CHAPTER XV.

THE world's course was not arrested that night: all was the same as it had ever been: but to Georgy there was another world, and a new life, for she was engaged to James Erskine. He had come near her at last, and she had some possession in one who had so long held her. It was a knowledge like that of heaven, too good to be all embraced at once; and her surprise was so great, that it seemed as if that evening was still a vision. She had made Mr. Erskine smile by the way in which she deprecated the mention of the few days during which she had been engaged to Stephen; and James had talked, he knew so well how-talked those commonplaces, which once in a lifetime sound so sublime to every one. The two people in the drawing-room started as they heard the wheels of the brougham which announced Mrs. Erskine's return: Georgy looked at Mr. Erskine.

"There is my mother."

"Yes, here she is. Goodnight," she said, timidly "We will talk to her to-morrow," he answered.

"Goodnight, then."

Georgy did not like that word to-morrow; she would have given a great deal if she could have retarded Mrs. Erskine's arrival but one half-hour, and to have spoken to her then; yet had not the courage to meet her at that moment. They had

neither of them left the room when Mrs. Erskine appeared they need not have been afraid, however; for she was one of those people who either see everything or nothing. Once struck, she would perhaps have divined a love affair, a secret, or some hidden entanglement, very quickly and justly; or, on the other hand, such a web might have been woven from beginning to end before her eyes, without a doubt or thought upon the subject entering her mind. She was too thoroughly engrossed by her own preoccupations, was always too actively doing, and participating too directly in everything, for keen observation; and, like many of us, she would judge far more correctly of people who were unconnected with her, than of those who lay the nearest to her.

Mrs. Erskine was surprised that Georgy had not gone to bed, when she knew how tired they should be to-morrow by their journey. Why had James come home so early? It was very late, but still she wanted to talk to him a little. Georgy disappeared, and James listened rather absently to his mother's talk about Julia, money matters, &c. He would

not tell her that night: he knew that it would be a blow to her rather indefinite and exalted visions: but she liked Georgy very much, and he soon imagined her reconciled to the prospect.

James bade his mother goodnight, and then went down to his own room, in a more composed state of mind than Georgy was that evening. But he really loved her: her youth and her simplicity were a pleasant resting-place for his thoughts. He knew, too, that she loved him: knew it with a certainty that left no room for doubt or anxiety. Constance Everett had been the passion of his life, and he had lavished adoration upon her, which he could never have to spend again: it could not be. He might no more love Georgy so, than she, if separated from him, could ever again give an equal measure of her love to any other human being. Love is never equal: it was very truly said: “Il y a toujours l'un qui baise, l'autre qui tend la joue."

Constance had repaid him ill for a long friendship. Six months ago she had written him a taunting, bitter letter, and thus freed herself from the necessity of keeping up an acquaintance, which might have become importunate. She was rich and independent, and so had no further need of him. So closely had one event followed the other, that he half-believed she knew, if not of her husband's death, at least

that he was past the hopes of recovery, when she had written to him. A short, formal note, which he had addressed to her a little time afterwards had remained unanswered, and he had every reason to believe that she had cast him off. The circumstantial evidence respecting the date of her husband's death and of her letter was strong, and his doubts had gradually become certainties.

All people have sometimes a season of mental desperation and aberration, when they do exactly what their friends would least expect. Mr. Erskine had loved Georgy during the reaction of disappointment; because he was thrown back upon himself and needed something to love, and because perhaps she was the very opposite of Constance. To him, Georgy had never willingly spoken of her quarrel with her uncle and her refusal to marry Captain Anstruther. If he ever mentioned it, she always grew reserved, and she had never once in any way placed herself before him, so as to ask his sympathy. This touched him; for she knew at least that he liked her, though she had never any idea of turning that liking to her own profit. So all through these days, when she had been colder, and had shown less outward satisfaction at his presence than formerly, he had been more really drawn towards her than he had ever been before.

She had not known it, for she was too much engrossed to retain any inward self-possession in her observation of him. He was too close to her now; he interested her too deeply: she could neither observe rightly nor judge him truly. Till that evening she had never thought it possible that he should really care for her; though a far duller person than she was might have discovered it.

There was no truer proof of how much he had loved Constance, than this sudden transition of feeling. This was not heroic: perhaps not sentimental; but it sometimes happens in the world. Insensibly his resolution had been formed, although the acting upon it that evening was a sudden impulse. Now a calm future lay before him, and love which was to be freely given, not earned with difficulty. Now the deed was done, and the longing for the home and the fireside which a wife alone can gratify, was to be satisfied. He was very happy, but quietly happy, and rather thought that that was the best state of mind in which to enter upon matrimony.

As he turned to leave the room, his eye fell by chance upon a picture there, a pretty French engraving, hanging over the chimney-piece. Giséle was the figure's name. Who Giséle was mattered little to him; he had once bought it, because it had really a striking likeness to Constance