prepare, too, in the quiet hours of that long night, when the rushing and scuffling of mice behind the wainscot seemed awful in the deadly stillness of the house-the dress which, in her perfect innocence and trustfulness, she fondly hoped to wear, standing before God's altar, to be made Hubert Walgrave's wife. It must needs be the same dress in which she traveled, since he had forbidden her to cumber herself with luggage. She laid it out on her bed with dainty care-a turned and somewhat faded silk which her father had bought her for a birthday present three years ago, and which had never been deposed from its proud position as her “best” dress-a garment to be worn upon half a dozen fine Sundays in the Summer, and at about half a dozen small festive gatherings in the Winter. It had been a bright peach-color—a mauve Richard Redmayne had called it when new-but had been toned down by Midsummer sunshine and long laying-up in lavender. She had sewn her choicest pieces of thread-lace - heirlooms, and yellow with age-on the neck and sleeves, and she had taken out a little white crape shawl of her mother's to wear over her shoulders. This, with her Summer bonnet, trimmed with a new white ribbon, which she had bought by stealth, would not be so bad, she thought. A large shepherd's-plaid shawl would cover this festal attire during the journey, and a black vail. would subdue the brightness of the new ribbon on her bonnet. She was pleased to think that she had planned everything so well. She had her letter to write after this, and that labor was not an easy one. She knew nothing of where she was going, or at what church she was to be married; or whether it was to be on the day of her flight or the next day. After many ineffectual attempts, she wrote briefly : "DEAREST AUNT HANNAH-Pray do not be angry, or let Uncle James be angry with me. I am going away to be married to a gentleman. We are to be married in London; but as our mirriage is to be kept quite secret for the present, I cannot tell you any more yet awhile; I dare not even tell you his name. shall write to my father by the next mail, to beg his forgiveness for having taken this step without waiting for his consent. I She dressed herself by candle-light, a little while after the ancient eight-day clock on the stairs had struck five. Oh, what a sweet face that was which the old-fashioned looking-glass reflected! what a pale wild-rose-like beauty, and how little of earth there was in it! The next morning, at the same hour, there was to be a change upon the fair girlish face, and even less of earthliness. It seemed a long walk from Brierwood to Kingsbury through, the white fog of that November morning. A year ago and Grace Redmayne had seldom known what it was to flag or tire upon that familiar journey; but to-day, with a thick mist brooding over the landscape, and with the confusion in her own mind, it seemed to her as if she were going through a strange country. Once she stopped by a little gate, and put her hand to her head for a moment or two, trying to collect her thoughts, and to overcome the dream-like feeling which made everything appear unreal. "Am I really going to meet him-really going to be marHer chief treasures were a huge work-box and desk, inlaid ried?" she said to herself, "or am I walking in my sleep?" At last she came to the turnstile by the common, fully | seemed to be a long time in the streets, and as they went believing that the walk had taken her three hours, and fearing through Gray's-inn-lane, by King's Cross, and the wild wastes that her lover would have lost patience and gone away, leaving beyond-which formed at that time an arid desert of newlyher to return to Brierwood ignominiously, in the face of that begun railway arches, given over to desolation and bill-stickers farewell letter. -Grace hardly saw the metropolis in its most dignified aspect. She wondered a little that country people could be so delighted with London; but after passing the architectural splendors of Kentish Town, where the highest development of the builder's art was manifest in corner public-houses, they began to ascend Highgate-rise, which Grace thought pretty, and something like the outskirts of Tunbridge. No, he was standing by the turnstile, and received her joyously with outstretched arms and a bright smile. "My sweetest, you are better than punctuality itself!" he exclaimed. "You are a quarter of an hour before the appointed time." "What!" she cried, bewildered; isn't it very, very late?" "No, Gracey; very early-a quarter to eight. I was here half an hour too soon." They stopped at a cottage on the very top of the hill-a toy dwelling-place of the gothic order-with tiny mullioned win"It seemed so long," she sail, with a wondering look; "I dows below, and miniature oriels above; just the kind of house thought I should be hours too late." "You were nervous and excited, darling. You have brought your carpet-bag, too, in spite of all I said, an 1 much too heavy for those fragile arms to carry. Come, dear, you had better jump in at once. There's a nasty drizzling rain.” There was, and Grace had been walking through the rain for the last ten minutes without being aware of the fact. The fly from Tunbridge was waiting. Mr. Walgrave handed her in, wrapped her tenderly in a fleecy carriage-rug that was the very essence of warmth, and they drove off briskly along the soft, miry road. It was not a bright morning for an elopement; the white mists had slowly melted away, leaving a gloomy landscape blurred with rain, under a low, dim sky; but for Grace it was a journey through fairyland, the Tunbridge express an enchanter's car rather than a common earthly conveyance. Was she not with him? And he was so kind and tender, so thoughtful, so anxious for her comfort. Even though London-bridge was a somewhat dirty and dispiriting place to arrive at, the girl's spirits did not falter. All fear, all doubt, had vanished out of her mind, now she was with him. He was so good, so noble! Who could be base enough to doubt him? It was only ten o'clock when they alighted at London-bridge. Hubert Walgrave put Grace into a cab, gave some brief direction to the cabman, and they drove off in a north-westerly direction. "Are we going to drive straight to the church?" Grace asked, wondering whether she would be able to take off her vail and outer shawl, and arrange her bonnet in the vestry. "No, dar; I am going to show you our house first, and to say a few serious words to you." His face was turned a little toward the window as he spoke. "Our house!" she cried, with childish delight; "are we really going to have a house?" "Well, yes, dearest; we must live somewhere, you know. We are not like the birds of the air; and as I cannot leave London at this time of year, I have set up our household gods in the suburbs. I think you will like the nest I have chosen, Gracey dear." "How can I help liking it, if you do?'' "A true wife's answer!" he said, smiling at the bright, spiritual face. Her heart thrilled at the worl. "Your wife," she murmured, softly. How sweet the name sounds!" 'Yes, darling; it has been a sacred name ever since the days when Eve bore it; yet there was neither church nor law to give it to her. It is a word of deeper meaning than narrow-minded bigots think." The speech might have alarmed another woman in so dubious a position as Grace Redmayne's; but over her pure mind it passed like a Summer breath across deep water without leaving a ripple. "You were never in town before, were you, Grace?'' her lover asked, lightly. It was not time yet for that serious talk he had spoken of just now. to delight a girl of nineteen, unawakened to the consideration of coal-cellar, wash-house, and dust-bin, or to the question whether the architect had so placed his kitchen that the smell of the dinner must needs pervade the drawing-room. It was one of those bewitching habitations which look ravishing in a drawing, and concentrate in a small compass all possible inconveniences of domestic architecture. Mr. Walgrave dismissed the cab, and took Grace and her carpet-bag across a few square yards of garden into a tiny hall, and then into a drawing-room; such a drawing-room, Grace clasped her hands and looked round her with a cry of rapture. Her lover had not been idle during his week of preparation. He had sent in hothouse flowers enough to fill a small conservatory, and to make the little room a positive bower. He had bought things with a man's reckless hand. One of the small sofas was loaded with silk-mercer's parcels, one of the side-tables was heaped with perfumery, hairbrushes, fans, diamond-cut scent-bottles, little French slippers with big cherry-colored bows, boxes of pale lavender gloves, everything piled up pell-mell, and the papers that had enveloped them thrown in a heap into a corner of the room. THE BAS RELIEVO AT ANG COR, COCHIN CHINA. TUE expedition sent out by the French Government, in 1866, to explore the interior and coasts of that South-eastern part of Asia known as Cochin China, was productive of many discoveries which prove the grandeur of its ancient architecture. In this respect the ruins resemble those of Yucatan and Central America, which Mr. Abraham Morrell, our Minister to Yucatan, describes as being equally gigantic. In may parts, the rich growth of tropical vegetation has entirely hidden these remains of former American architectural grandeur from sight, but in some parts this has been cleared away, and the mammoth ruins laid bare to human eyes, after the lapse of centuries. We give the fac simile of a photograph of a bas relievo in a temple at Ang Cor, which will give our readers some idea of the barbaric grandeur of these Asiatics. GIPSIES BEGGING AT PESTH. WE have, in an earlier number of FRANK LESLIE'S LADY'S MAGAZINE, given some of the numerous theories as to the origin of the gipsies. Whatever their origin, the fact is unquestioned that they abound in Bohemia and Hungary, where they are positive nuisances. Their wild life reminds one of the primitive ages, when the patriarchs roamed with their families and retainers, sleeping in tents, which were pitched at different spots, as their exigencies required. Monsieur Perrot describes with much vivacity the interest he took in these mysterious vagrants, whose singular customs have been handed down from age to age till their origin is lost in the dimness of antiquity. Our sketches, taken from designs by that eminent artist and traveler, Theodore Valerio, represent a party of gipsies begging at the door of a farm-house. AN honest reputation is within the reach of all men; they "Once only; father brought me, and we went to see the obtain it by social virtues, and by doing their duty. This kind Tower and Madame Tussaud's." of reputation, it is true, is neither brilliant nor startling, but it He pointed out churches and buildings as they passed. They is often the most useful for happiness. THE LADY ELIZABETH. CHAPTER I. F ALL the woman of the last century, there was certainly not one more scandalized and more admired than Lady Elizabeth Colynghame; and with excellent reason, for it is hard to conceive of a more singular career, concerning which, the garbled statements of that time have only excited curiosity, without gratifying it. The story of that life, so fruitful as it was in incident, so varied and romantic, lies before us now; and as it is found, so it is given. Orphaned at an early age, and very wealthy, Lady Elizabeth, at twenty-one, was still comparatively alone in the world, for, to a strong and ardent nature like hers, the closest friendship was not a substitute for the nearer and dearer ties of kindred and affection. We know, too, that at twenty-one, she was tall, well-formed, and graceful, but far from beautiful. She was dark to swarthiness, with irregular features, and heavy brows; but her eyes were large, brown, and piercing; and if her lips were neither prettily curved nor pouting, they certainly revealed the whitest and most perfect teeth imaginable. of Despite the laxity of morals, and the vitiating influences that period, Elizabeth was chaste, kind, and sincere. For the sake of womanhood, then, even while plundering the secret of her life, let us remember this, and take her only as she gave herself to us. Let us remem. ber, too, that hers was a passionate soul, and her love a terrible delirium; but none the less was her nature noble and heroic. As for Sir Gerald Leigh Monckton, the man whom she loved, and who had been chosen as her husband, he was handsome, brave, chivalrous, and profoundly indifferent to her. It was the old story of wealth, and a marriage arranged by careful parents, but without the old result; for one Summer evening, when a trifling indisposision had been offered as a pretext for remaining undisturbed in her chamber, her ladyship was really stationed in an unlighted room, whence she saw and heard all that passed between the pair upon the ter race. "Ah, blessed chance that brings me this great joy! Ah, thrice accursed fate that would bind me to her now!" That was Sir Gerald's voice. "But are you sure, very sure, that you do not love her?" It was Elizabeth's cousin who spoke now. It was Constance Mainwaring, a childlike beauty, with snow-white skin, and golden hair, and dove-gray eyes; with the face of an angel, in fact, and the heart of a traitor. "Love her? I am sure, very sure, that I hate her. I never loved her, and now hatred has taken the place of the little kindliness I may once have felt for her. Oh, Constance, I love but you, and you know it! VOL. XXXI, No. 2-7 666 And no other woman will I ever call wife,' so help me Heaven!" "Will you tell her that?" "She shall learn it to-morrow." All this, and much more, did her ladyship hear; and when the two had strolled away, and into the moonlit garden, the listener returned to her own chamber, to all appearances calm and unmoved. But upon her had fallen a bitter hopelessness that no tears or bewailings might ever dispel. She had learned the worthlessness of those who were dearest to her; and of all the pangs that wring the human heart, surely that knowledge . brings the keenest. Sir Gerald found no opportunity to make his confession during the next day, for her ladyship was visible to no one. Nor yet on the next, for her ladyship was gone. Without a word, without a sign, taking no one-not even Hetty, her maid-with her. And before twenty-four hours had passed, Lawyer Fernby came, post-haste, down from London, with the information that Lady Elizabeth would not return for some time, perhaps, and so desired the housekeeper to see t' at the servants were all dismissed, and the Hall closed. "As for you, miss," said the lawyer to Constance," although deprived of the immediate benefit of her ladyship's protection, yet you are by no means so unfortunate as you might be. Your 'MADAME,' INTERRUPTED THE VICOMTE, COLDLY, 'OF ALL THE WORLD, YOU SHOULD LOVE BUT ONE OF TWO MEN. THE PRINCE, BECAUSE HE WORSHIPS YOU, OR SIR GERALD MONCKTON, BECAUSE HE IS YOUR HUSBAND. own little property yields you a hundred pounds a year, and with that you may contrive to exist. And as for you, sir, I am charged to hand you this." It was a letter, couched in these words: "I have change my mind about marrying you, Sir Gerald, and to avoid the unpleasantness of meeting you, after this confession, I will not return to the Hall until you leave it. I have given orders that Constance Mainwaring be turned out of doors. Of course, you will offer her a home; but I trust, sir, that you will not forget yourself so far, and show such disrespect to our parents, as to do so until you have given her a wedding-ring. "ELIZABETH COLYNGHAME." - Gerald's face flushed as he read. "Fetch a parson!" he cried to the servant who answered his impatient summons. "Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la!" softly whistled Lawyer Fernby, as he furtively watched that angelic, innocent Constance. She, dear heart, was demurely awaiting the closing scene of the comedy. It came with the parson, a rubicund, hoarse-voiced son of the Church. When this worthy entered, Sir Gerald took the young girl's hand, and drew her forward. Sir," said he, to the new-comer, "this lady you know to be Constance Mainwaring, spinster. I am Gerald Leigh Monckton, and there is Lawyer Fernby, and, if need be, I will summon twenty more witnesses. So, now, parson, to work! Marry us, if you please." "Is the lady quite willing?" asked Fernby. "Answer him, Constance," commanded her future lord. When the ceremony was concluded, the groom turned to the lawyer. "You may tell her ladyship," said he, "that I have taken her advice, and thank her heartily for it. I have given a wedding ring to her beautiful cousin-the little golden circlet I wore upon my chain. Her ladyship will remember it, for I had promised it to her. Tell her all this; and bear her the grateful esteem of two very happy people." Such was the abrupt manner in which Elizabeth lost and Constance gained a husband. IN November, 1770, among the guests at The Prince of Hesse Hotel, Brussels, were an English nobleman and his wife. He was a handsome roué, an inveterate gamester, and a jealous husband. Then, with a contemptuous glance at Monckton, her ladyship took the officer's arm, and the pair coolly resumed their promenade. "Dog!" cried the outraged man, springing forward. But the major interposed. He caught his friend's arm, and whispered, excitedly : "Zounds! Monckton, don't make a brawl of it, and so lay yourself open to ridicule. Be careful-careful. Work it on apace. We'll manage it satisfactorily, never fear." The advice was good, and with a mighty effort Monckton restrained himself; but he shook off his friend, and, striding to De Florestan's side, asked, shortly: "Do you know, sir, to what you expose yourself?'' Without troubling himself to look at his questioner, the the other answered, carelessly : Ar daybreak the next morning, the principals in this affair, and their seconds, were together in a secluded part of the forest. Swords were drawn, and the antagonists threw themselves into position; but Monckton, mad with rage, soon lost all presence of mind, and almost flung himself upon the Frenchman. Then it was that De Florestan, calling into play that famous lunge which had never failed him, sent Monckton staggering back, with his right arm disabled. "It is nothing," he muttered to Ormsby, between his clinched teeth. Then to De Florestan, "Let us continue, monsieur. I can use my left hand." "As you will," replied the other, bowing politely. Again the swords were crossed and clashed; and in a few moments Monckton's weapon was knocked from his grasp, high into the air. As it fell, De Florestan sprang forward, picked it up, broke it across his knee, and then flung the pieces at the Englishman's feet. "There," said he; "I fight no more to-day." "What!" almost shrieked his opponent. "Do you forget that this is à l'outrance—that one of us must die?'' "I do not forget, sir," was the calm reply. "I shall cerShe, a perfect blonde beauty, was lively, spirituelle, coquettish, tainly stand up with you again; and then I shall as certainly and designing. Imagine, then, the domestic unhappiness of this illy-matched couple! And this unhappiness had, upon the husband's side, been lately wrought into a state of frenzy by the assiduous attentions of a French vicomte to the blonde beauty, who, as may be divined, was no other than Lady Constance Monckton. The vicomte was Maurice de Florestan, a young officer with a gay manner, an aggressively military bearing, and a dark, handsome face. One morning the storm burst. De Florestan and Lady Monckton were strolling leisurely beneath the lindens in the palace gardens, when their delightful confidences were rudely disturbed by Sir Gerald and a friend-one General Ormsby. "Monsieur le Vicomte," thundered Sir Gerald, who never could, or never would, learn to practice discretion, "I have to thank you for your civility toward my wife; but from this time forth, pray consider yourself discharged from all attendance upon her." kill you." "Coward! I—" But Monckton could say no more. He had fallen back in a dead faint. THE hostile meeting excited no particular attention, for the period was one in which every man of the world was expected to hold himself in readiness to thus avenge all insults. But what caused gossip, was the open flirtation that was now being carried on between Lady Monckton and the handsome, chivalrous Prince Charles of Prussia, and that, too, when Gerald lay at death's door. And what racked public curiosity, and created intense amazement, was the apparent certainty that, after all, De Florestan was nothing more than a warm friend to the fair one, and to the prince. Here was wonder upon wonder, truly! "Do you know that people are getting o be very rude to me here?" said my lady, one evening, to the vicomte, when they To this rudeness the Frenchman responded gravely, and in chanced to be alone together. passably gool English: 'Sir, that is a matter which must be left to the lady's decision. Pray, what does madame say! y?'' "Madame says that she will not submit to dictation, and that her husband's exhibition of ill-temper is unwise. Madame says, too, that such a scene as this should not be for the public. Come, Monsieur le Vicomte." "Indeed!" "You would say so, if you could only see that old duchess, and all the rest of my dear country-people, when they meet me. Have you no idea why they act so?" "They are jealous of your beauty." Nonsense! That is not it." "They envy your influence over the prince." |