University of Virginia Library

THE SECRET MARRIAGE.

It was a magnificent apartment in an old English baronial
hall. A strong light fell from the lofty window over a gentleman
and a lady, the only occupants of the room.

The girl was very young, — scarcely had her feet wandered
beyond the enchanted boundary of girlhood; and yet there was
a kind of tropical ripeness in her gorgeous beauty.

Her figure was tall, stately and fully developed, — exquisite
in its proportions; her features were purely classical in their
outline, and from the small and graceful head fell, nearly to
her waist, the shining ringlets of her jet-black hair. But the
chief glory of that matchless face was the large black eyes, with
their long fringes, in one instant so dusky and full of shadows,
and the next so melting, so suffused with grief or tenderness,
so full of dreams.

She was, indeed, a glorious creature, and her loveliness was
unconsciously displayed to the best advantage by her simple
deep-mourning dress. Her corsage was fitted smooth and
close over her bosom, and finished at the throat by a simple
collar of plain white muslin. She wore no ornament, save a
heavy golden cross, fastened around her neck by a black cord,
and hanging midway on her bosom. Her sleeves were tight at
the shoulder, while at the wrist their folds fell heavily about the
small, dimpled hand.

Scarcely could a painter's fancy have imagined a fairer being
than was Margaret Hereford, as she sat there, in the high-backed,
crimson velvet chair, with the full light falling over her
head. She was an orphan, and alone on earth.

Not a drop of her kindred blood flowed in the veins of any
human being. Her father had died scarcely six months before,
and left her desolate; and she, the delicately-nurtured child of
affluence, had gone forth to win her bread by the toil of a governess
among strangers.

Hers was one of those strong natures, very powerful either for
good or evil. So far, by the care of her gentle mother in early
infancy, and in later years of a father, the rule of whose life had
been, “Thou, God, seest me!” her faith and her life had been
kept pure, and the great strength of her soul had been turned
heavenward.

The gentleman kneeling beside her was almost equally handsome,
in another style of beauty. He was tall, slight, and very
graceful, with large blue eyes, laughing and bright. Upon
his brow lay heavy curls of rich brown hair, brushed lightly
back. His mouth was beautiful, but there was about it a
lurking expression which a physiognomist would have interpreted
as an evidence of a certain kind of voluptuous self-worship,
and he would have been right. Percy Ruthven had, indeed,
shrined himself as the idol in the temple of his heart, and all
other things were second to this handsome, haughty self; yes,
all, even the beautiful Margaret Hereford, whose avowed lover
he had for some time been, and whom he did indeed love beyond
all things mortal, except himself.

Percy Ruthven was the only son of a baronet recently

deceased; with a slender fortune, and strong hopes, based upon
the good will of a wealthy, childless old uncle, who (the gossips
said) was at the point of death.

A frequent visitor at Clifton Hall, he had often met the beautiful
governess, before he even knew her name. At first he used
to look with a wonder that was half compassion on the pale
girl, in her deep mourning robes, who was sent for, evenings,
to play waltzes and quadrilles for the young people to
dance. She would come into the drawing-room so shy, so still;
her sad, irresistibly fascinating face, and her deep mourning
robes, were such a contrast to the glare and glitter around
her; then, when her task was performed, she would steal so
quietly from the room, noticing no one, speaking to no one, yet
moving as if she were the superior, with her regal step and her
scornful eye.

From noticing her coming with surprise, he grew to watch for
it, to be silent and dissatisfied when she did not appear, and at
last to use his privilege as an intimate friend of the family, and
steal away sometimes to the nursery, under the pretence of a
visit to her ward, the little Angelique.

The first time he went he found Miss Hereford (he had learned
her name from the servants) sitting by the window, in the moonlight,
with the little Angelique in her arms. A lamp was burning
on the side-table in another portion of the apartment; but
the child, with her golden curls, was sitting in the full glory of
the moonlight, and about her were folded the arms of her governess,
scarcely less a child than herself.

The little one was very beautiful. Well had she been called
Angelique, for her fair face reminded you of nothing but an

infant angel. You might have thought some fairy had changed
her on a midsummer night.

There could hardly have been imagined a fairer picture. The
governess was the shadow, with her deep-mourning dress, her
long ringlets of black hair, and her dark and splendid beauty;
and the fair, golden-haired child, with her clear, English complexion,
and her large, spiritual blue eyes, was the brilliant
light.

For a moment Percy Ruthven stood, and, unseen, gazed upon
the two, in silent admiration.

“Ah, Angelique, lily-bud!” whispered the governess, “thank
God you were given me, — the one green spot in my summerless
life.”

The little one lay there quietly, winding those long black
curls around her white, dimpled fingers; then she asked, earnestly,

“Do the angels have such curls? Do the angels look like
you, Maggie? 'Cause, if they do, I shall love to go to heaven.
Say, Maggie, do you think they look like you?”

“No, darling, I don't suppose angels have black hair and dark
eyes, like mine. You look much more like an angel, my pet;
you know they call you Angelique.”

“Angels, both of you,” exclaimed a deep voice close beside
them. “I, for one, can bear witness, Miss Hereford, that I have
seen one with black hair. Nay, Angie, pet child, I came to see
you; can't you introduce me to your friend? I see she is
looking scorn on me for speaking to her without an introduction.”

“O, yes,” said the sweet child, simply. “Maggie, this is
Percy Ruthven. I like him better than any one in the world,

except you; and he loves me, and pretty soon he 'll love you,
too.”

“Ha, ha! Bravo, Angelique, — a shrewd prophecy!”
laughed Percy Ruthven; “but, Miss Hereford, since I have come,
and so well recommended, too, you will surely let me stay?”

Miss Hereford laughingly gave her consent, and, thanks to the
young gentleman's lively conversation, she passed a far pleasanter
evening than ever before since she entered her new abode. This
was succeeded by many other pleasant evenings; for Percy
Ruthven was not, as yet, sufficiently rich or distinguished to have
his absence from the drawing-room particularly remarked.

For some time previous to the afternoon on which our story
opens, he had been the affianced lover of the beautiful governess.
Had you known them both, you would have wondered
how Margaret Hereford, with her pride, her strength of purpose,
and her lofty soul, could have loved one so far her inferior
in all that constitutes true greatness.

But he was handsome, fascinating, generous; and Margaret,
looking through this glass of love, saw not that his good impulses
were nothing more than impulses, that his principles were wanting
in strength and steadiness, and even his learning was superficial.
She only felt that he, in worldly station so far above her,
had yet given to the poor governess the rich treasure of his love,
to be the one star of her life.

Many times, when he was absent, rising up from her bed in
the solemn night, with her face upturned to the stars, she prayed
God to bless him, and crown him with glory and honor.

There was a longing in her heart to pour out its worship and

reverence. Percy loved her, and her imagination invested him
with the perfections of an archangel.

Hers was a passion, a worship, stronger than life; ay, so
strong that the waves of the sea of death could not choke it.
And yet, so perfect was the womanly dignity, the innate royalty,
of the proud spirit, that she never forgot her own position.

Not for her was the outward worship of clasped hands and
bended knees; in her heart she bowed before him, but outwardly
her betrothed had no power to quicken a single footstep, to cause
the neglect of a single duty.

Therefore it was that she sat proud and composed, this
pleasant summer afternoon, in that high-backed arm-chair, in
the drawing-room of Clifton Hall.

Her lover, as we have said, knelt beside her, and his eyes were
upturned to her face.

“But, Margaret, my own Margaret,” he was pleading, “is not
a marriage before only the priest and the witnesses just as sacred
as if all the world beheld it?

“Listen, Maggie,—you are mine; you have given yourself to
me, to be cherished and protected. Your engagement closes here
to-morrow, and you shall not, my Maggie, commence another.
I will not have you endure this slavery any longer. You must
be my wife to-night.

“Now, Maggie, you shall decide. Shall it be openly, before
all the Cliftons, in the drawing-room of Clifton Hall, with many
an eye to gaze upon my fair bride's loveliness, though she has
said she cared nothing for other eyes than mine? Shall it be
here, Maggie, and then shall I go forth, disinherited by my
uncle, self-doomed to poverty forever? or, will you meet me outside

the house, at half an hour before midnight, and go with me
to the chapel, where you shall become my wife before Heaven,
with the pastor's blessing, and to-morrow, when you leave Clifton
Hall, go to the station, a few miles distant, where your husband
will meet you, and bear you to a sunny southern home,
beyond the blue sea, trusting to a future day, when the world
shall call you by my name?

“If you had friends, Maggie, whom such a course might pain,
I would not ask it; but you are all alone, and you have said my
love was all you sought.

“But, darling, I do not dictate; choose as you will. If I
desire riches, it is for your sake more than mine; but, if you
choose to give them up, if you choose the public marriage, be it
so; for I would give life itself, rather than you should ever suffer,”
and the speaker paused, and pressed her hand to his throbbing
heart.

For a moment the lady hesitated; then, veiling her lustrous
eyes with her silky lashes, she said, timidly,

“We will have the secret marriage, Percy. I care not for
riches for myself, but I cannot cause you pain. It is true I
have no friends but you, and while my heart is right I will
neither court nor fear the world. It hurts my pride, this concealment,
for it is foreign to my nature; but I love you so
fondly, Percy, that, for your sake, I will strive to forget it. Yes,
I will meet you to-night, outside the hall, at half an hour before
midnight. God grant, beloved, that neither of us may ever have
cause to regret it!”

“We shall not. God in heaven bless you, my own dearest,

for you have made me very happy!” and, rising, the young man
drew her to his heart.

“O, my Margaret,” he said, softly, “can the love of a lifetime
ever reward you for all this great goodness to one so unworthy?
May God be merciful unto me only in proportion as I make you
happy!”

As he spoke thus, for the first time in her life, the young girl
passed her arm around her lover's neck, and pressed his hand to
her lips. “I am happy now, my beloved!” she whispered. “It
is I who must reward you, by my untiring devotion, for the
riches of your great love, the wealth of my life.”

“I must leave you now, darling,” said the young man, gayly;
“leave you to prepare for that other, happier hour, which shall
see you my bride, as well as my idol!” and, with a kiss, he departed.

At half-past eleven, Margaret rose from her knees, and, folding
about her a heavy crimson shawl, she left her room. Hurriedly
she stole into the adjoining chamber, and, bending over a
tiny crib, pressed her lips to the brow of the little Angelique,

and murmured a blessing over her. The crushed tears were
heavy on Margaret's drooping lashes; but she faltered not in her
purpose, and, in a moment more, she was clasped to Percy Ruthven's
heart.

“God bless you, dearest!” he exclaimed; “I knew you would
not fail me;” and then, pulling her shawl more closely around
her, he hurried her toward the chapel.

As they passed in, and Margaret stood there in the full glare
of the wax tapers, Percy started back in astonishment, for never
had he seen a human being one half so beautiful.

She stood there, her strange eyes lit as if with the fires of inspiration,
her black curls put back from her forehead with a
band of snowdrops, her robe of thin, embroidered muslin floating
around her like folds cut out of a snow-cloud, and
the crimson shawl streaming backward from her polished
shoulders.

Her cheek burned with a deep, steady crimson, the glow of
her unwonted excitement; and her bosom rose and fell beneath
the folds of her muslin robe.

It was dark as night at the further extremity of the chapel;
only a brilliant light streamed over the priest in his white robes,
and the bride and bridegroom kneeling before the altar; and, just
as the nuptial benediction was pronounced, twelve chimes rung
out, loud and clear, from the chapel bell. They rose from their
knees as the last one struck, and stood there in the solemn midnight,
wedded!

At that moment, just as Percy Ruthven was about to clasp
his fair bride to his heart, a bird which had flown in, apparently,

[ILLUSTRATION]

THE SECRET MARRIAGE.

[Description: 655EAF. Illustration page. Image of a man and a woman standing in front of a priest.]

through a broken window-pane, fluttered feebly a moment above
the lights, and then fell down lifeless at the bride's feet.

“It is a young raven,” said Percy, as he raised it, — “apparently
half starved,” — and he threw it down again, carelessly.

“O, Percy, dearest, I am sick with terror! The omen, the
omen!” and the bride shuddered, and clung tremblingly to the
arm of her new-made husband.

“What, you frightened! you, my strong, brave Margaret!”
and Percy passed his arm about her waist. “Why, it is nothing,
darling; there is no omen. I suppose the poor bird got in
here by mistake, some time ago; and, as the chapel is seldom
used, he could not find his way out, and he has starved to death.

“Do not tremble, my Margaret, on this golden morn of our
existence! My life, my blessing, look at me once with a wife-like
smile, or tell me, my wife, do you regret that you are
mine?”

“Regret it, Percy, my soul's idol, never! I am so glad, so
happy! I was only foolish, that is all;” and, trembling with joy
now, as she had before done with fear, she nestled trustingly in
his arms, and they left the chapel.

At the door of Clifton Hall they parted; and thus ended
that strange marriage, in the midnight and the solemn silence.

A few days later saw the newly-wedded lovers domesticated
in a delightful villa, in the south of France.

Seven years had passed, of mingled light and shade, — seven
years!

The first three had flown rapidly in that sunny villa in the
south of France.

Percy had been devotion itself to his fair young wife, and she
in return worshipped him. All her pride seemed swallowed up
in adoration. His will was her law, and his smiles her joy and
hope. Only one trouble had visited them, and that was when
the roses of Provence had bloomed on their little Percy's grave,
ere he had been three months strayed away from Eden.

But, at the end of the third year, they were recalled to England
by the sudden death of Percy's uncle, and the acquisition
of the fortune the young husband had anticipated. But they
were so happy in each other, that Margaret had joyfully yielded
to the suggestion that their marriage should not yet be made
public, as such a course would inevitably bring upon them a
round of visiting and fashionable annoyances.

But life in England had hardly been so deeply blessed to
Margaret as was life in France. True, Percy was as tender, as
reverent, as affectionate, as ever. True, she worshipped him
with the same soul-engrossing affection; but he now spent

a great part of his time away from home, alleging that his increase
of fortune rendered his personal supervision of his estates
absolutely necessary, and also that he was obliged to mingle in
society to some extent, in order to avoid suspicion concerning his
family ties, and secure to them undisturbed those blessed hours
of peace and love together, which were their deepest joy.

Margaret also knew that her husband had embarked a large
portion of his fortune in speculations, of whose nature and extent
she was not informed. And yet, of late, she had been very
happy.

Another babe slept in her arms. The angel visitant was a
girl, this time, with her father's large blue eyes and sunny curls;
and for this was Aymee all the dearer.

Percy, too, seemed to share all her enthusiastic fondness for
the child. He used to come home worn and weary, and then,
sitting at his wife's feet, with the little one in his arms, declare
that God had blessed him on earth with all the blessedness of
heaven, and that one could afford to be patient under slight annoyances,
so that one could turn again always to the peace and
repose of such a home.

And Margaret's proud spirit had grown meek and calm. Her
resistless energy and love of excitement were hushed to sleep, and
she dreamed not of a future fairer than the present, as she
watched for her husband's footsteps, or hung over the crib of her
babe.

I said seven years had passed; yes, and this was the very
anniversary of their marriage.

Their home was a beautiful one in the suburbs of London, — a
pleasant little English cottage, with a perfect Eden of beauty surrounding

it. There were fountains which tinkled musically on
the drowsy air, little miniature ponds, and clumps of rare and
beautiful trees.

Inside, the house was adorned with all that taste could devise
and art could furnish; rare mosaics, exquisite paintings, and
little gems of sculpture; jewelled vases, and ornaments of China
and porcelain, or grotesquely carved out of silver.

But, in all those gorgeous, tasteful rooms, there was nothing
half so fair as the young mother and her sleeping babe. The
wife was robed in a dress of snowy muslin, delicately embroidered;
for she remembered that seven years ago, that very
night, had her bridal vow been spoken, and she had robed herself
as if for a second bridal. Once more a wreath of the
drooping snowdrops was knotted in her curls, and once more
her snowy shoulders and exquisitely-moulded throat rose like
sculptured marble above the soft and fleece-like robe.

She was, if possible, even more beautiful than ever. A happiness
more perfect than oftentimes falls to the lot of mortals had
brought smiles of joy to her eyes, and a bright flush to her deli-cately-rounded
cheek. She sat there now at a western window,
with the glory of the sunset falling at once over her and the
cherub little one sleeping so quietly upon her breast.

At this very hour, in another part of the city, another scene
was passing before the eyes of the angels. In a large and stately
garden, lying adjacent to a palace, rising on one side as
if out of the bosom of the waves that surrounded it, on the

other fronting broad lands, and pleasant paths straying
among fountains, walked a lady almost as fair as the sweet wife
Margaret.

The Lady Alice Sinclair's loveliness was of a very different
style. Her figure was small and slight as a fairy-child, or a
snow-figure; her features were delicate; her large eyes reminded
you of the blue sky and the calm home of the angels,
while over her fair shoulders floated sunny curls, like tangled
masses of fine-spun golden threads. Her dress was of a
sky-blue silk, falling about her in graceful folds; and she wore
no ornaments save a cross of diamonds attached to a necklace
of pearls. The little graceful fairy could not have smiled
beneath the sunshine of more than sixteen summers, and all that
time the paths where her tiny feet must walk had been angel-guarded
and strewn with flowers.

By her side walked a man, to whose perfection of form, and
mien, and features, at least thirty years had brought the lustre
of their maturity. He was tall, finely formed, and strikingly
handsome, and his voice was musical as the harmonies of a skilfully-played
instrument.

“Alice, sweet, angel Alice!” he whispered, tenderly, “in three
days you will be my bride, all my own. What a joy, Alice,
to make your life a very dream of sunshine! Will you be happy,
my beautiful one?”

“Yes, dearest, I could not be otherwise than happy with
you by my side; but, tell me, Percy, how came you, so much
older and wiser than I am, to love a silly little thing like
me?”

“Rather let me ask, beloved, how could you, so young, so

beautiful, and highly-born, have learned to love me, so much
older, with my temper soured, and my brow wrinkled by the
cares of years, and poor, too, as you knew I was, Alice? Tell
me, darling.”

O, what a beaming face was turned up to his in reply, albeit
the tears did tremble on the long lashes; and how musical the
sweet voice, which whispered,

“Your love gives me life, my adored, my noble one! Ask
why the flowers love the sun which shines on them, the rain
which waters them, why the infant loves the mother who cherished
it in her bosom, and then know that you are my life's sun
and music, that my heart's hopes sprang into being at your
touch, and behold why I love you!”

The proud man bent over her, and caught her to his bosom, as
he said, solemnly,

“May God in heaven visit me with his anger, if aught but
death part thee and me, O, my beloved!”

An hour later, and the same proud man was entering the
fairy-like cottage of Margaret; for the impetuous wooer of
the Lady Alice Sinclair was Percy Ruthven, the wedded husband
of Margaret Hereford. The young wife — for even yet Margaret
was scarcely twenty-five — heard the welcome sound of
his approaching footsteps, and, hastily laying her babe in its
little crib, she darted forward to meet him.

Percy had been charmed, touched, by the beauty and innocence
of the Lady Alice Sinclair; he had been flattered by her

love, but never, for one moment, had his heart been untrue to
Margaret. His love, such love as he was capable of giving,
was all hers. His soul was penetrated by her beauty, for he
had never seen another face so fair, and it was a style vastly
more to his taste than that of the Lady Alice Sinclair.

He met her with a fond embrace, and, taking her in his arms,
he sat down with her at the window. He brushed back the
long, black curls, and gazed into the upturned, passionate
eyes.

“O, Margaret!” he cried out, as if, in spite of his will, his
soul gave the voice utterance, “my hope, my joy, my life, my
Margaret!”

“Husband,” she said, softly.

“What says my beloved?”

“Did you know, dearest husband, to-day is the seventh anniversary
of our marriage?”

“Well, my Margaret, have you ever repented it?”

“Repented it! O, my husband! ask the captive if he repents
being restored to freedom, the blind man if he repents because
he can once more see the glorious sunshine of heaven; but ask
me not, if I repent leaving the cold, rough sea of life, on which
my rudderless bark went ploughing, for the safe harbor of
your home and heart! God knows, dearest, it seems as if I
never could thank him enough for these beautiful leaves of my
destiny.”

Percy Ruthven trembled, and the cold sweat started from his
brow. He had come there, with a purpose strong in his soul, of
making a disclosure which would shiver that innocent, trusting
heart with agony; but he must hold her there a while longer,

— villain as he was, and deserving of her hatred, God knew he
could not put her from him then!

And there he held her, while the moon rose up, and one by
one the stars trembled forth, and looked down into his guilty,
miserable heart, like the great, bright eyes of the angels.

Many times he raised her long curls to his lips, or pressed
them passionately to his bosom. Many times he elasped her to
his heart, as a lost soul would cling to its hope of heaven; and all
the time those large, passionate eyes were not turned away from
his face, and not once did the angel-eyes of the stars pause
from looking into his wretched, guilty heart.

At last Margaret said, in a low, earnest voice, “Blessed
be God that, though this quiet, beautiful human life may
not last always, after it there is hope of a better life in
heaven!”

“Would it cost you much pain to part with me, Margaret?”
asked the husband. “Would n't you be glad enough to get rid
of such a graceless scamp?”

“Part with you, Percy? — get rid of you? O, you are jesting!
— thank God that I am your wife, and only death can part
us! But don't jest so again, my husband; the very thought of it
kills me.”

“Nay, Margaret, dearest, listen to me quietly;” and he put
her gently from him, and then sat down beside her, with his arm
around her waist.

“Margaret, you are pure, pure as heaven; for you thought
yourself my wife, though you never have been. I don't know what
fiend led me to substitute a gay young friend in the priest's
stead; a mock marriage instead of a real one; but I never meant

to part with you, — I never meant you should know you were
not my wife; — you were dear as life, then, my Margaret; you
are still dearer now; but I have sinned, and we must suffer.

“You know, dearest, how happy we were in France. Alas
for it! that might have lasted always, but for this accursed fortune,
which led me in the first place to wish our marriage concealed,
which tempted me to wrong your true heart, by the
false nuptials. Well, this fortune came to us, and we returned
to England. Since then, I have plunged madly into speculations,
and they have all been cursed; — they have failed, ruined
me. I will not live disgraced, Margaret. You know me, and I
say I will not!

“There were but two alternatives, — death and marriage. I
thought of the subject a weary while. I imagined your agony
when they should tell you that Percy Ruthven, your husband,
had died by his own hand; and I felt that such a death
would separate me from you forever. It was for your sake,
Margaret, I chose marriage. I have wooed the Lady Alice Sinclair.
She is young and fair, but not so beautiful as you, Margaret.
She loves me; for her love I care not, but her gold
will help me to go into the world a free man, to surround you,
my Margaret, with luxury. You shall live here still, dearest;
and every day will I come to you, and care for you, and cherish
you, as if you were indeed the lady of Ruthven.

“You have heard me, calmly, my Margaret, — am I forgiven?”

Margaret started to her feet as he concluded, and, tossing her
arms wildly in the air, she cried,

“O God! O God! dost thou suffer me to be deserted — I,

who have sat by his side and slept on his bosom for seven long
years? Yes, for seven long years, Percy, have I forsaken all
and followed you. O, be merciful! be merciful!”

And then, seeing the tears stealing down his cheeks, she threw
herself once more into his arms, and cried, “Don't weep, darling,
if it must be. See, I am strong, — I don't weep. I have forgiven
you, long ago. Kiss me once, dearest, and then go. And
listen, Percy, my best Percy, — don't come here again till after
you are married!”

Then, without a sob or a moan, she pressed her lips long,
fondly, clingingly to his, and then motioned him to leave her.
He turned to depart, but, standing in the door and looking back
upon her, he cried out, earnestly,

“God in heaven bless you and be good to you, Margaret, even
as you have been good to me, all these many years!”

A solitary figure flitted through the wilderness of London, —
through the retired streets of the West-End, through the heart
of the city, onward, and onward, and ever towards London
Bridge.

Men turned to gaze on her as she fled by them in her white
robes, with the swiftness of a spirit. Some caught a glimpse of
her large, dark, fathomless eyes; some, of the heavy tresses of
black hair streaming on the wind behind her; and others, still,
of the delicate hands clasping the folds of a crimson shawl which
floated backward from her shoulders; and each one, as he gazed,
asked himself what could she be doing there alone in those
crowded streets, — so young, and so startlingly beautiful.

But on, on she pressed, until she reached the bridge, and gazed
down on the waters. Silent, black, sullen, they lay there, chafing
against the heavy stone-work far below, and over them gazed the
wanderer, with a wild, eager glance.

“Why should I live?” she murmured. “Who shall say I
may not lay my head on this wave's dark breast and sleep?
He is gone; and why should I live for my child's sake, if I am
the guilty thing he calls me? Let me see; I was happy once,
a long time ago, was n't I? Well, it 's past now. I am weary!”
and the poor creature clasped her hands across her burning brow,
still looking down, steadily, calmly, into the black, sullen waters.
Who shall say what visions of past happiness were floating
through her mind? — what confessions of sin, what prayers for
mercy, what unutterable longings for death and peace?

But the loud voices in the steeple of St. Paul's were calling
the hour of midnight, and with the last chime Margaret Hereford
sank beneath the waves!

Seven years ago that very day, hour and moment, had she
arisen from the altar, married to Percy Ruthven; and now she
sank, the bride of Death, in her white robes and snowdrop
wreath, into the arms of the cold, black sea!

Percy had left her feeling that she had borne the stroke
better than he expected, and was looking forward to many an
hour of happiness by her side, when the waning of the honey-moon
would permit him once again to visit her.

The sun shone gayly on the morning of his bridal. They were
wedded at a suburban chapel, and the bridal cortège drove gayly
through the streets of London. The sides of the carriage were
put up, to admit the clear, fresh air; and you could hear the glad
voice of the bride ring out cheerfully.

As they approached London Bridge, the vehicle was stopped
by a crowd, unusual even in that portion of the city, and Percy
leaned from the window to inquire the cause.

“Please, your honor,” answered a man standing by, “it 's the
body of a drowned woman they have just brought on shore; and
all the folks must needs look at her, she is so handsome and
princess-like.”

Ruthven sprang from the carriage with an eager glance of
curiosity, and an undefined blending of fear. One glance, and
then on the air rung out a wild, piercing shriek, “Margaret! —
O, my God! — dead! dead!”

Ere a year had passed, the quiet daisies grew over Alice
Ruthven's fresh-dug grave; but still, at the window of a London
mad-house, sits a wild, dark man, ever looking toward the
sea, and shrieking out,

“O, Margaret! Margaret! — dead! dead!”