DUNASTON CASTLE.

It was not a bad idea to continue the wedding-gayeties of yesterday evening by a picnic to-day.  People are always more or less out of sorts after a ball, and a day spent in the open air soothes the feverish and braces up the limp.  Wherefore the rectory gave a picnic to blow away the lingering vapors of last evening at the Hill, and the place of meeting chosen was Dunaston Castle.

Leam had of course been invited with the rest.  Had she been a different person, and more in accord with the general sentiments of the neighborhood than she was, she would have been made the “first young lady” for the moment, because of her connection with the bridegroom; but being what she was—­Leam—­she was merely included with the rest, and by Adelaide with reluctance.

The day wore on bright and clear.  Already it was past two o’clock, but Leam, irresolute what to do, sat in the garden under the shadow of the cut-leaved hornbeam, from the branches of which Pepita used to swing in her hammock, smoking cigarettes and striking her zambomba.  One part of her longed to go, the other held her back.  The one was the strength of love, the other its humiliation.  How could she meet Major Harrowby again? she thought.  She had kissed him of her own free will last night—­she, Leam, had kissed him; she had leant against his breast, he with his arms round her; she had said the sacred and irrevocable words, “I love you.”  How could she meet him again without sinking to the earth for shame?  What a strange kind of shame!—­not sin and yet not innocence; something to blush for, but not to repent of; something not to be repeated, but not to wish undone.  And what a perplexed state of feeling!—­longing, fearing to see Edgar again—­praying of each moment as it came that he should not appear; grieved each moment as it passed that he was still absent.

So she sat in all the turmoil of her new birth, distracted between love and shame, and not knowing which was stronger—­feeling as if in a dream, but, every now and then waking to think of Dunaston, and should she go or stay away—­when, just as little Fina came running to her, ready dressed and loud in her insistence that they should set off at once, the lodge-gates swung back and Edgar Harrowby rode up to the door.  When she saw him dismount and walk across the lawn to where she sat—­though it was what she had been waiting for all the day, hoping if fearing—­yet now that it had come and he was really there, she wished that the earth would open at her feet, or that she could flee away and hide herself like a scared hind in her cover.  But she could not have risen had there been even any place of refuge for her.  Breathing with difficulty, and seeing nothing that was before her, she was chained to her seat by a feeling that was half terror, half joy—­a feeling utterly inexplicable in its total destruction of her self-possession to reticent Leam, who hitherto had held herself in such proud restraint, and had kept her soul from all influence from the world without.  And now the citadel was stormed and she was conquered and captive.