Two or three hours after the conversation above related, having occasion to enter the general sittingroom, I found it occupied by Mr. Lyndham and Viola. He was leaning against the mantel-piece; his brow was knitted, his lips compressed, every muscle and lineament seemed tutored for the nonce into a state of rigid composure. Viola sat at some little distance; the expression of her countenance was one of lofty tranquillity, save that a slight curl of the nether lip betokened that there lurked a feeling of proud disdain beneath that calm demeanour. On perceiving me, she rose from her chair, whilst Mr. Lyndham said, "Is this your final determination, Miss Sidney?" "It is the settled purpose of my soul," replied Viola, firmly; "fixed beyond the power of change." After a moment's pause, she added, "You said well, Mr. Lyndham; it were, indeed, vain to expect that the fair buds of promise which gladdened our spring, should reblossom in the autumn of our lives. I understand you; I have long understood you: ours would not now be a happy union; you feel it-I know it. I had hoped to have been spared this explanation: I thought that my conduct would have interpreted for me; but . . . ." she was interrupted, for Lucy entered as this moment, leaning on, or rather clinging to her mother. Slight, very slight, must have been the burden of that ex quisitely moulded, yet somewhat fragile form; but, strange to say, Mrs. Sidney appeared to totter beneath it, and withdrew her supporting arm SO suddenly, that Lucy lost her balance, and would inevitably have fallen to the ground, had not Mr. Lyndham sprung across the room, and received her in his arms. For a few minutes I was occupied in soothing and attending on Lucy, as, overcome by conflicting emotions, she appeared, each instant, on the point of fainting; and when, at length, I turned to speak to Viola, I found that she had quitted the apartment. And now why should I say more? It cannot be doubted that Mr. Lyndham proposed that very evening, still less can it be doubted, that Lucy joyfully accepted him. CHAPTER XI. She would not embitter a festival-day, HAYNES BAYLEY. In sooth I cannot smile, and will not weep to-day. W. H. B. WE stood around the altar. The book was closed-the prayer was prayed-the marriage ceremony was over, and the bride-wife weeping, blushing, trembling, threw herself into the bride-maid's arms. Long-long and fervent was the parting embrace of the two sisters; and when, at length, Viola disengaged herself from Lucy's encircling arms, she turned to Mr. Lyndham, and, extending her hand, said, Heaven for ever bless you! That tone, those words, that attitude, what did they not recall? Time, distance, space, seemed at once annihilated. Again I stood in that familiar room; again I saw the mid-day sun pouring his mellowed rays on all around; again I heard that pale girl, as I heard her then, with voice of agony pronouncing that same parting benediction on him, of whom she fondly believed that, 'mid earth's countless myriads, there could not be found his peer. What magic spell was there in those words, that, on hearing them, Mr. Lyndham should start so violently? Why did his cheek flush, and his voice falter, as he said, "Farewell?" Why were there legible on his dark brow, the workings of some inward conflict? Perhaps remorse was there, perhaps shame, perhaps visions of youth, and love, and beauty, (such beauty as he might never hope to see again,) rose before his eyes in all the vivid colouring of by-gone years. Well, perhaps, was it for Lucy, that she could not read Mr. Lyndham's thoughts at that moment;—well, perhaps, is it for many a young wife, that she may not read her husband's heart at the very moment when the irrevocable vow has been pronounced, that binds him to her for ever! How long I stood absorbed in these ruminations, I know not; but I was roused from my reverie on hearing Mrs. Sidney say, "Come, Dorothy, since Charles has taken the absurd whim into his head, that Lucy and Lyndham should set off from the church-door, we will, at least, see them to the very last moment: besides," she whispered, "I want to look at the travelling-carriage." Mechanically I followed Mrs. Sidney. I have an indistinct recollection of the plain, dark chariot, of the servants, and postilions, so gay and 'point device in their accoutrements,' of the four greys (Mr. Lyndham's own greys) pawing the ground with impatience. I remember Mrs. Sidney's beaming April countenance, as, smiling through her tears, she said, "Well, Dorothy, even Lord Glenalbert could not have gone off in better style than this!" I remember, too, Lucy throwing her arms about my neck, and bounding into the carriage, followed by Mr. Lyndham. In another moment a cloud of dust concealed them from our view. Margaret's carriage then drew up, and was followed by our own humbler vehicle. My foot was on the steps, when I suddenly exclaimed, "Where is Viola ?" "Ah, where is Viola ?" was echoed by the rest of the party. Tumultuously we rushed back into the church. A stranger, who was loitering in the aisle, perceiving our anxiety, said, "The lady is ill; she has been carried into the vestry." Thither I hastened; and there, pale and motionless as the marble, lay extended the form of Viola Sidney. I raised her in my arms, and, chafing her hands and temples, |