The Adventures of an Ugly Girl

“You have been gone a long time, my dear,” said madame. “I had begun to be quite anxious about you, and some one has been waiting for you who is becoming, oh! so impatient.”

“Impatient to see me? Why, I shall believe myself to be quite an important individual soon,” I returned, with an attempt at a smile, that was so lamentable a failure that madame’s attention was aroused at once.

“What is it, my child?” she asked solicitously. “I thought, when you came in, that you were looking extra well. You had such rosy cheeks. Now I see that you are flushed with excitement. How is it? Have you had an adventure? You are trembling all over.”

“Yes, I have had an adventure,” I said, my pent-up emotions finding vent in tears, which soon relieved me a little, and were not checked by madame, who fully understood the value of this outlet for nature’s wellsprings of feeling. She was at first somewhat alarmed as to the nature of my adventure. But I speedily reassured her on that score, telling her that I had met an old family servant, who had been giving me some news that had upset me for a time.

“Is it very bad news?” she asked.

“My stepmother is ill, and my sister is going to be married.”

“But your stepmother has been ill some time, and your sister was engaged to be married before you left home.”

“Yes, but both illness and engagement have made progress, and I feel very anxious now about Lady Elizabeth.”

“You must go and see her soon. That will put your mind at rest. And the dear little brother of whom you are so fond. How is he?”

How was he, indeed! Why, I had forgotten to make a single inquiry about him. Truly, my perturbation of mind must have been great to make me forget Jerry. My horror had effaced the memory of my love for the time, and I explained to my mistress that so much that was sensational had been told me that there had been no inclination to bring Jerry into the conversation.

“I shall learn all about him to-morrow,” I concluded. “As you know, I have written to Mrs. Garth to send me all the news she has, and I should have her reply soon. I will also write to Lady Elizabeth at once, explaining that I am still safe and well. It is just possible that she has been anxious about me, although I wrote her a reassuring letter from the Grange before I came to you. I also gave Mrs. Garth permission to inform her that I had gone to St. Petersburg, in safe companionship.”

“Not so safe as you thought, eh? But that is all over now, Heaven be thanked. And the chances are then that your stepmother and your father know already where you are, if you have imposed no special restrictions upon Mrs. Garth?”

“Yes, very likely they know already.”

“I hope they will not insist upon your leaving us.”

“I will not leave you. But I must see Lady Elizabeth, as she is so ill. Perhaps a visit from me might help to tranquilize her mind a little.”

“Dear me! And there is some one else whose mind will want tranquilizing by this time. Sergius is waiting in the drawing-room for you all this while.”

I would fain have been excused from meeting “Sergius” just then, for I knew I must be even more unpresentable than usual. But madame was inexorable, and a minute later I was tête-à-tête with a man in whose company I had begun of late to feel remarkably uncomfortable. It was strange that I should begin to avoid the presence of the only individual of the opposite sex whose lengthened absence was distasteful to me, and that I should become gauché and dull in the society of the one being whose conversation afforded me most happiness. And yet, when I come to think of it, there was nothing strange about it, after all, though I did not understand myself at the time.

I know now that I loved Sergius Volkhoffsky with a passion so great that I dreaded a betrayal of my feelings to others, with the consequent humiliation that I thought would be inevitable. He was handsome; I was ugly. He seemed to me to be one of the cleverest men under the sun, while I felt the acquirements of which I had formerly been so proud to be little more than a rudimentary education. Thanks to his prudent foresight, he had lost but a small proportion of the wealth which he had inherited from his father. And I was a penniless girl, whom disagreement with her family had compelled to go forth to earn her own livelihood.

No wonder I felt miserable when I pictured the different fate that might have been mine, had I but possessed a fair share of nature’s bounties, and no wonder that I shrank, in anticipation, from the joyless existence foreshadowed in an unloved future.

I had truly loved my old earl. But my love was based entirely on gratitude and esteem. Such love is honest, honorable and pleasant to behold. It is also lasting and durable, if permitted to flow on in a gentle, uninterrupted current. But if its possessor be of an ardent nature it is as easily dispelled by a sudden passion as is froth on the surface of the breakers, and I know now how feeble is the love born of gratitude compared to the love one feels for one’s ideal. There are some women so constituted that passion is powerless to assail them, and upon the whole, it is well for them that it should be so, for their lives run on in quiet, contented grooves that afford them every satisfaction.

But ask the woman of a more ardent nature if she would barter her hopes and dreams and possible disappointments for the humdrum existence associated in her mind with quiet affection, and she will answer emphatically in the negative. It was so with me now. Having once seen and known Sergius Volkhoffsky, I could but marvel how I could ever have contemplated marrying a man old enough to be my grandfather. Having arrived at this state of mind, my recollections of my past disappointments lost all their bitterness, and I could but feel thankful that my passion for Sergius, vain as it seemed, was not of an unlawful nature, since I had as yet made vows of allegiance to no other man.

But I was not thinking of all this in detail when I entered the room in which Sergius had been waiting so long for me.

“I am sorry,” I said, “that I was not here to receive you when you asked for me. I am also very curious to know the nature of the business which could actually make you wait half an hour and more to see me.”

He sprang up to greet me, his pleasant smile and warm hand-clasp being enough to dispel the most obstinate spirits. His glance, too, was so ardent that I felt the color rush to my cheeks, and instinctively lowered my eyelids, that he might not see what power he had over my feelings.

“I have not been dull while you were out. My friends have taken care of that. But I have that to say to you which made me very impatient for your arrival. Now that you are here, I am not in such a hurry to disburden myself, lest I be sent away in disgrace. But, first, tell me what I have been doing to offend you lately.”

“Offend me! How could you offend me?” I asked, with such genuine surprise on my face that he could but see I was in earnest.

“Then why,” he continued, this time taking my hands in his, as if to command my attention more effectually; “why have you been so stiff and distant with me? How do you account for that?”

How did I account for it? To this day I am unable to tell. I only know that, amazing as it may seem, Sergius loved me, and desired nothing so much as to spend the rest of his life with me. Of course I urged my own unfitness for the honor of becoming his wife. But my feeble remonstrances were so vigorously combated that at last I was able to believe myself to be as truly beloved as the most beautiful and perfect woman could wish.

There was now only one possible hindrance to my perfect happiness. Belle’s secret must not be divulged in its entirety. But I could not accept an honorable man without warning him that possible disgrace—deserved disgrace—threatened my family. Disgrace, moreover, of so deadly a nature that a nation would recoil in horror from the contemplation of it.

“I have heard all your history from Madame Karniak, and can thus form some faint idea of the nature of the disgrace you hint at. It has some connection with the sudden death of the late Earl of Greatlands. You see, I know all about him, and I am not at all jealous of the affection you felt for the poor old man. But you have suffered enough in connection with that business, and anything that your sister may have been accessory to must be expiated by herself, not by you, nor by me, whose happiness depends on becoming your husband.”

So said Sergius. I know of nobody so young who is half so wise and clever as Sergius. So why should I stand in the light of our mutual happiness? Truly, it would have been sheer folly. Therefore, when I went to bed that night it was as the promised bride of a man any woman would have been proud to win.

There had been much congratulation on the part of the Karniaks, who smilingly asserted that they had seen all the time “which way the wind was blowing.” During the evening, we had a call from the Prince and Princess Michaelow, who warmly welcomed me as one who was speedily to become a relative.

“Not for a long time,” I said, feeling just a little embarrassed because I could not prevent my face from looking ridiculously happy. “I am going to remain with madame until all the South American and Australian business is settled.”

“But suppose madame no longer wants you?” observed Sergius mischievously.

“But you see she does want me.”

“That remains to be proved. I believe a little bird has already whispered something to me about alteration of plans since you came in this afternoon.”

“It is quite true,” supplemented madame. “What I said this afternoon to you about not leaving us was sincerely meant. But while you and Sergius were making your future arrangements, Victor and I decided that life would not be worth living so long apart. So Feo and I are going to South America with him, and may probably stay there much longer than Victor would care to stay without us.”

“Meanwhile,” said Nina, “you are to stay with us as our guest, until Sergius gets a house nicely furnished for you.”

“And your visit is to be a very short one. A fortnight at the most. I shall make upholsterers and decorators fly around, so that when we return from our wedding-trip you will find everything to your liking.”

So said Sergius, and since everybody seemed inclined to dispose of me so unceremoniously, I could but utter very feeble protests, and virtually surrender myself to their management. I only made one stipulation. My marriage must be as private as possible. My happiness seemed too great to be true, and I had a vague feeling that, if fate should dash the cup from me, I could best bear it with few onlookers. The feeling may have been morbid. But my past experience must plead my excuse.

The next morning lessons for Feo were out of the question. We elders had so much to talk about, and so many plans to discuss, that madame told Trischl to take the child for a walk, while we completed our arrangements. Trischl had been offered the option of joining her own people, who were now in Germany, but had preferred to travel with madame in the capacity of maid. So her immediate future was disposed of also. The Karniaks would have liked to stay to the wedding, but considered it advisable to secure a passage in a quick boat that was sailing in four days. There was thus little time for preparation. But I rendered all the help I could, and be sure that my dear friends and I parted from each other with tears of regret, though we expected to have the happiness of seeing each other again some day.

I had had two letters from Mrs. Garth, in which she informed me that Lady Elizabeth was very much better; that Belle was more beautiful than ever, and apparently very much delighted at the approaching consummation of her ambitious projects. Jerry was at home, and was a jolly little fellow, but said that the Grange wasn’t like home without Dorrie. My father, too, I was told, had fretted somewhat about me, having evidently come to the conclusion that his treatment of me had not been the exclusive outcome of wisdom. “I am sure,” continued Mrs. Garth, “that if you were to return home now, your father would welcome you as gladly as would Jerry and Lady Elizabeth. Of your sister’s sentiments I know nothing, as she holds herself very much aloof from me. I have an idea that she dislikes me. By-the-by, you remember May Morris? She is going to marry Mr. Graham, the young doctor. He has bought a practice at Brightburn, and will take his bride thither next week.”

I was very much amused when I remembered May’s rhapsodies about the actor, but had no doubt that a healthy affection for a good man who loved her would oust all the rubbishy romance with which she had formerly been filled. It was good news to hear that my stepmother’s health had improved so much. I could but hope that the improvement might continue, and that she might be spared all knowledge relating to the particulars of her father’s death. I resolved that when I saw her again, I would, indirectly, try to set her mind at rest on the subject by explaining the irrational and unfounded nature of the suspicions I had, in my bitter sorrow, shared with her. Her illness had always struck me as having a mental origin, and I concluded, since she was improving, that she was already inclined to think the best of her brother and Belle.

I was just revolving all this in my mind, and thinking how glad I would be to go to the Grange again, when a servant announced a visitor for me, and my father came quickly into the room in which I sat. I was not wholly surprised by his visit, for both Sergius and I had written to him, giving him the particulars of our engagement, and asking his consent to our immediate marriage. But if I expected anything like a demonstrative greeting from him, I was disappointed, for he merely touched my hand, as though I had been a comparative stranger, and then plunged straight into the business which had brought him hither.

“I have, after an unwarrantable silence on your part,” he said, “received a letter of so extraordinary a tenor that I have decided to answer it in person. You say you have promised to marry an individual who calls himself Count Volkhoffsky. What proof have you that he is a genuine count?”

“I can refer you to his cousin, Prince Alexander Michaelow, from whose house we are to be married. There are plenty of people in London who will give you proofs of the genuineness of both titles.”

“A prince! You seem to have the knack of ingratiating yourself with the aristocracy. You are not quite so ugly as you were. Your hair, curled in that fashion, looks rather pretty than otherwise. Still, I can’t see what even an old and decrepit nobleman can see in you. He might get a professional nurse at much less expense.”

My father had always trampled on my feelings without the slightest compunction, and his sneers had left many a bitter wound behind. But these were all healed now, and he had lost the power to hurt me. For the first time in my life his depreciation of me evoked nothing but a feeling of triumph. I simply rose and rang the bell, and, on its being answered, asked the servant if Count Volkhoffsky had arrived yet. On being answered in the affirmative, I sent to see if he would favor us with his company for a moment.

“And tell Mr. and Madame Karniak that I would be glad if they would permit me to introduce my father to their notice,” I said, as the servant was leaving the room.

I shall never forget my father’s look of indignant surprise, when I spoke of introducing him, to the notice of my friends. I was amply avenged for many a cut I had received, and was also convinced that, in future, he would treat me with a little more consideration. But he evidently regarded me principally as Belle’s rival, and even when he, later in the day, set off to return to Courtney Grange, he was, I am sure, feeling both perplexed and sore at the idea of the apparent facility I possessed for at least equaling, if not surpassing, his beautiful darling’s opportunities of happiness.

He had also taken it for granted that my fiancé was some undesirable individual, whose motive in marrying me was self-interest of some sort, and I smile yet when I remember how astonished he was when Sergius confronted him, and asked him in so courtly a fashion for his consent to his marriage with his youngest daughter. Of course that consent was given, and very glad I was, too. Although I was not anxious to see Belle again, I was thankful to be reconciled, with my family, as Jerry and Lady Elizabeth were too dear to me to be given up entirely.

The day after my father’s visit to me witnessed the departure of the Karniaks to Chili and my temporary installation in the house of Prince Michaelow.

My second trousseau was already in active preparation. Madame Karniak and Princess Nina had insisted on making me handsome presents, to compensate me for the wardrobe I had lost, they said. Lady Elizabeth also sent me the most affectionate letter imaginable. So far from resenting the fact that I was about to marry a man whom I regarded with much warmer feelings than the mild affection which I had entertained for the poor old earl, she rejoiced with me at my good fortune in having won the love of such a man as Sergius. She was also good enough to say that I fully deserved my happiness, and as an indorsement of her approval of the whole arrangement she inclosed a check for one hundred pounds as her wedding present.

Thus armed with the approbation of my friends, and all the necessary sinews of war, I entered the whirl of preparation with the lightest of hearts and the brightest of prospects. Sometimes my busy fingers would stay their work, and a cloud of dread and apprehension would settle on my brain.

Was it possible that I, utterly lacking outward beauty, and until lately the most unloved of beings, was really and truly the one and only woman with whom Sergius could be happy? Had he never loved another woman? And if he had, was she not sure to have been beautiful?

When I remembered how truly artistic was my lover’s temperament, it seemed incredible to me that he could be perfectly contented with a wife whose chief function in society seemed to be to act as a foil to those women whom nature had endowed more liberally with outward charms. And if the time were to come when it would become incumbent upon me to recognize the conviction that Sergius had mistaken his sentiments for me, and that he regretted his precipitancy, how would I be able to bear my life?

Suppose, after the irrevocable knot was tied, my husband were to wake up some day to the knowledge that he loved another woman? Suppose—but by the time I had thus foolishly and fruitlessly tormented myself, it was beyond my power to endure even the thought of another self-stabbing supposition, and a reaction invariably set in. Surely Sergius, who was chivalry, gentleness and bravery personified, and who was esteemed by all his friends for his powers of observation and his clear, cool insight into human nature, would not belie his character just where I was concerned! To believe it was to doubt all his good qualities, and I rated myself an ingrate for entertaining such heretical sentiments for one moment.

If the reader is inclined to subscribe to this last opinion, perhaps he or she will kindly credit fate with at least a portion of the mental perversity which at times tormented me almost beyond endurance. It had been so often impressed upon me all my life long that I could never hope to win the true and lasting regard of any man, that it was surely natural for me to doubt the endurance of the happiness which seemed to be within my grasp.

But these freaks of fancy could not withstand the sunny presence of my worshiped Sergius himself, who was apt to flatter me almost as much as the Earl of Greatlands had done, and who seemed never tired of praising the now luxuriant silken rings of my hair, my long-lashed, expressive eyes, and my graceful figure, not to speak of my rich olive complexion. On most of these counts I let him talk without protest on my part. Although I knew that his opinion of me was ridiculously disproportionate to my deserts, my anxiously observant eyes could not blind themselves to the fact that my outward presentment was a vast improvement upon its old self.

But when Sergius actually ventured to praise my face, and above all, my inveterately snubby nose, I put down his flatteries with a firm hand. It was in vain for him to quote Tennyson, and speak of my unfortunate organ as “tiptilted.” There are degrees and proportions of tiptiltedness, and I had measured the depths of unhappiness too often through “that hideous nose” to allow my vanity to persuade me into believing its disabilities removed.

Still, I was no longer miserable about it; indeed, I grew rather proud of it than otherwise. For if that nose had not had the power to repel Sergius, it was henceforth to be regarded as the most prominent existing proof of the genuineness of his affection.

And, after all, what mattered it, since, when the glamour of self-torment was off me, I knew myself to be my lover’s idol and the hope of his existence, miraculous though such a state of things seemed?

My friends, too, were of the kindest and most considerate ones of the earth. Thus there seemed nothing to hinder me from being perfectly happy, and as my wedding-day approached nearer and nearer I grew more and more confident of the future, for neither envy nor hatred conspired to wreck my prospects, as had been the case before the dawning of that other wedding-day.

I was writing to Lady Elizabeth, to express my regret at her inability to come to the wedding, and to thank her for her generosity and good wishes, when Sergius was announced, and I hastily finished and sealed my missive. For was not this the last day of my spinsterhood? And did I not owe my beloved every moment I could spare?

“I hope you have finished all your preparations, sweetheart, and that no one else expects any attention from you to-day,” said Sergius. “For I mean to monopolize you altogether.”

“Indeed you won’t, for Nina won’t see me for some time after to-morrow, and has exacted a promise from me that I would go with her to choose her very latest wedding-present to me. So you will have to spare me for an hour or two.”

“And indeed I won’t! Just picture your being selfish enough to want to go off without me! You shall do your shopping. But you must do it in my company, for, oddly enough, I also have a fancy that you should choose your most prized wedding-present from me yourself, and we can make one expedition of it. Oh, here is our gracious princess herself! She will agree to all I propose, I know.”

“I must first know what it is that you propose,” smiled the Princess Nina, who had just entered the room, Prince Michaelow following closely in her wake. “I don’t like to make promises in the dark.”

“Sergius wants to go shopping with us,” I explained.

“Oh, as for that, I mean to go, too,” said the prince. “If Sergius will look just a shade less bridegroomy he may also make one of the party.”

The prince’s sally at Sergius’s ecstatically happy look was received with a laugh by us all, and half an hour later we were all four being driven toward Piccadilly behind a pair of splendid bays. Then ensued a series of excursions into various West End establishments that was even more odd than it was delightful, which is saying much. For it was strange to me to feel myself the courted and petted object of attention on the part of three such splendid specimens of humanity as my betrothed and the Prince and Princess Michaelow. Probably others also noted the disparity in our appearance and commented on it after their own fashion.

But my companions were too agreeably employed to pay attention to much beyond the business at hand, and so many presents were lavished upon me that I found it necessary to enter a protest. We were all just leaving a Regent Street jeweler’s shop, preparatory to re-entering the carriage for our homeward drive, when Princess Nina suddenly said to me in a low voice: “What a beautiful woman! And she seems to know you. Who is she?”

I looked up hastily, and was confronted by my sister and her intended husband. For an instant I hesitated whether to return Belle’s stare of haughty recognition by a conciliatory movement or not. My hesitation proved my salvation from what would have been an intolerable humiliation. The Earl of Greatlands and Miss Courtney passed on without vouchsafing me anything but the disapproving look due to an obnoxious stranger rather than to a sister, and we had entered our carriage before I had had time to answer Nina’s question.

I felt the blood leave my face at thus meeting my mother’s child as a stranger, and Nina was quick to see that I was strangely moved by the encounter. She looked the question she did not care to trouble me by repeating, and I tried to answer her in as unmoved a voice as possible.

“That was my sister who passed us. And the gentleman who is with her is the Earl of Greatlands.”

“H’m! I thought as much,” put in Sergius. “I was just thinking that the woman approaching us would have been quite handsome, if her face had been less soulless, when I saw her flash such a malignant look at my Dora as is never seen on the face of the good, and which a stranger certainly could not evoke. I don’t envy my Lord Greatlands.”

“And I would not like to be in Miss Courtney’s shoes,” said Nina. “For her affianced looks just like one of my father’s parishioners used to look. He had been both wicked and dissipated, and finished his career in a madhouse. We will, however, hope that your sister, when married, will find her husband more desirable than he looks.”

Alas! I knew too well how little happiness the future could really have in store for my misguided sister and the unhappy man who had succumbed to her evil influence. The latter looked even more ill than I had expected to see him, and I doubted whether the haunting remorse from which he suffered would not soon drive his reason from its throne.

And Belle! How could she comport herself with such queenly pride, and with such an air of self-satisfaction as she was wearing just now? It was inexplicable to me. But though the puzzle was beyond my comprehension, it had the power to damp my joy for the rest of the day.

I would much rather have been spared the sight of my enemy on my wedding-eve, and, for the life of me, I could not help wondering whether her presence in London would not prove an ill omen for me. Of course the fancy was silly. But there it was, and I could not banish it. Still, though I was less happy than before, I did not wish to spoil the pleasure of my companions, and, for their sakes, I feigned a gayety I no longer felt.

As we were being driven slowly past Hyde Park Corner, on our way back to Kensington, something else occurred to cause me an accession of surprise not unmixed with dread. A woman was waiting to cross the road as soon as it should be safe to do so.

She was carelessly glancing at the occupants of the carriages which passed her, and I was just thinking how handsome she was, and with what perfect taste she was dressed, when I felt a convulsive pressure of the hand which was clasping mine. I looked up, to see that Sergius had turned deadly pale, and that he hastily leaned back and turned his head away from the stranger.

But he was too late. She had seen him. Moreover, he was no stranger to her, as I could tell by the swift recognition which flashed across her features, and by a hasty forward movement that she made, as if to intercept our progress. The princess was not noticing the by-play. But that Prince Michaelow had seen and recognized the stranger I knew by the glances of dismayed intelligence which he exchanged with my fiancé.

Soon after this we were back at the house of my generous friends, and three of us at least were less light-hearted than when we set out early in the afternoon.

That evening I could not dismiss the stranger from my mind. Who was she? And what acquaintance could she have with Count Volkhoffsky, who had been in London so short a time? But the prince knew her too, and both men had been distinctly dismayed when they saw her. Sergius had been so little away from me since we came to London that he could not have made many acquaintances of whom I did not know.

Was it possible that he had known her in Russia? Nay, was it possible that this was the unknown rival in my lover’s affections which my jealous fancy had painted? And if so, how could he have transferred his regard from so handsome a woman to my insignificant self? And in this question I found consolation and hope for my own future. For Sergius must love me, or he would not have been anxious to marry one so utterly devoid of physical and pecuniary attractions as I was. Not that I ever dreamed that he could be mercenary. But I had of late taken positive pleasure in the reflection that I owed my happiness to no external advantage which time or ill fortune could destroy.

And yet, how could I marry the man I loved, if thereby I condemned another woman, who perhaps loved him equally well, to the misery of desertion? I could not reconcile it to my conscience to do this cruel thing. So I took an opportunity of satisfying myself on that point before Sergius went back to his hotel for the night.

“Do you know,” I said to him, “I do not want you to think me intrusive. But I saw the young lady at Hyde Park Corner who seems to be an old friend of yours, and whom you seemed to wish to avoid. Tell me, for God’s sake, what is she to you?”

“You saw her?” he said, looking more startled than I liked to see.

“Yes. What is she to you?”

“I think, for the sake of your own peace of mind, that you had better not ask me.”

“But I must know! Have you ever been her lover? If so, I must give you up to her, for I cannot purchase my paradise at the expense of another woman’s salvation.”

“My darling! There spoke the noble woman whom I love, and whom, God helping me, I mean to cherish through life. Thank Heaven! my past holds no dark secrets of that sort. It has been turbulent and full of danger, but, I swear before God, my love was given to no woman until I met you. Now, are you satisfied?”

“Yes, I am satisfied,” I said, and I sank into his arms with a sob of relief which showed how terrible a phase of dread I had just passed through.

“You naughty child,” said Sergius fondly. “How could you speak deliberately of giving me up to another woman? I am not like you. I would fight for my rights to the last breath. You have promised to marry me, and I will give you up to no one living. You are mine, mine alone!”

After this, my doubts being all dispelled, I was happy once more, and bade Sergius goodnight with the exulting conviction that henceforth the whole of my life would be spent in his beloved society.

My wedding-morn dawned bright and cloudless, and nothing intervened to prevent my marriage this time. My father came as the sole representative of my family, and explained that Lady Elizabeth had a severe cold which detained her at home. Otherwise she would have come up to town for the wedding. Belle was in London, he said, in answer to my inquiry, doing some shopping, but there was no reference made by either of us as to her absence on the occasion of her sister’s marriage. Jerry had sent me a letter, full of regrets at his own enforced absence, all couched in his own boyish style, and he supplemented these regrets by the promise of a long visit to me at Christmas.

Dear boy! it did me good to read his affectionate chatter.

My father made himself uncommonly agreeable to my friends, and I think that he must have begun to doubt the correctness of his own opinions concerning me, when he saw the esteem in which others held his hitherto despised daughter. He pressed Sergius and myself so cordially to come on a visit to the Grange that I thought it would perhaps be better to bury the hatchet, even though I was inwardly convinced that if my friends had been of low rank, and that if we had been a struggling clerk and his wife, instead of the Count and Countess Volkhoffsky, he would still have preferred our absence to our company.

We were going to Torquay for a short honeymoon, after which we were to settle down in the luxurious home already prepared for our reception. As I changed my bridal gown for the dress in which I was to travel, I contrasted my present bliss with the unhappy time which already seemed to belong to the limbo of a better-to-be-forgotten past, and thanked God that I had won the love of so good and true a man as Sergius.

Sergius had laughingly bidden me to make haste with my toilet, as he was in a fever of impatience to have me to himself, and to feel that he really had secured the object he loved.

I had just as laughingly responded, little thinking of the awful blow that was even then hovering over my head. On going to the drawing-room again I expected to encounter only Sergius and the Prince and Princess Michaelow, for my father had already taken his leave.

But how shall I describe the sudden shock I experienced when I saw that Sergius was absent, and that both my friends wore such a look of commiseration and distress as convinced me that something terrible had again happened to me.

“Where is Sergius? What has happened?” I exclaimed, in sudden panic.

For a moment neither of those whom I questioned spoke. Then the prince came forward, and, clasping both my hands in his, said gently:

“You must take heart, my child. Nothing dreadful has happened to your husband.”

“Then why is he not here? And why do your looks belie your words?”

“Sergius has had an unexpected summons.”

“Away from me?”

“Yes, he has been compelled to go to Russia.”

To Russia! To Russia, whither he had only just escaped, of all places! And without a word of farewell to me, his bride of an hour!

Surely Fate was sporting with me, when, for the second time, she robbed me of a husband on my bridal day!

But this stroke was harder than the other. The poor old earl had been claimed by Death. Sergius had left me, apparently of his own free will, and in the fullness of health and strength.

Who or what was it that had a stronger claim upon him than I had?