AN ILL-OMENED WEDDING.

After that promise wrung from her by such a cruel agony, that fatal bond made between her and Stephen Whitelaw, Ellen Carley’s life seemed to travel past her as if by some enchantment.  Time lost its familiar sluggishness; the long industrious days, that had been so slow of old, flew by the bailiff’s daughter like the shadows from a magic-lantern.  At the first, after that desperate miserable day upon which the hateful words were uttered that were to bind her for life to a detested master, the girl had told herself that something must happen to prevent the carrying out of this abhorrent bargain.  Something would happen.  She had a vague faith that Providence would interfere somehow to save her.  Day after day she looked into her father’s face, thinking that from him, perhaps, might come some sign of wavering, some hint of possible release.  Vain hope.  The bailiff having exacted the sacrifice, pretended to think his daughter’s welfare secured by that very act.  He did not hesitate to congratulate her on her good fortune, and to protest, with an accustomed oath, that there was not a sensible woman in England who would not envy her so excellent a match.  Once poor Ellen, always impetuous and plain-spoken, lost all patience with him, and asked how he dared to say such things.

“You know that I hate this man, father!” she cried passionately; “and that I hate myself for what I am going to do.  You know that I have promised to be his wife for your sake, for your sake only; and that if I could have saved you from disgrace by giving you my life, I should have done it gladly to escape this much greater sacrifice.  Never speak to me about Stephen Whitelaw again, father, unless you want to drive me mad.  Let me forget what sin I am going to commit, if I can; let me go on blindfold.”

It was to be observed that from the hour, of her betrothal.  Ellen Carley as far as possible avoided her father’s companionship.  She worked more busily than ever about the big old house, was never tired of polishing the little-used furniture and dusting the tenantless bed-chambers; she seemed, indeed, to be infected with Mrs. Tadman’s passion for superhuman cleanliness.  To her dairy duties also she devoted much more time than of old; anything to escape the parlour, where her father sat idle for a considerable portion of the day, smoking his pipe, and drinking rather more than was good for him.  Nor did Mr. Carley, for his part, appear to dislike this tacit severance between his daughter and himself.  As the foolish young woman chose to accept good fortune in a perverse spirit, it was well that they two should see as little of each other as possible.  Every evening found Mr. Whitelaw a punctual visitor in the snug panelled parlour, and at such times the bailiff insisted upon his daughter’s presence; she was obliged to sit there night after night, stitching monotonously at some unknown calico garment—­which might well from the state of mind of the worker have been her winding-sheet; or darning one of an inexhaustible basket of woollen stockings belonging to her father.  It was her irksome duty to be there, ready to receive any awkward compliment of her silent lover’s, ready to acquiesce meekly in his talk of their approaching wedding.  But at all other times Mr. Carley was more than content with her absence.