The Sun.
London, England, 1863-05-21 00:00:00

BEATRICE IS MARRIED.

" Are you sleeping, Beatrice P" said Treherne, in a low
voice, as he entered the room, after the doctor's prescription
had been given to her.
" No,—l am dying I I hear you, but the words seem all
faded and distant. I see you, but everything is confused,
I remember, as if all my life were so long ago—so long
ago I Oh Montagu I" resumed she, with a burst
of renewed passion, " what will become of me?
My father I toy father 1 If I could only say husband'
once, and you could tell him I died your wife. Montagu! '
—and her look was one of such wild appeal, that Treherne
first shrank, and then with a burst of passion, folded her in
his arms; "Would it be a great •in to call me by that dear
name to him, even if you cannot get some one to join our
hands before I die ? He has suffered so much—my poor
father :Heis so proud, so honourable. Oh I God, have
pity on me I Thou, who knowest alt hearts, Thou knowest
I meant no wrong."
And this time, the appealing eyes looked, not to Tre •
herne, but with a desolate wildness upwards. Upwards I
beyond the blank ceiling that hid the sky—beyond the
world that hid God from her thoughts. Then a faint
stupor dulled all her being, and she lay with her eyes wide
open, and that expression in them which thrilled Treherne's
heart with such inexpressible terror; that muddy lustre,
like the sunshine on pools full of dead autumn leaves.
When she was again conscious, Treherne spoke to her ;
he was standing by her bedside with another gentleman,
with some one in a dark dress—with a clergyman. Beatrice
gave a wild cry of joy.
"Here is the chaplain of one of our consulates, Beatrice,
who has been good enough to consent to a little delay in
his journey, to make you my wife; do you hear, darling ?"
Beatrice's eyes moved quickly from side to side, but she
answered nothing.
" Oh, love of my heart 1 Oh, Beatrice I here is help.
Don't die 1"
Something like a smile quivered over the hot dry lips of
the poor girl, "No," she said, "no, Montagu. I won't
die, if I can live I"

" Do you think you will understand what this gentleman
—what the chaplain will read ?"
"Yes. lamto be your wife; let him make me your
wife. I will not die till then." She folded her hands with
anxious earnestness, and immediately afterwards unlocked
them ; they fell by her side.
"Clod help us both, and make me a pleasant memory to
Montagu, when I am gone 1" she said : and then turning
to the chaplain, she added faintly—" I think death must be
very near, I feel so much less confused. Marry us quickly:
and be sure it is not such grief as it seems. 1 would rather

be his wife, though only to die in his arms, than live for

any destiny that could part us I"
The eyes of the English chaplain were bent on her with
the deepest compassion. His voice trembled, the words
faltered from his lips, as he read with earnest gravity the
brief ceremony appointed by our Church, for that solemn
union which death only should have power to unlink I A
deep sigh of relief from Beatrice at the conclusion, was
echoed by both her companions.
Then she turned deadly faint ; she caught nervously at
Treherne's sleeve. "Oh 1 Montagu, ' she said, is this
death ? Is this indeed farewell ? Farewell, my darling I
Farewell love, and farewell life I Don't forget me I"
And so saying, a deadly swoon seized her, and she lay
with her head on Treherne's arm, like a lovely statue of
marble.

Does not this tender scene of subdued emotion jus
tify all we have said of the writer's pathetic power P
The consequences of this incident are deplorable,
and hardly within the limits of probability. Mon-

:agu Treherne is cleverly described. He is super-

latively selfish and irredeemably heartless; but we

are inclined to think that in this instance even his

character is somewhat overdrawn. Few men having
passed through the ordeal of a scene like that above

described, could, on the restoration to health of the

unsuspecting victim, make that very scene—that
fictitious marriage, entered into on the one Bide
with the truthfulness of a death-bed devotion—the
substitute for the real marriage that was to be, the
excuse for subsequent ruin and desertion. The in-
cident, while it odds additional darkness to the
iniquity of Treberne, affords another excuse to the
blindness of Beatrice. With the intensity of her
womanly devotion where Beatrice loves, she cannot
doubt, and consequently very terrible is the agony
of her awakening. Most dramatic is
the
scene later on, when—in the midst of her
utter ruin and helplessness, whennotaf d
friend
doctorienncdrev will
itt and she
'leo:
believe her story of the fictitious marriage,
charitable
is regarded by all as "lost".—lost beyond
of"" saving although
—Maurice Llewellyn, the power
Ins of her innocece
visit her dying child, brings a

"This is Dr. Foljambe, Beatrice," he began, bat a
wild expression illuminated the features Treherne's for-
saken love; she gasped for breath; then with a sudden
movement she locked the door by which they had entered,
and drew away the key.
"Now," she said, "now you must hear me. Give mo
time—give me help, 0 God I Maurice, ask him—ask HIM"
—and she pointed to the friend he had introduced, with a
strange mixture of repulsion and triumph—" whether I
have told the truth I It was You who married me," she
continued, addressing the stranger with passionate excite-
ment ;" I owe my ruin—and my child's ruin. to YOU—to
your cruel treason—to your base perfidy I How dared you
the ordinances of God, by pretending, in that solemn
hour of expected death, to unite me to Montagu ? I am
low—miserable ; for I am not his wife ; but that is his son I
Answer to Heaven for my boy's fate—and for mine I',
Very powerfully are those chapters penned Which
relate the penurious struggles of the forlorn Beatrice
—all the more powerfully (alas !) because of their
exceeding probability and truthfulness. Without