he speaker was white as a
sheet, and his hollow voice came in hoarse, inarticulate whispers as
he looked almost fiercely into that dear face to read his doom. Too
well he knew the set, fixed expression of her delicate profile. She
did not dare turn towards him; she could not have looked him in the
face and persevered; but she kept her eyes fastened on the horizon, as
though she saw her future in the fading sunset; and whilst her heart
seemed turning to very stone she kept her lips firmly closed; she
repressed the tears that would have choked her, and so for _that_ time
she conquered.

Lucy had a great idea of duty; hers was no high-principled love of
duty from the noblest motives, but a morbid dread of self-reproach.
She had not _character_ enough to do anything out of her own notions
of the beaten track. She had promised her father she would marry Sir
Hugh Horsingham--not that he had the slightest right to exact such a
promise--and she felt bound to fulfil it. She never remembered the
injury she was doing "Cousin Edward," the _right_ which such devotion
as _his_ ought to have given him. She _knew_ she loved him better than
any one in the world; she knew she was about to commit an act of the
greatest injustice towards Sir Hugh; but she had "promised papa," and
though she would have given worlds to avoid fulfilling her compact,
she had not strength of mind to break the chain and be free.

Cousin Edward! Cousin Edward! you should have carried her off then and
there; she would have been truly grateful for the rest of her life,
but she would have died sooner than open her lips. He was
hurt--reckless--almost savage. He thought her sullen. "Once more,
Lucy," he said, and his eye glared fiercely in the waning light--"once
more, _will_ you give me one word, or _never_ set eyes on me again?"
Her lip never moved. "I give you till we pass that tree"--he looked
dangerous now--"and then"--he swore a great oath--"I leave you for
ever!" Lucy thought the tree looked strange and ghastly in the rising
moon, she even remarked a knot upon its smooth white stem; but she
held out whilst one might have counted ten; and when she turned round,
poor girl, Cousin Edward was gone!

CHAPTER IX.

So the bells rung merrily at Dangerfield, and the rustics huzzaed for
their landlord and the comely village maidens envied the bride; and
Lucy was Lady Horsingham now, with new duties and a high position, and
a large, fine, gloomy house, and je