FOR strange confusion during the rapidly-fleeting days of his betrothal; one idea alone was clear, he had paid an awful price for Milicent Gray, and nothing should be permitted to stand between him and the treasure which had been purchased so dearly. He must make her his own speedily, and trust to the aftertime to bring him the love for the sake of which his soul stood in jeopardy. The 30th of November was the day fixed for the bridal, and it dawned clear and fine, as little like a November morning, as the wedding it was to see resembled a holy heart-union. Milicent looked pale and fragile in her simple white finery, and more than one heart felt a strange feeling akin to pity for her, as she faltered forth the solemn words which bound her till death to Gilbert Armstrong. The bridegroom stood beside her, and grave pale. At the commencement of the service a sombre shadow lay on his face, but it lightened as the ceremony proceeded, and the intense light of a great joy shone on those rugged features, as the closing words were said. Cold and clammy was the unresisting, but uncomplying hand, on which he placed the weddingring, but, he thought, that hand should learn to thrill at the contact with his; it should go hard with him, but he would win this one woman's love before he died. Vain dreams, Gilbert Armstrong! the lurid light which shines on your life this morning, because you have won by fair or foul means you now reck little-the girl you love, will never soften into the tender sunshine of life-long happines. It will go out with untimely suddenness in blackness of darkness for ever! The wedding feast was kept at the cottage, and thither resorted a goodly company, for the miller had no mind to do this thing in a corner. A bevy of youthful maidens, schooltime friends, surrounded the bride; the town gossips supported and consoled her mother, while the tiny cottage walls echoed back manly, hearty laughter from Gilbert's farming and business cronies. A sense of pride and girlish dignity kept Milicent up through the trying ceremony, and also sustained her at the yet more trying festival, but the end came at last, and she retired to prepare herself for the wedding journey. It was not to be a long one; Gilbert merely meant to waste a day or two in climbing the "Malvern Hills, for mountains counted 'Not unduly," MAY, 1879. and then return to his altered life in his old dwelling-place. During the time occupied in changing her white robe for a travelling dress, Milicent was alone with her mother. No word was spoken, though both hearts were full, until the toilet was complete, lacking only the simple brown straw bonnet which lay on the bed. As Mrs. Gray turned to hand this to her daughter, a sound of wheels was heard. The color faded from the bride's cheeks, and with a passionate gesture she turned to her mother, and flung herself on that weak but ever-loving bosom. "Oh! mother, mother!" she sobbed, and the tears fell like rain from the widow's eyes, but though Milicent's voice was broken and thick with sobs, no tears cooled those hot shining eyes which had a look of hunted anguish in them, pitiful to see. Mrs. Gray tried to soothe her child, and Milicent summoning her courage, rallied herself bravely. "It is too late, now, mother," she said sadly. "I have chosen my lot-or rather it was forced upon me—and I must abide by it." "Forced upon you, darling," remonstrated her mother, "nay, child, I did but persuade you for your good." "I did not mean you, mother," said the I bride, "you were always too good to me. should like to be alone for a few minutes before I start, mother, if you will let me." Mrs. Gray kisssd her, and left the room. Milicent looked around her. There were many signs of poverty in that little chamber, and she was going to a home of plenty, but never before had its narrow walls seemed such a place of refuge. She was going to leave the shelter of this simple nest to face the horrors of a loveless marriage, and now that the irrevocable step was taken, all her maidenhood seemed to revolt from the prospect. Then, for a short, unhappy period, the thought of her lost lover came over her,-of Wilfred North, who had vanished from her sight in the mists of that chill October evening, aud she had seen him no more. She had heard him spoken of, she had sat calmly by and heard his absence discussed, not as the strange thing it was to her, but as the sudden freak of a rich young man, a freak he was known to have committed more than once before. Sir Guy North had called on Mrs. Ayscough when Milicent was at the vicarage, about a week before her wedding, and she heard him declare that he was under no apprehension concerning his son: he was used to &c., &c. and her heart swelled within her at the thought that Wilfred North had fled from his home to avoid making her his wife, perhaps to cure himself of the idle fancy which had made a pleasant summer pastime, till it grew dangerous. But there were other rumours of late, rumours which Milicent had not heard, floating tales suggesting that Wilfred North's absence might not be so easily accounted for, rumours that Sir Guy's indifferent easy manner was feigned, and that certain strange men who appeared at the Hall, and who haunted Colemarsh streets and country roads, were detectives, sent for to search to its foundation the mystery of Wilfred North's whereabouts, dead or alive. Mrs. Gray had heard these whispers, but at Gilbert's request had refrained from naming them to Milicent, and so cleverly did the miller guard his betrothed wife from vague rumours, that from the night on which Wilfred North failed to keep his appointment until her wedding, Milicent heard no whisper of doubt that foul play might have befallen her secret lover. So there was no mystery in Milicent's mind as-the few minutes fleeting by that were her last of liberty, she thought with sharp bitterness of the man who won her love only to slight it, while she dropped upon her knees by the little bed, and in silent, passionate yearning towards the Unseen, she prayed for strength to cast out the love that was now a sin, and for help to be a good wife to the man she had taken for her husband. She rose calmed, and began to finish her preparations. A few trinkets and laces lay scattered on the dressingtable, tossed aside during the wedding toilette, and she mechanically proceeded to fold and replace them. In so doing, her eye fell on a letter addressed to herself. She instantly remembered that it had come by the morning post, and had been left unopened in the hurry of dressing for the early ceremony. She took it up; the handwriting was strange to her, the post mark was "Colemarsh only. It was this fact which had made her put it aside in the morning, thinking it an ordinary note containing congratulations and good wishes from some near friend. "I will look at it now," she said to herself, and straightway broke the seal. A few lines, in an utterly strange handwriting, were scrawled on a large sheet of paper. The words were these; "Before you marry Gilbert Armstrong, ask "him if he met Mr. Wilfred North on the "night of the 16th of October. He who ad"vises you is— ONE WHO SUSPECTS HIM." "Before I marry Gilbert Armstrong," murmured the unhappy girl, "why before I marry him?" She paused a moment, the letter held loosely in her shaking hand, and then a wave of conviction, deep as truth, and strong as fate, swept over that miserable heart. She saw it all. "Gilbert has murdered Wilfred North," she said to herself hoarsely, as she sank on the bed shuddering and stricken-" and I have been warned too late." The minutes passed, and she cowered and shuddered, while the waves of despair rolled over her, crushing youth, hope, and sensibility. When she sat upright again, her white, set face was full of a dread purpose, and the light of youthful loveliness was gone from it for ever. "I will know the truth," she said. CHAPTER XIV. AT COLEMARSH HALL. The window of Milicent's bedroom opened out on a rustic wooden balcony, which led down a flight of steps into a strip of kitchen-garden at the back of the cottage. A low hedge separated this small domain from a field which ended in a long coppice through which was a short way to Colemarsh Hall, much used by workmen and servants, and others who had constant communication with the Hall. With stiff, rigid fingers Milicent tied on her bonnet, and hurriedly opening the window went out, and ran down the steps into the garden. The low, weak hedge was no impediment to her progress in her present suppressed excitement, and she was soon across the field, and threading her way with feverish haste along the rugged pathway through the coppice. Briars lay across her road sometimes, and entangled themselves with her garments, but she paused not, and tore past the impediments, leaving pieces of her gown here and there to mark her way. Now and again her excited fancy persuaded her that she was pursued; she did not pause to listen, but bore onward, panting and fearful-looking, till she emerged from the coppice near the lodge-gates of Colemarsh Hall. Still on, with the same persistent resolve, the same whirling brain in which lay one determination. FOR MAY, 1879. "I will know the truth," she had said, and this one clear idea was uppermost in her mind through all, and ruled by its solemn power the chaos of her emotions. She was spared the suspense of waiting while a message was carried to Sir Guy North, asking for an interview, for half-way up the avenue leading to the house, she came upon the baronet in close conversation with a strange man. Strange, at least to Milicent, was that clearcut face, with its deep-set intelligent eyes, its unsearchable mouth and intellectual forehead, but Colemarsh had marked this man of late, and had said of him that he would find Wilfred North if he was above ground. On seeing Milicent approach, the inscrutable face of the stranger assumed a complacent expression. "Sir Guy," he said softly, "my bait has not utterly failed, you see. This is the bride." Sir Guy North turned to look at the figure approaching. Only since the same morning had this girlish unit of humanity been more to him than the rest of the plebeian population of Colemarsh, but now he looked eagerly at her as, panting and pale, she stopped before him and his companion. "I must speak to you, sir," she said, forgetting how to address a baronet in her sore despair. "I must speak to you, sir, on a matter of life and death." "Certainly," replied Sir Guy, and the trio walked to the house. Instead of entering the Hall by its principal door, Sir Guy turned aside, and passing through a corner of the shrubbery, came upon a bay-window at the side of the house. He held this open for his companions to pass through, and then followed them, securing the casement carefully. Milicent looked round her with a vague dull wonder at the luxurious fittings of the room, but her listless gaze was arrested by a picture which hung over the ample mantelpiece. It was a portrait in oils of Wilfred North. Yes, her lover's face looked at her from the canvas, as if with living eyes. The strong love, crushed by fancied neglect and deceit, and tutored into stillness by the voice of duty, sprang into new life, and with wonderful energy in her manner, she turned to the baronet, who with his silent companion, had watched and weighed aright that passionate look at the likeness of the missing man. "I must speak with you alone, Sir Guy," said Milicent, in a calm steady tone. Sir Guy looked at his companion and hesi 7 addressed Milicent in a gentle, persuasive voice. "You received a letter this morning, Miss -." He paused, uncertain how to address her, and his hesitation struck her with sudden anguish. "It was too late," she cried passionately. "I did not read it till after I was married." "And you have come," went on the persuasive voice," to tell Sir Guy the truth about your acquaintance with his son." "I am," replied Milicent firmly. Her brain seemed clearer now, a sense of duty to be done animated her, and the pictured eyes of her absent lover seemed to rest upon her with an imploring air, as if to ask her help to unravel the dark mystery which hung over his fate. Sir Guy gave her a chair, and the detective seated himself opposite. The girl's narrative was related calmly and succintly, without appearance of excitement, and both her hearers aided her from time to time by apposite questions. It was all told-she grudged none of the shame which the recital cost her, indeed her share of that shame was less than Sir Guy North's, who read the base part his son had intended to play, while her maiden innocence had believed in his honour and truth. "And now," said Mr. Griffith, so Milicent had heard the stranger named, “do you think any one knew of that meeting and arrangement in Crowhurst Lane?" "I know it," said Milicent, a red spot burning on her cheek. "Some one overheard your conversation ?" "Yes." "And that someone was "Mr. Armstrong," she answered readily. A shadow crossed the window, Milicent sprang to her feet with a faint cry. There was a shivering of glass, a trampling of feet, a rush of cold air, and Gilbert Armstrong sprang into the room, and rushed to Milicent's side. "My wife! my wife!" he gasped. A man followed him through the window, a shabby man of loafing appearance, who had watched the marriage ceremony from behind a pillar in the church, and who had been the first to follow the excited bridegroom when Milicent was discovered to be missing. This man came forward, and at a signal from his superior, laid a hand on Gilbert Armstrong's shoulder. "I arrest you, Gilbert Armstrong," he said, "for the murder of Mr. Wilfred North." (To be concluded.) DRESSMAKERS versus DRESS-MANUFACTURERS. The following extract is taken from a very interesting article, in last month's part of ALL THE YEAR ROUND, entitled " Idle Women." Our readers will remember that the same subject was dealt with by our friend the COMTESSE DE B. in the Paris letter of Jannary last.-ED. W. F. "Concerning the immorality and waste which has prevailed, and still prevails in the matter of dress, there is much to be said, and still more to be done. It rests with women who have money and position to expose and reform such abuses. From the best draper's shop in Regent Street, to that of the small suburban haberdasher, the main object in business appears to be the production of ready-made dresses whose construction shall involve the greatest amount of material and the smallest expenditure of work, and which, from the badness of both (varying according to locality), shall bring most profit to the seller, most loss to the wearer. These articles are designed by men, and made in large wholesale houses. In this way a department of work, for which the taste and the invention, to say nothing of the experience of women, make them especially fitted, has drifted out of their hands. Ten years ago the dressmaker of ordinary skill and diligence could, with one or two assistants, carry on a fairly remunerative business. But she can now no longer struggle against the increased amount of work needed in every dress, against bad debts, and against the competition of large houses; these have absorbed her work, her customers, her profits. It is no doubt true that many ladies of the upper classes will not buy these ready-made articles. If they abstain from such purchases upon reflection and principle, they cannot stop there; they must further use their influence to discourage among their tradesmen a practice hostile at once to good taste and to honest work. It may be said in defence of the work we are referring to that it does employ a large number of women; no doubt the treadles of the sewing-machine are worked by women. Such work, however, cannot for one moment be compared with the effort of brain and hand needful in the dressmaker who designs, shapes, adjusts, and ornaments her work, with special care for the characteristic requirements of a well-known customer. While we endeavour with one hand to thrust women into the employments of men, we seem with the other to take away their rightful work, and to sacrifice them by hundreds to the tradesman's greed." A FAREWELL. Remembering all the pleasant hours that we THE FULL-SIZED PATTERNS. All allowances necessary for the seams, are already given to these Patterns, so that the seams NEED NOT be allowed for when cutting out, except in materials that require extra wide turnings in. The Patterns are all suited for Ladies of medium height and of proportionate figure: measuring 344 inches round the chest and 24 waist, unless otherwise stated in the description. The greatest care is always taken by the binders to ensure the whole of the pieces composing each pattern being folded up in it. If at any time, through accident, our subscribers should find any pieces missing, the Editors will be happy to supply the deficiency post free, during the month after publication, on receipt of a letter or post card addressed to them at 1, Kelso Place, Kensington, London, W. THE CHRISTINA CORSAGE. Our first pattern is the Corsage for the Christina Costume shown on the first figure of our first plate. The pattern is given complete, and consists of six pieces;-back, side-piece, front, gilet, sleeve and cuff. The notches and pricked lines across the sleeve belong to our second full-sized pattern. POINTED CORSAGE WITH SQUARE OPENING. Our second full-sized pattern (all the pieces of which are marked by one round hole) is the Corsage of the Concert Dress represented on fig. 2 of plate 2. This pattern consists of back, sidepiece, and front; the sleeve of our first pattern will serve for this corsage by cutting it across at the elbow, as shown by the pricked line and the notches. |