EUSTACE succeeded in quieting my alarm. But I can hardly saythat he succeeded in satisfying my mind as well.

He had been thinking, he told me, of the contrast between hispast and his present life. Bitter remembrance of the years thathad gone had risen in his memory, and had filled him withmelancholy misgivings of his capacity to make my life with him ahappy one. He had asked himself if he had not met me too late--ifhe were not already a man soured and broken by thedisappointments and disenchantments of the past? Doubts such asthese, weighing more and more heavily on his mind, had filled hiseyes with the tears which I had discovered--tears which he nowentreated me, by my love for him, to dismiss from my memoryforever.

I forgave him, comforted him, revived him; but there were momentswhen the remembrance of what I had seen troubled me in secret,and when I asked myself if I really possessed my husband's fullconfidence as he possessed mine.

We left the train at Ramsgate.

The favorite watering-place was empty; the season was just over.Our arrangements for the wedding tour included a cruise to theMediterranean in a yacht lent to Eustace by a friend. We wereboth fond of the sea, and we were equally desirous, consideringthe circumstances under which we had married, of escaping thenotice of friends and acquaintances. With this object in view,having celebrated our marriage privately in London, we haddecided on instructing the sailing-master of the yacht to join usat Ramsgate. At this port (when the season for visitors was at anend) we could embark far more privately than at the popularyachting stations situated in the Isle of Wight.

Three days passed--days of delicious solitude, of exquisitehappiness, never to be forgotten, never to be lived over again,to the end of our lives!

Early on the morning of the fourth day, just before sunrise, atrifling incident happened, which was noticeable, nevertheless,as being strange to me in my experience of myself.

I awoke, suddenly and unaccountably, from a deep and dreamlesssleep with an all-pervading sensation of nervous uneasiness whichI had never felt before. In the old days at the Vicarage mycapacity as a sound sleeper had been the subject of many a littleharmless joke. From the moment when my head was on the pillow Ihad never known what it was to awake until the maid knocked at mydoor. At all seasons and times the long and uninterrupted reposeof a child was the repose that I enjoyed.

And now I had awakened, without any assignable cause, hoursbefore my usual time. I tried to compose myself to sleep again.The effort was useless. Such a restlessness possessed me that Iwas not even able to lie still in the bed. My husband wassleeping soundly by my side. In the fear of disturbing him Irose, and put on my dressing-gown and slippers.

I went to the window. The sun was just rising over the calm graysea. For a while the majestic spectacle before me exercised atranquilizing influence on the irritable condition of my nerves.But ere long the old restlessness returned upon me. I walkedslowly to and fro in the room, until I was weary of the monotonyof the exercise. I took up a book, and laid it aside again. Myattention wandered; the author was powerless to recall it. I goton my feet once more, and looked at Eustace, and admired him andloved him in his tranquil sleep. I went back to the window, andwearied of the beautiful morning. I sat down before the glass andlooked at myself. How haggard and worn I was already, throughawaking before my usual time! I rose again, not knowing what todo next. The confinement to the four walls of the room began tobe intolerable to me. I opened the door that led into myhusband's dressing-room, and entered it, to try if the changewould relieve me.

The first object that I noticed was his dressing-case, open onthe toilet-table.

I took out the bottles and pots and brushes and combs, the knivesand scissors in one compartment, the writing materials inanother. I smelled the perfumes and pomatums; I busily cleanedand dusted the bottles with my handkerchief as I took them out.Little by little I completely emptied the dressing-case. It waslined with blue velvet. In one corner I noticed a tiny slip ofloose blue silk. Taking it between my finger and thumb, anddrawing it upward, I discovered that there was a false bottom tothe case, forming a secret compartment for letters and papers. Inmy strange condition--capricious, idle, inquisitive--it was anamusement to me to take out the papers, just as I had taken outeverything else .

I found some receipted bills, which failed to interest me; someletters, which it is needless to say I laid aside after onlylooking at the addresses; and, under all, a photograph, facedownward, with writing on the back of it. I looked at thewriting, and saw these words:

"To my dear son, Eustace."

His mother! the woman who had so obstinately and mercilesslyopposed herself to our marriage!

I eagerly turned the photograph, expecting to see a woman with astern, ill-tempered, forbidding countenance. To my surprise, theface showed the remains of great beauty; the expression, thoughremarkably firm, was yet winning, tender, and kind. The gray hairwas arranged in rows of little quaint old-fashioned curls oneither side of the head, under a plain lace cap. At one corner ofthe mouth there was a mark, apparently a mole, which added to thecharacteristic peculiarity of the face. I looked and looked,fixing the portrait thoroughly in my mind. This woman, who hadalmost insulted me and my relatives, was, beyond all doubt ordispute, so far as appearances went, a person possessing unusualattractions--a person whom it would be a pleasure and a privilegeto know.

I fell into deep thought. The discovery of the photograph quietedme as nothing had quieted me yet.

The striking of a clock downstairs in the hall warned me of theflight of time. I carefully put back all the objects in thedressing-case (beginning with the photograph) exactly as I hadfound them, and returned to the bedroom. As I looked at myhusband, still sleeping peacefully, the question forced itselfinto my mind, What had made that genial, gentle mother of his sosternly bent on parting us? so harshly and pitilessly resolute inasserting her disapproval of our marriage?

Could I put my question openly to Eustace when he awoke? No; Iwas afraid to venture that length. It had been tacitly understoodbetween us that we were not to speak of his mother--and, besides,he might be angry if he knew that I had opened the privatecompartment of his dressing-case.

After breakfast that morning we had news at last of the yacht.The vessel was safely moored in the inner harbor, and thesailing-master was waiting to receive my husband's orders onboard.

Eustace hesitated at asking me to accompany him to the yacht. Itwould be necessary for him to examine the inventory of thevessel, and to decide questions, not very interesting to a woman,relating to charts and barometers, provisions and water. He askedme if I would wait for his return. The day was enticinglybeautiful, and the tide was on the ebb. I pleaded for a walk onthe sands; and the landlady at our lodgings, who happened to bein the room at the time, volunteered to accompany me and takecare of me. It was agreed that we should walk as far as we feltinclined in the direction of Broadstairs, and that Eustace shouldfollow and meet us on the sands, after having completed hisarrangements on board the yacht.

In half an hour more the landlady and I were out on the beach.

The scene on that fine autumn morning was nothing less thanenchanting. The brisk breeze, the brilliant sky, the flashingblue sea, the sun-bright cliffs and the tawny sands at theirfeet, the gliding procession of ships on the great marine highwayof the English Channel--it was all so exhilarating, it was all sodelightful, that I really believe if I had been by myself I couldhave danced for joy like a child. The one drawback to myhappiness was the landlady's untiring tongue. She was a forward,good-natured, empty-headed woman, who persisted in talking,whether I listened or not, and who had a habit of perpetuallyaddressing me as "Mrs. Woodville," which I thought a littleoverfamiliar as an assertion of equality from a person in herposition to a person in mine.

We had been out, I should think, more than half an hour, when weovertook a lady walking before us on the beach.

Just as we were about to pass the stranger she took herhandkerchief from her pocket, and accidentally drew out with it aletter, which fell unnoticed by her, on the sand. I was nearestto the letter, and I picked it up and offered it to the lady.

The instant she turned to thank me, I stood rooted to the spot.There was the original of the photographic portrait in thedressing-case! there was my husband's mother, standing face toface with me! I recognized the quaint little gray curls, thegentle, genial expression, the mole at the corner of the mouth.No mistake was possible. His mother herself!

The old lady, naturally enough, mistook my confusion for shyness.With perfect tact and kindness she entered into conversation withme. In another minute I was walking side by side with the womanwho had sternly repudiated me as a member of her family; feeling,I own, terribly discomposed, and not knowing in the least whetherI ought or ought not to assume the responsibility, in myhusband's absence, of telling her who I was.

In another minute my familiar landlady, walking on the other sideof my mother-in-law, decided the question for me. I happened tosay that I supposed we must by that time be near the end of ourwalk--the little watering-place called Broadstairs. "Oh no, Mrs.Woodville! cried the irrepressible woman, calling me by my name,as usual; "nothing like so near as you think!"

I looked with a beating heart at the old lady.

To my unutterable amazement, not the faintest gleam ofrecognition appeared in her face. Old Mrs. Woodville went ontalking to young Mrs. Woodville just as composedly as if she hadnever heard her own name before in her life!

My face and manner must have betrayed something of the agitationthat I was suffering. Happening to look at me at the end of hernext sentence, the old lady started, and said, in her kindly way,

"I am afraid you have overexerted yourself. You are verypale--you are looking quite exhausted. Come and sit down here;let me lend you my smelling-bottle."

I followed her, quite helplessly, to the base of the cliff. Somefallen fragments of chalk offered us a seat. I vaguely heard thevoluble landlady's expressions of sympathy and regret; Imechanically took the smelling-bottle which my husband's motheroffered to me, after hearing my name, as an act of kindness to astranger

If I had only had myself to think of, I believe I should haveprovoked an explanation on the spot. But I had Eustace to thinkof. I was entirely ignorant of the relations, hostile orfriendly, which existed between his mother and himself. Whatcould I do?

In the meantime the old lady was still speaking to me with themost considerate sympathy. She too was fatigued. she said. Shehad passed a weary night at the bedside of a near relativestaying at Ramsgate. Only the day before she had received atelegram announcing that one of her sisters was seriously ill.She was herself thank God, still active and strong, and she hadthought it her duty to start at once for Ramsgate. Toward themorning the state of the patient had improved. "The doctorassures me ma'am, that there is no immediate danger; and Ithought it might revive me, after my long night at the bedside,if I took a little walk on the beach."

I heard the words--I understood what they meant--but I was stilltoo bewildered and too intimidated by my extraordinary positionto be able to continue the conversation. The landlady had asensible suggestion to make--the landlady was the next person whospoke.

"Here is a gentleman coming," she said to me, pointing in thedirection of Ramsgate. You can never walk back. Shall we ask himto send a chaise from Broadstairs to the gap in the cliff?"

The gentleman advanced a little nearer.

The landlady and I recognized him at the same moment. It wasEustace coming to meet us, as we had arranged. The irrepressiblelandlady gave the freest expression to her feelings. Oh, Mrs.Woodville, ain't it lucky? here is Mr. Woodville himself ."

Once more I looked at my mother-in-law. Once more the name failedto produce the slightest effect on her. Her sight was not so keenas ours; she had not recognized her son yet. He had young eyeslike us, and he recognized his mother. For a mome nt he stoppedlike a man thunderstruck. Then he came on--his ruddy face whitewith suppressed emotion, his eyes fixed on his mother.

"You here!" he said to her.

"How do you do, Eustace?" she quietly rejoined. "Have _you_ heardof your aunt's illness too? Did you know she was staying atRamsgate?"

He made no answer. The landlady, drawing the inevitable inferencefrom the words that she had just heard, looked from me to mymother-in-law in a state of amazement, which paralyzed even hertongue. I waited with my eyes on my husband, to see what he woulddo. If he had delayed acknowledging me another moment, the wholefuture course of my life might have been altered--I should havedespised him.

He did _not_ delay. He came to my side and took my hand.

"Do you know who this is?" be said to his mother.

She answered, looking at me with a courteous bend of her head:

"A lady I met on the beach, Eustace, who kindly restored to me aletter that I dropped. I think I heard the name" (she turned tothe landlady): Mrs. Woodville, was it not?"

My husband's fingers unconsciously closed on my hand with a graspthat hurt me. He set his mother right, it is only just to say,without one cowardly moment of hesitation.

"Mother," he said to her, very quietly, "this lady is my wife."

She had hitherto kept her seat. She now rose slowly and faced herson in silence. The first expression of surprise passed from herface. It was succeeded by the most terrible look of mingledindignation and contempt that I ever saw in a woman's eyes.

"I pity your wife," she said.

With those words and no more, lifting her hand she waved him backfrom her, and went on her way again, as we had first found her,alone.