The Warwickshire Herald. — 1895-12-12 (Birmingham, West Midlands, England)

MRS.  11. V; r: ll\ it  uthm• vi  cifArmit xxvii.  At the day for the trial irew nearer, the Hector of Itakesworth became more and more anxious about the result. He possi of,course, no proof that his brother had committed suicide; yet he could not disabuse his mind of the fact tlit such a thing was highly probable. The thought that the prisoners might be doomed to suffer for a crime of which they were innocent haunted him night and day. With such a-possibility hovering over his mind he recoiled from the idea of calmly standing by and witnessing the condeinnatinn of Ho se young people, in whose innocence he still firmly believed. But unfortunately he could thuukof no means of vindicating them. He could not cast a slur on a dead brother's name without definite proofs. Therefore he was forced to confess, unwillingly to himself, that under xisting circumstances the only course open was to leave them to their fate. Almost hourly did the good man pray that that late would be a merciful one.  Meanwhile there were other matters, besides the trial, which harrassed him. It was useless conceal. ing the fact That his influence in the parish had received a severe blow. From many directions he saw undisguised signs that a great change had taken place in the minds of many who were formerly loyal supporters of the Parish Church and its services. His brother's eloquent sermons were now remembered, and commented upon in terms which made him feel the deepest humiliation. ! Painful, indeed, was it for him to know how sorely ! at variance was that brother's life with the ! doctrines he had preached. As to Vita, she kept entirely within the Manor grounds, and gave none of the village gossips as opportunity of criticising her demeanour. But the various members of the Manor household were surprised and shocked to notice what acute grief her faithless lover's death had apparently caused her. So aged ai.d ill did she look that ten years might have passed over her head since she heard the news of his death. She could not rest inaoors, but wandered about all day in the most secluded part of the grounds. Hour after hour she remained gazing before her with statuesque immobility,u a strange, vacant look stole into her eyes.. Her manner had always been somewhat sharp and abrupt, but now It contained a new, fierce element. It Talbot ventured to seek her out,and displayed any inclination to comfort her, she would turn upon him sharply, and bid him go away at once. At last he had desisted from all signs of brotherly compassion; and now watched her silently from a distance, with growing apprehensions for the future. Happily, his own matrimonial projeolie flowed on smoothly, and that alone enabled him to tolerate his present position of anxiety.  It was but natural that his mind should con. stantly dwell on the time when Beatrice Vera would be his wife, and share the ancestral home of which he was so justly proud. nue he could not resist the temptation to begin preparing for that happy time. Already some rooms—which had remained unused since his mother's death—were in course of redecoration.  One day as Vita was passing through the hall the sound of distant hammering fell on her ears; she stopped suddenly and turned to him,saying: "What is being done in mother's rooms?" "They are being redecorated, and an alcove is being added over the portico." "Why 1" "Because—" Then he stopped. '7'l know—because you are going to be married Bohn," she said, finishing the sentence for him. "Yes, you are right, Vita."  "You remember what I said once before about leaving this house when you married. I shall keep my promise." Be was silent.  "1 expect you will be glad when I go. Will you not ?" she added, with rising passion. "You must please yourself about going or staying, Vita," was the evasive answer. "One thing is certain, you are not happy here." "Happy! Don't talk to me of happiness. My life is marred—ruined !"  With these words she strode past him into the garden. It was a wet, foggy day, but she heeded neither rain nor sunshine now. An inward tire seemed to have taken possession of her. Rage, hate, and wild despair dominated her. She was miserable,without hope, lost to all that made life bright; whilst others were spending their days happily, with pleasant expectations in the future. Alas! her future was blank and dark. All that she loved had been swept away excepting her home. Soon that too would be lost. From the moment Talbot married the Manor must cease to be a home to her.  Hours passed. It was growing dusk. Still she sat in the little rustic arbour where Henry Hamilton had breathed those filar surds of love which had thrillid her with such joy. Ah, well could she recall that day. It was early summer then, and a wealth of roses clustered over the arbour porch. Now it was winter—and winter at her heart I At last, worn out with the excitement of her own sorrow, she rose and dragged herself wearily home. The brightly-lighted hall and pervading air of luxury seemed sadly at variance with the feelings of the miserabl-, dejected wcinan who slowly passed up the stairs.