"Not you--I--" gasped the wife. "Your words at breakfast--this letter--have rolled the stone from my heart--I must confess--the truth--I am like Mrs. Beaufort--in debt--frightfully in debt." And with a gesture, as if she would crush herself into the earth, she slipped from his arms and sank literally on the floor.

Whatever pang Mr. Ferrars felt at the knowledge of her fault, it seemed overpowered by the sense of her present anguish--an anguish that proved how bitter had been the expiation; and he lifted his wife to a sofa, bent over her with fondness, called her by all the dear pet names to which her ear was accustomed, and nearer twenty times than once gave her the "kiss of forgiveness."

"And it is of you I have been afraid!" cried Lady Lucy clinging to his hand. "You who I thought would never make any excuses for faults you yourself could not have committed!"

"I have never been tempted."

"Have I? I dare not say so."

"Tell me how it all came about," said Mr. Ferrars, drawing her to him; "tell me from the beginning."

But his gentleness unnerved her--she felt choking--loosened the collar of her dress for breathing s.p.a.ce--and gave him the knowledge he asked in broken exclamations.

"Before I was married--it--began. They persuaded me so many--oh, so many--unnecessary things were--needed. Then they would not send the bills--and I--for a long time--never knew--what I owed--and then--and then--I thought I should have the power--but--"

"Your allowance was not sufficient?"' asked Mr. Ferrars, pressing her hand as he spoke.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes! most generous, and yet it was always forestalled to pay old bills; and then--and then my wants were so many. I was so weak. Madame Dalmas has had dresses I could have worn when I had new ones on credit instead, and--and Harris has had double wages to compensate for what a lady's maid thinks her perquisites; even articles I might have given to poor gentlewoman I have been mean enough to sell. Oh, Walter! I have been very wrong; but I have been miserable for at least three years. I have felt as if an iron cage were rising round me--from which you only could free me--and yet, till to-day, I think I could have died rather than confess to you."

"My poor girl! Why should you have feared me? Have I ever been harsh?"

"Oh, no!--no--but you are so just--so strict in all these things--"

"I hope I am; and yet not the less do I understand how all this has come about. Now, Lucy--now that you have ceased to fear me--tell me the amount."

She strove to speak, but could not.

"Three figures or four? tell me."

"I am afraid--yes, I am afraid four," murmured Lady Lucy, and hiding her face from his view; "yes, four figures, and my quarter received last week gone every penny."

"Lucy, every bill shall be paid this day; but you must reward me by being happy."

"Generous! dearest! But, Walter, if you had been a poor man, what then?"

"Ah, Lucy, that would have been a very different and an infinitely sadder story. Instead of the relinquishment of some indulgence hardly to be missed, there might have been ruin and poverty and disgrace. You have one excuse,--at least you knew that I could pay at last."

"Ah, but at what a price! The price of your love and confidence."

"No, Lucy--for your confession has been voluntary; and I will not ask myself what I should have felt had the knowledge come from another. After all, you have fallen to a temptation which besets the wives of the rich far more than those of poor or struggling gentlemen. Tradespeople are shrewd enough in one respect: they do not press their commodities and long credit in quarters where ultimate payment seems doubtful--though--"

"They care not what domestic misery they create among the rich,"

interrupted Lady Lucy, bitterly.

"Stay: there are faults on both sides, not the least of them being that girls in your station are too rarely taught the value of money, or that integrity in money matters should be to them a point of honour second only to one other. Now listen, my darling, before we dismiss this painful subject for ever. You have the greatest confidence in your maid, and _entre nous_ she must be a good deal in the secret. We shall bribe her to discretion, however, by dismissing Madame Dalmas at once and for ever. As soon as you can spare Harris, I will send her to change a check at Coutts's, and then, for expedition and security, she shall take on the brougham and make a round to these tradespeople. Meanwhile, I will drive you in the phaeton to look at the bracelet."

"Oh, no--no, dear Walter, not the bracelet."

"Yes--yes--I say yes. Though not a quarrel, this is a sorrow which has come between us, and there must be a peace-offering. Besides, I would not have you think that you had reached the limits of my will, and of my means to gratify you."

"To think that I could have doubted--that I could have feared you!"

sobbed Lady Lucy, as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. "But, Walter, it is not every husband who would have shown such generosity."

"I think there are few husbands, Lucy, who do not estimate truth and candour as among the chief of conjugal virtues:--ah, had you confided in me when first you felt the bondage of debt, how much anguish would have been spared you!"

A WORD FOR WIVES.

WHAT is it? A little pencil note, crumpled and worn, as if carried for a long time in one's pocket. I found it in a box of precious things that f.a.n.n.y's mother had h.o.a.rded so choicely, because f.a.n.n.y had been choice of them. I must read it, for everything of f.a.n.n.y's is dear to us now. Ah! 'tis a note from a gentleman who was at school with us at F--, whom f.a.n.n.y esteemed so much, whom we both esteemed for his sterling integrity and his gentleness. It is precious, too, as a reminder of him. I love the remembrance of old schoolfellows,--of frolicsome, foolish, frivolous, _loving_ schooldays. But let me read. 'Tis mostly rubbed out, but here is a place.

"You know full well that long since, 'that _dear cousin_' permitted me to call her by the endearing name of sister; and may I not, when far away, thinking of bygones, add your name to hers in the sisterly list? You asked me when I had heard from _the dear one:_ she was down here a short _hour_ last week, but what was that among so many who wished to see her?"

Ah! that means me! If I had only known it then! And just now I was wondering if he _really_ loved me, and perhaps felt almost in my secret heart to grieve a bit--to murmur at him. I fear I spoke as he little dreamed then the "_dear one_" would ever do. What shall I do?

I remember him now, in all his young loveliness, in all the excitability of a first love, and my heart kindles too warmly to write what I wished.

What if one had told me then that my home would be in his heart--that my beautiful Alma would be his child! My Alma, my beautiful babe! how sweetly she nestles her little face in his neck.

She has stolen her mother's place; little thief! I wonder she does not steal his whole heart to the clear shutting out of her mother!

Little wives! if ever a half suppressed sigh finds place with you, or a half unloving word escapes you to the husband whom you love, let your heart go back to some tender word in those first love--days; remember how you loved him then, how tenderly he wooed you, how timidly you responded, and if you can feel that _you_ have not grown unworthy, trust him for the same fond love now. If you _do_ feel that through many cares and trials of life, you have become less lovable and attractive than then, turn--by all that you love on earth, or hope for in Heaven, turn back, and _be_ the pattern of loveliness that won him; be the "dear one" your attractions made you then. Be the gentle, loving, winning maiden still, and doubt not, the lover you admired will live for ever in your husband. Nestle by his side, cling to his love, and let his confidence in you never fail, and, my word for it, the husband will be dearer than the lover ever was. Above all things, do not forget the love he gave you first. Do not seek to "emanc.i.p.ate" yourself--do not strive to uns.e.x yourself and become a Lucy Stone, or a Rev. Miss Brown, but love the higher honour ordained by our Saviour, of old--that of a loving wife. A happy wife, a blessed mother, can have no higher station, needs no greater honour.

Little wives, remember your first love. As for me, I see again the little crumpled note about the "dear one," and I must go to find love and forgiveness in his arms.

NO JEWELLED BEAUTY.

No jewelled Beauty is my Love, Yet in her earnest face There's such a world of tenderness, She needs no other grace.

Her smiles, and voice, around my life In light and music twine, And dear, oh very dear to me, Is this sweet Love of mine.

Oh, joy! to know there's one fond heart Beats ever true to me: It sets mine leaping like a lyre, In sweetest melody; My soul up-springs, a Deity!

To hear her voice divine, And dear, oh! very dear to me, Is this sweet Love of mine.

If ever I have sigh'd for wealth, 'Twas all for her, I trow; And if I win Fame's victor-wreath, I'll twine it on her brow.

There may be forms more beautiful, And souls of sunnier shine, But none, oh! none so dear to me, As this sweet Love of mine.

THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY.

"HOME!" How that little word strikes upon the heart strings, awakening all the sweet memories that had slept in memory's chamber!

_Our_ home was a "pearl of price" among homes; not for its architectural elegance--for it was only a four gabled, brown country house, shaded by two antediluvian oak trees; nor was its interior crowded with luxuries that charm every sense and come from every clime. Its furniture had grown old with us, for we remembered no other; and though polished as highly as furniture could be, by daily scrubbing, was somewhat the worse for wear, it must be confessed.