Up in her chamber sits Cecilia, speechless, spell-bound, fighting with a misery too great for tears. Upon her knee lies an open letter from which an enclosure has slipped and fallen to the ground. And on this last her eyes, scorched and distended, are fixed hopelessly.

The letter itself is from Colonel Trant: it was posted yesterday, and received by her late last night, though were you now to tell her a whole year has elapsed since first she read its fatal contents, I do not think she would evince much doubt or surprise. It was evidently hastily penned, the characters being rough and uneven, and runs as follows:

"Austen Holm. Friday.

"My dear Girl,—The attempt to break bad news to any one has always seemed to me so vain, and so unsatisfactory a proceeding, and one so likely to render even heavier the blow it means to soften, that here I refrain from it altogether. Yet I would entreat you when reading what I now enclose not to quite believe in its truth until further proofs be procured. I shall remain at my present address for three days longer: if I do not by then hear from you, I shall come to The Cottage. Whatever happens, I know you will remember it is my only happiness to serve you, and that I am ever your faithful friend,

"George Trant."

When Cecilia had read so far, she raised the enclosure, though without any very great misgivings, and, seeing it was from some unknown friend of Trant's, at present in Russia, skimmed lightly through the earlier portion of it, until at length a paragraph chained her attention and killed at a stroke all life and joy and happy love within her.

"By the bye," ran this fatal page, "did you not know a man named Arlington?—tall, rather stout, and dark; you used to think him dead. He is not, however, as I fell against him yesterday by chance and learned his name and all about him. He didn't seem half such a dissipated card as you described him, so I hope traveling has improved his morals. I asked him if he knew any one called Trant, and he said, 'Yes, several.' I had only a minute or two to speak to him, and, as he never drew breath himself during that time, I had not much scope for questioning. He appears possessed of many advantages,—pretty wife at home, no end of money, nice place, unlimited swagger. Bad form all through, but genial. You will see him shortly in the old land, as he is starting for England almost immediately."

And so on, and on, and on. But Cecilia, then or afterward, never read another line.

Her first thought was certainly not of Cyril. It was abject, cowering fear,—a horror of any return to the old loathed life,—a crushing dread lest any chance should fling her again into her husband's power. Then she drew her breath a little hard, and thought of Trant, and then of Cyril; and then she told herself, with a strange sense of relief, that at least one can die.

But this last thought passed away as did the others, and she knew that death seldom comes to those who seek it; and to command it,—who should dare do that? Hope dies hard in some breasts! In Cecilia's the little fond flame barely flickered, so quickly did it fade away and vanish altogether before the fierce blast that had assailed it. Not for one moment did she doubt the truth of the statement lying before her. She was too happy, too certain; she should have remembered that some are born to misfortune as the sparks fly upward. "She had lived, she had loved," and here was the end of it all!

All night long she had not slept. She had indeed lain upon her bed, her pillow had known the impress of her head, but through every minute of the lonely, silent awesome hours of gloom, her great eyes had been wide open, watching for the dawn.

At last it came. A glorious dawn; a very flush of happy youth; the sweeter that it bespoke a warm and early spring. At first it showed pale pink with expectation, then rosy with glad hope. From out the east faint rays of gold rushed tremulously, and, entering the casement, cast around Cecilia's head a tender halo.

When happiness lies within our grasp, when all that earth can give us (alas! how little!) is within our keeping, how good is the coming of another day,—a long, perfect day, in which to revel, and laugh, and sing, as though care were a thing unknown! But when trouble falls upon us, and this same terrible care is our only portion, with what horror, what heart-sinking, do we turn our faces from the light and wish with all the fervor of a vain wish that it were night!

The holy dawn brought but anguish to Cecilia. She did not turn with impatience from its smiling beauty, but heavy tears gathered slowly, and grew within her sorrowful gray eyes, until at length (large as was their home) they burst their bounds and ran quickly down her cheeks, as though glad to escape from what should never have been their resting-place. Swiftly, silently, ran the little pearly drops, ashamed of having dimmed the lustre of those lovely eyes that only yester morning were so glad with smiles.

Sitting now in her bedroom, forlorn and desolate, with the cruel words that have traveled all the way across a continent to slay her peace throbbing through her brain, she hears Cyril's well-known step upon the gravel outside, and, springing to her feet as though stabbed, shrinks backward until the wall yields her a support. A second later, ashamed of her own weakness, she straightens herself, smooths back her ruffled hair from her forehead, and, with a heavy sigh and colorless face, walks down-stairs to him who from henceforth must be no more counted as a lover. Slowly, with lingering steps that betray a broken heart, she draws nigh to him.

Seeing her, he comes quickly forward to greet her, still glad with the joy that has been his during all his walk through the budding woods, a smile upon his lips. But the smile soon dies. The new blankness, the terrible change, he sees in the beloved face sobers him immediately. It is vivid enough even at a first glance to fill him with apprehension: hastening to her as though eager to succor her from any harm that may be threatening, he would have taken her in his arms, but she, with a little quick shudder, putting up her hands, prevents him.

"No," she says, in a low changed tone; "not again!"

"Something terrible has happened," Cyril says, with conviction, "or you would not so repulse me. Darling, what is it?"

"I don't know how to tell you," replies she, her tone cold with the curious calmness of despair.

"It cannot be so very bad," nervously; "nothing can signify greatly, unless it separates you from me."

A mournful bitter laugh breaks from Cecilia, a laugh that ends swiftly, tunelessly, as it began.

"How nearly you have touched upon the truth!" she says, miserably; and then, in a clear, hard voice, "My husband is alive."

A dead silence. No sound to disturb the utter stillness, save the sighing of the early spring wind, the faint twitter of the birds among the budding branches as already they seek to tune their slender throats to the warblings of love, and the lowing of the brown-eyed oxen in the fields far, far below them.

Then Cyril says, with slow emphasis:

"I don't believe it. It's a lie! It is impossible!"

"It is true. I feel it so. Something told me my happiness was too great to last, and now it has come to an end. Alas! alas! how short a time it has continued with me! Oh, Cyril!"—smiting her hands together passionately,—"what shall I do? what shall I do? If he finds me he will kill me, as he often threatened. How shall I escape?"

"It is untrue," repeats Cyril, doggedly, hardly noting her terror and despair. His determined disbelief restores her to calmness.

"Do you think I would believe except on certain grounds?" she says. "Colonel Trant wrote me the evil tidings."

"Trant is interested; he might be glad to delay our marriage," he says, with a want of generosity unworthy of him.

"No, no, no. You wrong him. And how should he seek to delay a marriage that was yet far distant?"

"Not so very distant. I have yet to tell you"—with a strange smile—"my chief reason for being here to-day: to ask you to receive my mother to-morrow, who is coming to welcome you as a daughter. How well Fate planned this tragedy! to have our crowning misfortune fall straight into the lap of our newly-born content! Cecilia,"—vehemently,—"there must still be a grain of hope somewhere. Do not let us quite despair. I cannot so tamely accept the death to all life's joys that must follow on belief."

"You shall see for yourself," replies she, handing to him the letter that all this time has lain crumbled beneath her nerveless fingers.

When he has read it, he drops it with a groan, and covers his face with his hands. To him, too, the evidence seems clear and convincing.

"I told you to avoid me. I warned you," she says, presently, with a wan smile. "I am born to ill-luck; I bring it even to all those who come near me—especially, it seems, to the few who are unhappy enough to love me. Go, Cyril, while there is yet time."

"There is not time," desperately: "it is already too late." He moves away from her, and in deep agitation paces up and down the secluded garden-path; while she, standing alone with drooping head and dry miserable eyes, scarcely cares to watch his movements, so dead within her have all youth and energy grown.

"Cecilia," he says, suddenly, stopping before her, and speaking in a low tone, that, though perfectly clear, still betrays inward hesitation, while his eyes carefully avoid hers, "listen to me. What is he to you, this man that they say is still alive, that you should give up your whole life for him? He deserted you, scorned you, left you for another woman. For two long years you have believed him dead. Why should you now think him living? Let him be dead still and buried in your memory; there are other lands,"—slowly, and still with averted eyes,—"other homes: why should we not make one for ourselves? Cecilia,"—coming up to her, white but earnest, and holding out his arms to her,—"come with me, and let us find our happiness in each other!"

Cecilia, after one swift glance at him, moves back hastily.

"How dare you use such words to me?" she says, in a horror-stricken voice; "how dare you tempt me? you, you who said you loved me!" Then the little burst of passion dies; her head droops still lower upon her breast; her hands coming together fall loosely before her in an attitude descriptive of the deepest despondency. "I believed in you," she says, "I trusted you. I did not think you would have been the one to inflict the bitterest pang of all." She breathes these last words in accents of the saddest reproach.

"Nor will I!" cries he, with keen contrition, kneeling down before her, and hiding his face in a fold of her gown. "Never again, my darling, my life! I forgot,—I forgot you are as high above all other women as the sun is above the earth. Cecilia, forgive me."

"Nay, there is nothing to forgive," she says. "But, Cyril,"—unsteadily,—"you will go abroad at once, for a little while, until I have time to decide where in the future I shall hide my head."

"Must I?"

"You must."

"And you,—where will you go?"

"It matters very little. You will have had time to forget me before ever I trust myself to see you again."

"Then I shall never see you again," replies he, mournfully, "if you wait for that. 'My true love hath my heart, and I have hers.' How can I forget you while it beats warm within my breast?"

"Be it so," she answers, with a sigh: "it is a foolish fancy, yet it gladdens me. I would not be altogether displaced from your mind."

So she lays her hand upon his head as he still kneels before her, and gently smooths and caresses it with her light loving fingers. He trembles a little, and a heavy dry sob breaks from him. This parting is as the bitterness of death. To them it is death, because it is forever.

He brings the dear hand down to his lips, and kisses it softly, tenderly.

"Dearest," she murmurs, brokenly, "be comforted."

"What comfort can I find, when I am losing you?"

"You can think of me."

"That would only increase my sorrow."

"Is it so with you? For me I am thankful, very thankful, for the great joy that has been mine for months, the knowledge that you loved me. Even now, when desolation has come upon us, the one bright spot in all my misery is the thought that at least I may remember you, and call to mind your words, your face, your voice, without sin."

"If ever you need me," he says, when a few minutes have elapsed, "you have only to write, 'Cyril, I want you,' and though the whole world should lie between us, I shall surely come. O my best beloved! how shall I live without you?"

"Don't,—do not speak like that," entreats she, faintly. "It is too hard already: do not make it worse." Then, recovering herself by a supreme effort, she says, "Let us part now, here, while we have courage. I think the few arrangements we can make have been made, and George Trant will write, if—if there is anything to write about."

They are standing with their hands locked together reading each other's faces for the last time.

"To-morrow you will leave Chetwoode?" she says, regarding him fixedly.

"To-morrow! I could almost wish there was no to-morrow for either you or me," replies he.

"Cyril," she says, with sudden fear, "you will take care of yourself, you will not go into any danger? Darling,"—with a sob,—"you will always remember that some day, when this is quite forgotten, I shall want to see again the face of my dearest friend."

"I shall come back to you," he says quietly. He is so quiet that she tells herself now is a fitting time to break away from him; she forces herself to take the first step that shall part them remorselessly.

"Good-bye," she says, in faltering tones.

"Good-bye," returns he, mechanically. With the slow reluctant tears that spring from a broken heart running down her pale cheeks, she presses her lips fervently to his hands, and moves slowly away. When she has gone a few steps, frightened at the terrible silence that seems to have enwrapped him, benumbing his very senses, she turns to regard him once more.

He has never stirred; he scarcely seems to breathe, so motionless is his attitude; as though some spell were on him, he stands silently gazing after her, his eyes full of dumb agony. There is something so utterly lonely in the whole scene that Cecilia bursts into tears. Her sobs rouse him.

"Cecilia!" he cries, in a voice of mingled passion and despair that thrills through her. Once more he holds out to her his arms. She runs to him, and flings herself for the time into his embrace. He strains her passionately to his heart. Her sobs break upon the silent air. Once again their white lips form the word "farewell." There is a last embrace, a last lingering kiss.

All is over.