Kept in the Dark

the drawing-room, where was sitting Mrs. Holt with her daughter, and began to tell them that he was to leave the Deanery on the following morning and not be back till a da

ught of it. But some friends have reminded me that as these ar

said Cecilia in a tone of voice which seeme

n such an occasion," said Sir Francis. "They regard her a

little relaxation

od it, sat very uneasy in her chair. "To tell the truth," continued he, "all the instructions have been given to the lawyers, and I really do think that I had better be away during t

or yourself, Sir F

kind of thing quicker than a woman, and a man of forty much

le given to him by her company. She sat silent, turning it all over in her mind, and struggling to think how she might best get her mother out of the room. She must do it instantly;-now at once. She was perfectly resolved that he should not leave that hous

n't know," said

o stupid, that I hardly know how to put one foot before the other, and C

oing to-morrow, would you mind leaving us alone for a few

" said Mrs. Holt, as she

f the man, and of his future home. Her imagination had been active in drawing pictures for herself of the life she was to live,-pictures which for a time had been rosy-hued. But whatever the tints may have been, and how far the bright colours may have become dimmed, it had been as Lady Geraldine, and not as Cecilia Holt that she had looked in the

. She with the gentlest possible motion rejected his embrace, and contrived to stand at a little distance from him. But she said nothing. The subject to be discussed was so difficult that words would not come

is too serious for ill-humour." Then she paused. "What I have got to say is of some importance

arth is th

how to excuse myself. Your friends will say th

t all about?" he demand

and yet she did not know how to tell him. If it were once told she could, she thought, defend herself. But the difficulty was to

nd that you want to quarrel with me because I am goin

up my mind before I had heard of your going;-only when I did

miss that it is necessary that I should know let me know it at once." As he said this there came across his brow a look of anger and of hot ill-humour, such as she had never

t say of her, and especially what might be said by his friends. "I do not know that I have done anything amiss of which I need tell you,

While you beat about the bush

roposed m

ha

should not ma

re he continued, which he did as though he had discovered

t would make me happy as your wife. Do not interrupt me just at present," she said, stopping him, as some exclamation was escaping from his lips. "Hear me to the end, and, if you have ought to say, I will then hear you. Of my own regard for you I will say nothing. But I think that I have been mistaken as to your nature. In fact, I feel sure that we are neith

on the sofa, assuming as it were a look of profound ease, and arranging the nails of one hand with the fingers of the other,

I have

I begin you will not inter

here be ought that

hat I have not been told the whole truth." Then he stopped, as though in spite of his injunction as to her silence he expected an answer from her. But she made none, though there came a cloud of anger upon her face. "I suppose, I

necessary to speak of

f your

y own," s

d have sufficed to estrange you. There must be something more palpable than temper to have occasioned it. And though

wrath but with head so turned fr

ed to ask the question, though perh

cis Geraldine, between you and me all is over. I can only

d not insist upon that, as

only in your thoughts. I must take what consolation I can from the feeling that the injury will fall chi

her expressions of gratitude, she had rebelled against him! Of the meaning of this he had not been quite conscious, but had nevertheless felt it necessary that he should dominate her spirit. Up to the moment in which this interview had begun he had thought that he was learning to do so. She had not dared to ask him questions which would have been so natural, or to demand from him services to which she was entitled. It was thus that he had regarded her conduct. But he had never feared for a moment but that he was on the road to success. Up to the moment at which he had entered the room he had thought that he was progressing favourably. His Cecilia was becoming tame in his hands, as was necessary. He had then been altogether taken aback and surprised by her statement to him, and could not for some moments get over his feeling of amazement. At last he uttered a low whistle, and then walked slowly out of the house. At the front door he found his horse, and, mounting it, rode back into Exeter. As he did so he began to inquire of himself whether this step which the girl had determined to take was real

moment he had been hurt. He would have said that his heart had been hurt. There was but little of heart in it, for it may be doubted whether he had ever loved her. But there was something pricked him which filled him for the instant with serious thoughts. When he had asked the question he wished to see her at his

ness. If the world of Exeter would say that he had ill-used the girl, and had broken off the engagement for mere fancy,-as she had done,-that would be much more endurable. He could not say that such was the case. To so palpable a lie the contradiction would be easy and disgraceful. But could he not so tell the story as to leave a doubt on the minds of the people? That question of another lover had not been contradicted. Thinking of it again as he rode home he began to feel that the lover must be true, and that her conduct in breaking off the engagement h