himself, that look of welcome strengthened him in
his purpose.
“Is anything the matter, Captain Grey?” asked Rachel, alarmed at the grave melancholy gaze which met hers.
“I am thinking how soon the happy days of my stay here must end; for I return to town next week,“ was Randolph’s reply.
The light faded from Rachel’s eyes, and her cheek grew suddenly pale.
“Going away so soon? Is it necessary?“
“Yes, I am afraid it is.”
She sighed and turned away her head.
“Will you really sometimes miss me, Miss Morland?“
“How could I do otherwise?” replied she, simply. “You have been very kind to me; and the loss of a friend is no trifle in so lonely a life as mine,” she added in a low tone, while the tears rose to her eyes.
This was too much for the faltering resolution of Randolph Grey. Obeying the impulse which urged him on, in an instant he was seated on the sand beside her, clasping her hands in his — pour- ing forth the confession of his love, and entreating her to say that they need never part; that neither her life nor his should henceforth be lonely. He spoke eagerly, for he was full of hope, but a chill passed over him as he gazed on the face of Rachel.
With cheeks as pale as marble, and eyes dilated as if they beheld some appalling vision, she listened to him motionless and unresisting. At length she ! strove to withdraw her hand, but he held it fast.
“Rachel! what is this? Surely my words can- not take you by surprise; you cannot have been unconscious of my affection! Speak to me — speak, I entreat you!“
“I will,” said Rachel, faintly. “I was blind, very blind; but I see it all now; I have sinned and must bear the penalty. You must leave me, Captain Grey. We must part, and for ever; — leave me, pray leave me.“
“I cannot leave you thus.”
He could not indeed, for she was almost fainting, and would have sunk down upon the sand, had he not thrown his arm round her to support her.
“Rachel,” he continued passionately, “Rachel, what does this mean? for verily I believe you love me, and why would you cast me from you?”
Rachel made no answer, for she could not; her head sank upon his shoulder, and she burst into a passion of tears. They seemed to relieve her, for in a few moments she grew calmer and gently disengaged herself from his hold.
“I cannot speak to you now,” she said softly, “but if you will meet me here to-morrow evening, about this time, all shall be explained. You will then see that insuperable obstacles interpose between us. Leave me for the present; we can meet as usual this evening at the parsonage, but leave me now I entreat you.”
She spoke earnestly, beseechingly: and without a word he obeyed; but when he had reached the furthest point whence he could see her, he turned to look — Rachel still sate where he had left her, motionless beside the foam.
They met in the evening, but Miss Morland was pale, depressed and preoccupied, and Randolph Grey, who watched her intently, could by no effort command his usual flow of conversation, and took his leave early. To him the intervening hours passed wearily and restlessly. He longed for the interview with Rachel which would end his suspense; yet he dreaded it, for might it not also extinguish his hopes? But even the longest day comes to a close, and the days were not of the longest now.
Before the appointed time Captain Grey was on the beach, wandering amongst the rocks, and advancing to the jutting point where he had first seen Rachel. The recollection of that hour came vividly across his mind as he seated himself on the rock where she had sate; he gazed out upon the heaving sea, which seemed to him as restless as his own unquiet heart. Even as he was gazing he heard Rachel’s footstep upon the rocks. Silently he made way for her, and silently she seated herself beside him. For a moment he took her hand and looked into her face with a pang of self-reproach for the change he read there. She was paler, more haggard than he had ever seen her, even in the days of their earliest acquaintance, and her eyes heavy and dim with weeping; but she was quite calm now. For a few minutes they sate in silence, which was first broken by Randolph.
“Pray do not prolong this suspense; let me know what it is you have to tell me.”
“This!“ replied she, extending to him her ungloved left hand. There was a wedding-ring upon the third finger.
A livid paleness passed over Randolph’s countenance, as he exclaimed:
“Is it possible — a wife? Rachel!“
“The wife of a dead husband; for I dare not say his widow.”
In explanation she proceeded to acquaint him briefly with the history of her life, of which the outline is as follows:
She was early left an orphan, aud was brought up in the house of a relation. While both very young an attachment was formed between herself and a cousin, a young man of some property, but of indifferent character. This attachment was vehemently opposed by the uncle and aunt with whom 8he lived; but as they, at the same time, betrayed some anxiety to secure her hand, and her small but independent fortune for their own son, she was little inclined to heed their by no means disinterested warnings, and clung to Herbert Maxwell the more tenaciously the more his character was impugned; for she believed him^ to be unjustly accused, and even in the contrary case, this, as it might estrange other friends, would but be a reason why she, who had loved him almost from childhood, should stand by him the more firmly; and thus no sooner was Rachel of age, than she was married to Herbert Maxwell, and cast off by her offended relations. Their warnings, however, though not prompted by the best motives, were no calumnies, and Rachel’s married life proved most unhappy. Herbert was a gambler and a spendthrift, —reckless, dissipated, and unprincipled. Yet he had some attaching qualities, and Rachel loved him
through all — the more so that, inconsistent as it