No attempt was made to send other messages from Hertford Street than those which were taken to the church and to the hotel. Sir Griffin and Lord George went together to the church in a brougham, and on the way the best man rather ridiculed the change in life which he supposed that his friend was about to make.

“I don’t in the least know how you mean to get along,” said Lord George.

“Much as other men do, I suppose.”

“But you’re always sparring, already.”

“It’s that old woman that you’re so fond of,” said Sir Griffin. “I don’t mean to have any ill-humour from my wife, I can tell you. I know who will have the worst of it if there is.”

“Upon my word, I think you’ll have your hands full,” said Lord George. They got out at a sort of private door attached to the chapel, and were there received by the clerk, who wore a very long face. The news had already come, and had been communicated to Mr. Emilius, who was in the vestry. “Are the ladies here yet?” asked Lord George. The woebegone clerk told them that the ladies were not yet there, and suggested that they should see Mr. Emilius. Into the presence of Mr. Emilius they were led, and then they heard the truth.

“Sir Griffin,” said Mr. Emilius, holding the baronet by the hand, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that there’s something wrong in Hertford Street.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Sir Griffin.

“You don’t mean to say that Miss Roanoke is not to be here?” demanded Lord George. “By George, I thought as much — I did indeed.”

“I can only tell you what I know, Lord George. Mrs. Carbuncle’s servant was here ten minutes since, Sir Griffin, before I came down, and he told the clerk that — that ——”

“What the d —— did he tell him?” asked Sir Griffin.

“He said that Miss Roanoke had changed her mind, and didn’t mean to be married at all. That’s all that I can learn from what he says. Perhaps you will think it best to go up to Hertford Street?”

“I’ll be —— if I do,” said Sir Griffin.

“I am not in the least surprised,” repeated Lord George. “Tewett, my boy, we might as well go home to lunch, and the sooner you’re out of town the better.”

“I knew that I should be taken in at last by that accursed woman,” said Sir Griffin.

“It wasn’t Mrs. Carbuncle, if you mean that. She’d have given her left hand to have had it completed. I rather think you’ve had an escape, Griff; and if I were you, I’d make the best of it.” Sir Griffin spoke not another word, but left the church with his friend in the brougham that had brought them, and so he disappears from our story. Mr. Emilius looked after him with wistful eyes, regretful for his fee. Had the baronet been less coarse and violent in his language he would have asked for it; but he feared that he might be cursed in his own church, before his clerk, and abstained. Late in the afternoon Lord George, when he had administered comfort to the disappointed bridegroom in the shape of a hot lunch, cura?oa, and cigars, walked up to Hertford Street, calling at the hotel in Albemarle Street on the way. The waiter told him all that he knew. Some thirty or forty guests had come to the wedding-banquet, and had all been sent away with tidings that the marriage had been — postponed.

“You might have told ’em a trifle more than that,” said Lord George.

“Postponed was pleasantest, my lord,” said the waiter. “Anyways, that was said, and we supposes, my lord, as the things ain’t wanted now.”

Lord George replied that as far as he knew the things were not wanted, and then continued his way up to Hertford Street.

At first he saw Lizzie Eustace, upon whom the misfortune of the day had had a most depressing effect. The wedding was to have been the one morsel of pleasing excitement which would come before she underwent the humble penance to which she was doomed. That was frustrated and abandoned, and now she could think only of Mr. Camperdown, her cousin Frank, and Lady Glencora Palliser. “What’s up now?” said Lord George, with that disrespect which had always accompanied his treatment of her since she had told him her secret. “What’s the meaning of all this?”

“I dare say that you know as well as I do, my lord.”

“I must know a good deal if I do. It seems that among you there is nothing but one trick upon another.”

“I suppose you are speaking of your own friends, Lord George. You doubtless know much more than I do of Miss Roanoke’s affairs.”

“Does she mean to say that she doesn’t mean to marry the man at all?”

“So I understand; but really you had better send for Mrs. Carbuncle.”

He did send for Mrs. Carbuncle, and after some words with her was taken up into Lucinda’s room. There sat the unfortunate girl, in the chair from which she had not moved since the morning. There had come over her face a look of fixed but almost idiotic resolution; her mouth was compressed, and her eyes were glazed, and she sat twiddling her book before her with her fingers. She had eaten nothing since she had got up, and had long ceased to be violent when questioned by her aunt. But nevertheless she was firm enough when her aunt begged to be allowed to write a letter to Sir Griffin, explaining that all this had arisen from temporary indisposition.

“No; it isn’t temporary. It isn’t temporary at all. You can write to him, but I’ll never come out of this room if I am told that I am to see him.”

“What is all this about, Lucinda?” said Lord George, speaking in his kindest voice.

“Is he there?” said she, turning round suddenly.

“Sir Griffin? no, indeed. He has left town.”

“You’re sure he’s not there? It’s no good his coming. If he comes for ever and ever he shall never touch me again — not alive; he shall never touch me again alive.” As she spoke she moved across the room to the fire-place and grasped the poker in her hand............