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FEBRUARY, 1874.

'NO INTENTION S.'

BY FLORENCE MARRYAT, AUTHOR OF 'LOVE'S CONFLICT,' 'VERONIQUE,' ETC.

IT

CHAPTER XIV.

T was no affectation of pique or sentiment, or even a morbid sensibility, that made Irene desirous her place of residence should be kept, for the present, a secret from her friends and relations. She was simply sick of the world, and the world's treatment of her; and felt as though she never should recover from this last shock unless she were left alone. She had tried SO hard during her married life to do her duty, and win her husband's trust and confidence, that it was a bitter blow to find for her reward that he had not only suspected her virtue as no other man would have dared to do, but had left her for sole legacy a dishonoured name. He, for whose sake she had trampled on the thorny love he believed her capable of cherishing, unmindful how much her shrinking flesh bled from the contact so long as she might carry her head erect, her conscience undefiled and pure. She did not realise the extent of the injury done to her fair fame until the grave had closed over the remains of Colonel Mordaunt. Until then her mind had been so much occupied with the grief his loss occasioned her, that it had had no time to dwell on the VOL. XXV.-NO. CXLVI.

doubtful position in which she would be placed by the alteration of his will. But afterwards she saw it! She read it in Oliver's indignation, Isabella's pity, and Mrs. Quekett's ill-concealed delight. Notwithstanding the good intentions of her sister-in-law and step-son, it hurt her pride that they should press on her as a freewill offering that which should have been her own by right. She could appreciate their affection, but yet it stung her bitterly. She could not remain at Fen Court, where she had reigned supreme, and where the power to reign to her life's end would have been too small a return for the sacrifices she had made there, as a visitor or even as a friend. And then the child-whom she had learned to love so much for his own sakewhom she regarded as a sacred, though unconscious trust, from Eric-who was about the only creature left whom she could cling to was she to part with him? Her name had been so cruelly associated with his, she could not keep him at Fen Court, nor even near it; nor should he be dependent on any one but herself or his own father for his maintenance: what alternative, then, remained to her (unless she

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separated from Tommy and meekly accepted the stigma cast upon them both) but to go away?

Irene was no humble-spirited, long-suffering Griselda, quietly to accept the indignity that had been offered her: the very fact that her husband's suspicions were unfounded made her the more determined to show the world she snapped her fingers at them, and nothing should induce her to part with the child of her adoption except Muiraven's wishes. She did not feel these things so keenly before the will was read. Her heart had been softened by her last interview with Philip. She had felt so much for his distress, that her own had been, for the while, lost sight of. But when she heard herself defamed, and knew that every servant in her employ was made aware that he had suspected her, her pride rose uppermost: the firmness and decision which had made her what she was came to the front, and had the retention of Tommy Brown blasted the remainder of her life, she would have so blasted it. She had a right to keep the child-she had adopted him with her husband's full consent, and no power on earth but one should part them. She went to Laburnum Cottage, intending there quietly to think over and settle her plans. But when she came to consider, she felt that as long as Oliver knew where to find her, he would never leave her in peace. He would follow, and argue, and plead, and pray, until perhaps he fairly worried her into acting against her own conscience; and to be left in peace was her most ardent desire. She wanted time, and repose, and quiet to enable her to look her future-her, blank, cheerless future-steadily in the face. For remember, that for Irene still existed that mys

terious, inexplicable barrier that had risen up, three years ago, between Muiraven and herself, and she had but one hope concerning him-that he would permit her to retain the guardianship of his, as yet, unknown child. To compass the end she had in view Irene felt her destination must be kept a secret. Her only chance of recovery lay in spending a few quiet months, until the first bitterness of her despair was over, and she had fixed upon her future course of life. Mrs. Cavendish was most anxious she should take lodgings at Sydenham, or remain with her at Laburnum Cottage. So close to London, she might renew acquaintanceship with all her old friends; and then the Crystal Palace, such an advantage! But the prospect of vicinity to flower shows and cat shows, concerts, pantomimes, and conjurers, seemed to hold out no charms to our poor heroine, She remained, as her aunt herself expressed it, 'as obstinate as a pig,' and put in her final claim to the character by going up to town one day with her child and her luggage, and thence writing to inform Mrs. Cavendish that she had fixed on, and was about to proceed to, a distant place, where she hoped and intended to remain perdue, and free from the innovations of all well-meaning friends until she should have somewhat recovered from the sudden shock of her late bereavement. But she did not refuse to communicate with her relations, and many letters on the subject passed between them through the mediumship of Mr. Walmsley.

It was strange how Cocklebury happened to become Irene's destination. She had thought of Winchester-indeed she had gone down to Winchester, hearing it to

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