UNIVERSITY OF
ILLINOIS LIBRARY
AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN
STACKS








LOVE AND VENGEANCE
or LITTLE VIOLA'S VICTORY
-42
A Story of Love and Romance in the
South : also Society and its Effects
42
.* * * B Y T. E. D. NAS H .9% of .34


COPYRIGHTED, 1903
BY
T. E. D. NASH


X/3
M 77 &
Chapter
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
* XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
s
s:
\
* * CONTENTS < *
Page
A Social Event. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Bertram Too Poor.
Retribution.
A Love Competition between Brothers. . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Bertram's Amazement.
A Mortal Foe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . • • • • • • • • • * * * * * * * * * * * * * 20
Pretty Bessie Hartwell
Betrothed Casually. . . . . . . . . . . . . . • • * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 32
Arnold and Mona Wreak Vengeance. -
To Meet only as Acquaintances. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Returns and Finds Mother Dead. . . . . . . . . . . • • • • • • 49
Lost Letter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
Letter Found. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
Mrs. Hawthorn's Deceit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Viola's New Home Warning to Banker. . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Viola Adopted. The Rescue. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Viola, Arnold Campbell's Prey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Bertram and Mona's Marriage Announcement. . . . . 87
Mona's Conscience. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Viola Not a Suicide. . . . . . . . . . .~~~~ 100
Mrs. Smith's Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Mrs. Smith and Viola. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . • - - - - - 111
Attempt to Escape. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Did not know His Love. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
Bertram's Mistake. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
Burglars Break in on Mrs. Smith and Viola....... 131
Viola Consents. Arnold Delighted. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
Bessie's Ride. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
Arnold Attempts Bigamy. Wife Objects. . . . . . . . . 145
Villain Pleads for Mercy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
A Happy Meeting. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
Excitement Over . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
Bessie Consents. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
Would be Murderess Falls to Death. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176
Loves Geography. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177


4
handsome woman about forty years of age and bore
a smile and pleasant word for everyone. Her beauty,
wealth and high birth all tend to make her one of the
ringleaders of Washington society.
Among the guests that she is engaged in welcom-
ing was a tall, fashionably dressed gentleman. He
stepped into an ante-room, and, after a moment, re-
turned to Mrs. Warrington and asked nervously in a
low tone: “Has Miss Hawthorne yet arrived?”
“Yes,” she replied. He turned on his heel and made
his way with some difficulty through the crowd.
Bertram Heathcourt, for that is his name, was about
thirty years old and one of the handsomest men in
Washington. His curly hair, that was admirably
worn, brushed away from his high, intellectual brow;
blue eyes and amber-hued mustache that half covered
a firm, but expressive mouth; broad shoulders, mus-
cular limbs and an upright bearing, made him a fine
specimen of manly beauty. He was the only son of
the late Col. Heathcourt, his mother having died
shortly after his birth, threw him on his own re-
sources. He managed to get a first-class education,
and, being an energetic young man, had taken to
journalism, and consequently was editor of “The
National Record.”
While wending his way through the crowded salon
he felt a fan tap him lightly on the shoulder. He
turned with a look of pleasure in his eyes as he bowed
low before a beautiful girl. She was superbly
dressed in black velvet and diamonds that suited to
perfection her splendid brunette beauty.
“I was just looking for you,” he said, and, with her
hand laid gently in his arm, they were moving slowly
along.


5
“The music is beautiful. Will you give me this
waltz?”
“Yes if you wish it,” she said lightly.
The next moment they were floating down the long
salon to the time of the dreamy music.
“Ah! That was delightful,” he said, as the music
suddenly ceased and he led her to the conservatory.
“Mona, at last I have the opportunity of relating and
relieving my mind of a weight that it has carried
for days and weeks. “My darling,” he cried pas-
sionately, “have you not seen that I love you with all
my soul? I know that I am not worthy to kiss the
hem of your garment. But if you would only love me
a little, I would make you so happy. You are not
indifferent to me. Will you become my wife?”
Her lovely face had slowly become paler and paler.
Her lips had become compressed.
He watched her in evident alarm.
“Mona ! Good heavens! Are you ill?”
Recovering herself with a supreme effort, she was
just about to reply when there was an interruption.
A haughty woman arrived on the scene.
One glance was enough to tell anyone that it was
the mother of the girl.
“Mona,” she said sharpy (when she saw the love-
like attitude in which her companion was bending
over her), “I have a severe headache, and I think I
shall go home.” With a distant bow to the young
man, she turned to leave the conservatory.
With a sigh of relief the young lady rose and to-
gether they all passed out. With gentlemanly cour-
tesy he saw after their wraps and assisted them to
their carriage. When he was assisting the young lady
in he pressed her hand and whispered, “Tomorrow


7
“A fig for love,” interrupted the mother harshly.
“It is all silly nonsense that you will get the better of
soon. There is no such thing as love when there is
nothing on which to found it but grim poverty,
Wealth first, love and everything else will follow.”.
“But, mother, Bertram will be rich some day. His
business is good and he is energetic and he is sure
to succeed.”
“Yes, and be as old as the hills when he does suc-
ceed,” retorted the mother. “Where will all your
beauty be by that time?”
A little shudder passed over the girl, not unnoticed
by the sharp eyes of the mother, and as she observed
it she knew the right chord was struck. “You will be
a pretty, faded, washed-out thing by that time,” she
continued with a wicked leer.
“While your friends who will forsake you as soon
as you become poor, are riding, driving, or going to
balls and attending operas, you will be at home nurs-
ing dirty brats, scrubbing, washing or doing some-
thing else equally disagreeable to one of your fas-
tidious taste. I would rather see vou dead than mar-
ried to Bertram Heathcourt.” And after delivering
this stinging speech she dismissed her daughter with
a haughty wave of the hand. She knew her daughter
well enough and felt confident that her words had left
a deep impression on her mind. So she smiled com-
placently, went to bed and was soon sleeping sweetly
and dreaming that she was a grand duchess with
more silk, jewels and money than she could use.
Not so. The words uttered by Mona's mother had
left a deep impression on her mind; one not so easily
eradicated.
Being the daughter of a selfish mercenary woman


8
of the world, brought up to consider the Almighty
dollar above everything else that was noble, and who
was used to making one dollar go as far as three, so
that she might keep up impressions, it was but natural
that the picture drawn by her mother was not very
pleasing to her taste.
Standing at the window she heard the noise of
vehicles plying over the stone-paved street, coming
from Mrs. Warrington's ball, she thought with a
shudder that all this would be denied her if married
to Bertram Heathcourt.
“I cannot give up wealth and luxury,” she cried
excitedly. “I should die if I had to do it. Oh!
Bertram, why are you not rich? I—I love you so,
and we would be so happy together, only—only you
are poor and I cannot be the wife of a poor man, I
—cannot.” Throwing herself down by the side of
her bed the proud and haughty woman gave herself
up to the fierce battle of grief that was being waged
within her.
She lay there until the tolling of a neighboring
clock belched forth the hour of two. Slowly rising
she proceeded toward her wardrobe. It was quite
evident that the better instincts of her heart had
been vanquished, there was a cold, hard expression
in her black eyes, her full lips were drawn tightly
together; her fair forehead was distorted by a black
frown. “I will reject him,” she muttered harshly,
and in that decision she brought a world of trouble
and heartaches to the door of more than one unsus-
pecting Soul.
Retribution.
Bertram Heathcourt arose early the next morning
and, after partaking of a light breakfast, proceeded


1O
Several persons were in the room, they moved
about with muffled tread and spoke in hushed whis-
pers. Bertram took them to be nurses.
On a bed, half covered in the coverlid, lay the sick
man, his face pale and pinched, the lips purple, the
eyes had a vacant look. In spite of himself Bertram
could not suppress a shudder as he gazed on the awful
face. Nerving himself to his task he slowly advanced
to the side of the bed, took one of the cold hands of
the dying man in his, and said, in a low tone: “Sir—
Mr. Heathcourt I have come. I am truly sorry sir,
to see you so ill. I hope you will be better soon.”
The sick man turned his head slowly upon the pil-
low and let his eyes rest on the face of the young
man. And into his own there sprang a look of terror
mingled with remorse, as he said huskily:
“You sorry for me! Me! And I have done such
a great wrong to you and yours.” Bertram looked at
him in astonishment. He thought the old man was
wandering in his mind. He turned to request one of
the nurses to summon the physician, but the old n'an
seemed instinctively to divine his intention, for he
caught him hastily by the hand and said: “It will
do no good. I am dying now-dying. I have
sinned, and sinned times without number against my
God. Retribution has at last fallen on my guilty head
and all that is left for me is atonement for my sins.
He paused as if exhausted. Bertram stood quite
still, but his face showed signs of conflicting emo-
tions—surprise, doubt, perplexity. Presently the old
man drew him down and whispered, “Tell them to go
out, I have something to say to you.” Bertram did
his bidding. The nurses who had all this time been
standing with open-mouthed amazement, left the


II
room rather reluctantly. When they passed out Ber-
'tram closed and locked the door, returned to the bed
and waited in silence.
“Prop me up,” said the old man, which was done,
tand the old man told a remarkable story, which was
told with many pauses and gasps for breath. The
substance of which is as follows:
“My father,” began the very sick man, “was a very
rich man, and also a proud one—very proud. I had
a brother that was two years my senior. When we
were young we loved each other very dearly, but I
soon began to develop traits of character and habits
that he did not approve, and naturally he took me
to task about them, and after he found out that I
still persisted in them, he threatened to acquaint
father of them. For this cause I began to find fault
of him.
About this time there lived in the village a beau-
tiful girl, the daugher of a poor working man. She
was the most beautiful creature you ever saw. Poor
Doris! I fell desperately in love with her and finally
asked her to become my wife, and she refused. Half
blind with fury and unrequited love I demanded of
her the reason why she would not become my wife,
and she told me that she loved another. I told her by
the right of my great love I ought to know the for-
tunate gentleman. She then informed me that it was
my brother. Fierce rage and hate sprang up in my
heart against my innocent brother, and I determined
to be revenged—to kill him. I went toward the
wood and sat down under a tree called the “Old
Elm,” developing my plan of revenge. Late that
night I came home and entered the house softly and
crept up to his room. Fortune favored me; his door


12
was unlocked. I crept to his bed, drew back the
curtains of the bed, and by the dim light of the lamp
which was turned low, gazed long and earnestly into
his face. It wore a peaceful smile, and the thought
entered my mind that possibly Doris and he had met
and for all I knew to the contrary, exchanged confi-
dences. The thought added fuel to the fire of my
jealous wrath and almost maddened me. I raised my
'hand in which gleamed a sword, a present from my
father, and a moment later he would have been in
eternity, when the moon, which had previously been
obscured by a cloud, bursted into the room with a
flood of mellow light and shone on him. His hands
were folded on his breast and between his fingers
something white was shining. I looked more closely
and saw that it was a letter. It might be from Doris
Thorndyke, the woman we both love, thought I jeal-
ously, and with jealous haste, but with due caution I
managed to possess myself of it. By the light of the
moon I read:
My Own Fleming:
You know that I could refuse you nothing. You
are all the world to me. My love. My life. Yes, I
will meet you by the “Old Elm,” and go with you to
the city. Do you think it can be done? Oh, Fleming
dear, suppose your father should know it, he would
disinherit you for marrying the daughter of a poor
working man, and clandestinely. He would never
forgive you. Oh! Why am I not rich or why are you
not poor? I would rather be your wife—yes, al-
though you were a tiller of the soil—than the wife of
any other man.
Yours,
Doris Thorndyke.


13
“And there it ended. So that is the extent his
love making had gone. She was to become his wife.
H ground my teeth with rage, but suddenly a dark
scheme entered my mind. I started guiltily and
looked strangely about, and, stepping to the window,
raised it softly to let the balmy air blow over my
'heated brow, that I might think—think.”
CHAPTER II.
A Love Competition Between Brothers.
The old man paused from sheer exhaustion. The
young man sat with pale face and eyes dilated with
horror; the pallor having been renewed since the
mention of the name Fleming. A terrible suspicion
had entered his mind, one that took his breath away;
that almost unmanned him. After a few moments’
pause the old man continued:
“Directly a triumphant smile broke over my face.
I would let him marry her. I knew my father would
disinherit him if he did, and I would be the only heir.
I would be the master of the Park—a thing which
I had always dearly craved.
I determined to kill two birds with one stone,
rob him of his birthright and be revenged on him for
my disappointment. I closed the window, and re-
turned softly to the side of the bed and replaced the
note. Then, lowering the light, I left the room and
retired.
The next day passed wihout any unusual event,
About seven o’clock in the evening I took up my
position in a thicket near the “Old Elm” and waited
eVentS.


f4
I had not long to wait. A carriage came hurriedly
up the road and turned into the wood, and after driv-
ing a few paces, stopped. About half an hour later
there was the sound of skirts and I saw Doris coming.
She was attired in a dark suit with a heavy cloak, over
her face I could see a veil. A moment later there
was the sound of another person, and the next instant
a man appeared. In spite of the heavy ulster which
he wore pulled up to his chin and soft hat that was
pulled down over his eyes, I recognized the upright
bearing and princely carriage of my brother, Fleming.
and I could scarcely keep from rushing out of my
cover and slaying them both as I saw him take her in
his arms, murmuring low, impassioned words of
deathless love to her.
I controlled myself with a mighty effort and, as
they walked hurriedly over to the hack, entered, and
were driven rapdly away. I left my hiding place, and
as I walked home my heart was filled with triumph-
ant exaltation.
The next day my brother returned and I knew by
the happy light in his eyes which he could not con-
ceal, that he was the husband of Doris Thorndyke,
and the knowledge almost drove me mad.
“I asked him why he wasn’t home last night.
Something in my voice made him look up quickly
and give me a keen glance. And when he replied
he had stayed in the city with one of his school fel-
lows I smiled mockingly and turned my face that he
might not see the triumphant look in my eyes. The
next day I went to Washington and hired a detective,
who had little trouble in tracing Doris out. We
found out she was staying in a pleasant little cottage
in the suburbs of the city. After I had been home


I5
about four days my brother suddenly announced his
intention of going fishing for a week with some
friends. My father readily gave his consent and
my brother left early the next morning. Now was
my time to strike. It was the hour for which I had
so patiently waited. I told my father at breakfast
that I should like to have a word with him in the
library. He complied, and when he had lit a cigar I
began my story. I told him how the village was
ringing with the strange disappearance of a beau-
tiful girl, how I had witnessed the meeting between
her and my brother, and wound up by telling him
where he would find him and her.
My father's face was terrible to see. He rang for
a carriage and bade me prepare to accompany him.
We were finally on our way and soon arrived in the
city. Engaging a hack we were swiftly driven to our
destination.
We found Fleming and his wife in the garden,
with his arm around her waist, examining the flow-
ers. But I need not tell you of that meeting. My
father abused him, heaped up reproaches upon him,
cursed him and wound up by forbidding him ever
enter his house again, also informed him that all let-
ters would be sent back unopened. I saw by the re-
proachful look in his eyes that he knew I had betrayed
him. We finally left them and when we had arrived
home my father retired to his room, from which he
never left. He never recovered from the shock, and
soon after died. Then I had things my own way. I
went to Washington and engaged the same detec-
tive to abduct Fleming's wife. I would wring his
heart as mine had been wrung. He should be made
to feel as I had felt, I said. The detective did his


I6
work well, and after I had her in my power, I dis-
patched a letter to him telling him that his darling
wife had eloped with me, and by the time he received
it we would be for out at sea. I knew that would
throw him on the wrong scent. I simply had her
placed in a private asylum, where she finally died
of a broken heart. Poor Doris! Poor young thing!
Previous to this occurrence a son had been born to
them, and placing the child in care of friends Fleming
went to Europe in search of his wife, and after a
year of fruitless search returned to this country. He
finally went into the banking business and for years
did well. When the war broke out he enlisted at the
call for arms and went out to fight and returned with
well earned laurels.
For twenty years he was known all over the South
as Col. Fleming Heathcourt. He was your father,
Bertram, and I am your uncle.”
Bertram's Amazement.
The old man sank back on his pillow, completely
exhausted. When he had utered those last terrible
words, Bertram sprang to his feet pale as death.
“You !” he gasped, “you, my uncle! Great heav-
ens, I see it all now. That's why my father never
mentioned your name. That's why his brow always
darkened when my mother's name was mentioned.
And—my God! he died without knowing that she
was true to him l—that she loved him to the last!”
And, whirling around suddenly, he hissed: “You
traitor ! You peace-breaker! You—you destroyer
of a loving household. You—”
The old man interrupted him with a feeble wave


17
of his hand, as he said huskily: “Bertram, I am
dying.”
“True, true!” said Bertram, brought to his senses
by the rebuke, and carried away by the intensity of
his emotion, he sat down and buried his face in his
hands, he wept as only a strong man can weep, great
heartrending sobs shaking him from head to foot.
When the storm of emotion had spent itself the old
man said feebly:
“Bertram, I have sinned and sinned deeply. I
have wronged you and yours terribly. Can you ever
forgive me?”
Bertram looked at the old man on whom the death
damp was swiftly gathering, and whose eyes were
fast glazing, and a great pity sprang up in his heart
for him. After all it was the demon of jealousy that
had taken complete possession of him. He pitied him
and said earnestly:
“I forgive you, indeed I do, as I hope to be for-
given.”
An almost immediate light of happiness shone in
the old man's eyes and he turned on his pillow toward
Bertram and died.
The next day Mona Hawthorne was all in a flutter;
she could not stay in one place ten minutes at a time.
She walked from room to room and then to the
garden and then back to the house.
The mother watched her for a while in Derplexity.
Then she seemed to arrive at a solution of the mys-
tery. She thought that her daughter had ben think-
ing the mater over and had decided to reject the
“beggarly editor.”
A surmise which, to say the least, was not very far
from wrong, as the reader can testify.


18
Mona had just arisen from the piano when there
came a quick, sharp ring at the bell. Her heart leaped
like a wild thing. The blood surged through her
veins like electric fire. She heard someone enter
the room and raising her drooping eyelids she en-
countered the admiring gaze of Col. Philip Clayton.
At that instant she almost hated the man. She had
been hoping in spite of herself that it might be Ber-
tram, until she had looked up and found that it was
not Bertram. She did not know nor did she realize
how much she did love him. She loved him with a
love that was her doom. She shuddered as she real-
ized what her future would be without him.
Recovering herself with an effort, she calmly ex-
tended her hand and motioned him to a seat.
Afer a few commonplace remarks a painful silence
followed. She watched him curiously. He fidgetted
in his chair, ever and anon pulling out a handker-
chief and clearing his throat.
After he had done this about half a dozen times.
she broke the silence.
“We seem to be dull,” she remarked with a ner-
vous little laugh. The Colonel tried to smile, but
made a rank failure of the attempt.
The Colonel was very much affected by that frown
that on entering the room he had seen come over
her countenance.
He wanted to declare himself but was afraid to do
so. He did not know in which form he had better
put it. Finally he said, in sheer desperation, “Miss
Hawthorne, I came over to inform you that I love
you—have loved you dearly for two years, and to ask
if you will not accept of my hand and my heart.
She had been watching him since he first came in


it)
and she saw something in his face that told her he
would speak about marrying, and she had been puz-
zling her brain as to whether she should accept him
now or wait until she had seen Bertram. If I accept
him now, she argued, I will not have a chance to
pledge myself to Bertram, and thus I fear I will
show weakness in the interview with him.
So she was about to accept the Colonel, when he
seeing silence, repeated his question. “Mona, dar-
ling, won’t you be my wife?” “Yes, if you wish it,” she
replied quietly.
The Colonel was overjoyed. It seemed to be too
good to be true. The possibility that she had consent-
ed to marry him for pecuniary reasons never for once
entered his mind.
The Colonel was considered a very amiable man,
and the catch of the season. The forty years which
‘had passed over his head had left no visible effect
about him, beyond a few threads of silver in his hair
and an iron-grey mustache, which gave him a dis-
tinguished appearance. His firm, upright carriage,
and military air made him quite a handsome man,
and Mona would have considered herself a most for-
tunate woman if she only loved him. But despite his
amiability, there was, at times, a cold glitter in his
steel grey eyes and a curve to his well formed lips
that showed that he could also be as hard and as
cruel as fate, when the necessity presented itself.
Her mother went into hysterics when Mona told
her of the engagement. She hugged and kissed her
with a vehemence that nearly took away her breath.
“Oh! my daughter, my darling child,” she ex-
claimed in great excitement. “You don’t know—
cannot realize how you have pleased me. It is the


2O
dearest wish of my heart to see you married to a mrani
of wealth and influence, so that we can take our
proper position in society.” And, sitting back in the
velvet cushions of her easy chair, she smiled compla–
cently.
Selfish woman. Her only aim, her only ambition
was money. She would have betrayed her soul for
the filthy lucre. She was now ready to sell her
daughter to a man she did not love simply because
it would be the means of securing her position in
society.
hat night, as she lay on her “virtuous couch,”
*appy, light-hearted, no thought of the terrible tum-
ble this match was to make, entered her mind.
CHAPTER III.
A Mortal Foe.
It was a lovely afternoon about four days after the
events narrated in previous pages that Mona, attired
in her pretty cream wrapper, with costly lace around
neck and sleeves, and a pink band of costly silk
around her waist, was sitting in her private parlor,
drawling over the latest book of fiction, when there
came a timid tap to her door.
In answer to her summons the door was pushed
open in a hesitating way and a young girl between
eighteen and twenty entered.
To say that she was pretty would give a very
poor estimate of her charms.
Viola Dunkirk was poor, but surely an American
beauty, and Nature's hands did well its work. Beau-


21
tiful as a poet’s dream, lovely as a sylph, with a sheen
of golden hair that covered her well shaped head like
a halo of light. Clear milk white complexion that
gave token of every thought by little rushes of pink
that ever and anon chased each other from brow to
chin and from cheek to cheek. She was of that
strange mixture of golden hair and dark eyes over
which poets rave and artists go into ecstasies, and
that which make a blonde beauty so unusually at-
tractive. Her beautiful dark eyes shaded by long
curling lashes, with such a sweet expression to her
face, made her an object of envy to the fashion-
able belles for whom she worked.
“I have come,” she said hesitatingly, in a sweet,
musical voice, “to bring that lace you ordered last
week.” And she cast a pleading glance at Mona from
the depths of her beautiful dark eyes. f
“Very well. I will inspect them,” replied the
haughty voice of Mona.
Viola was a lace-maker. Her mother was a feeble
woman, and her father, having died a few years ago,
the support of her remaining parent fell on her young
shoulders. They were very poor. The father was
at one time well to do, but by the visitation of misfor-
tune he had lost all, caused by some rash business
venture. Viola, who had previously learned fancy
work at school, managed to keep the wolf from the
door by the use of her nimble fingers.
Mona had never liked the young girl. Her fresh
blonde loveliness was in such strong contrast with
her brunette charms that she could not but see the
difference herself, and she was jealous of Viola's
beauty. She always seized every opportunity to
humiliate the poor girl.


24
solved the problem. Her mother must have suspect-
ed that he was proposing the night of the ball, and
supposing him to be a poor man, did not want any
alliance between her daughter and a poor editor to
continue any longer.
It did not occur to him that Mona did not wish to
see him. He had seen that in her eyes when she
looked at him that was different from that bestowed
on any one else. He thought it simply the maneuver
of a worldly woman.
“I must see her once more, if only for a moment,”
he muttered as he retraced his steps from the prem-
ises as far as the corner, and stopped as if in dismay.
“I will do it,” he said after a moment, and, taking
out a notebook, he tore a leaf and wrote a few lines.
Calling a small boy who was passing and giving him
a coin, he bade him carry it to the address marked
thereon and wait for an answer. “Ask for Miss
Mona, and give it to no one else,” he said. The boy
darted on his errand.
Ten minutes passed and then he saw the boy come
out of the gate, and the next moment he had the
answer in hand, and was taking in its contents.
What he read therein seemed to be a deathblow to
his hopes.
It was this:
“Mr. Heathcourt.
“Sir—I cannot make it convenient to see you.
What my mother did to-day in refusing you admis-
sion, she did with my fullest acquiescence. While I
am writing this I will take advantage of the oppor-
tunity to refer to the question you asked some nights
since, and say that I cannot comply with your re-


26
And, with her little fluttering hand in his arm, they
moved away.
The Jiscomfited villain deliberately rose, brushed
the dirt from his clothes, shaking his clenched fist
at the retreating figures, hissed:
“I will repay that blow with interest. Curse you,
I hold the trump card. I know you, Bert Heath-
court, and I'll make you regret the day you ever saw
Arnold Campbell. And you, too, Viola Dunkirk.
You shall not escape me.”
And, being dogmatic in the foregoing statements,
turned and vanished in the gathering darkness, and
the day came i:1 which he kept his word.
Pretty Bessie Hartwell.
About a year previous to the ending of the fore-
going chapter, there lived in a quict portion of the
Capital an old merchant by the name of Archibald
Hartwell, his wife and daughter.
The head of the family was a pompous individual
with a bald head, keen gray eyes and thin lips, that
were lmost invariably compressed in a manner that
was very suggestive of an iron will.
His better half was a thin, delicate woman, with a
sweet face, and in spite of furrows on her forehead
and lines under her brown eyes, she still retained the
remnants of a once beautiful face.
The daughter is just the image of what the mother
once was. A fair complexion, with red cheeks that
rivaled the heart of the blush rose.
Brown eyes and hair, a sweet little mouth that suc-
cessfully concealed two rows of pearly white teeth.
Bessie Hartwell was a trifle romantic. And so it
happened that when young and handsome men came


27
to pay court to her, in spite of the opposition by the
father, and the appeals of the mother, she, having be-
come affectionately attached to one of her admirers
married. The father swore that he would disinherit
her. But that had no material effect on Bessie. She
loved her young husband, and for six whole months
she was extremely happy.
Arnold Campbell was a handsome man, good bear-
ing with dark hair and eyes, but the sinister lines
about the corners of his mouth were effectually con-
cealed beneath his long, drooping, black mustache,
So that the innocent girl who was caught in his toils
had nothing to warn her of the character of the man
to whom she was joined for life.
When Arnold Campbell came from heaven knows
where to Washington, the city was ringing with the
praises of old Hartwell's beautiful and accomplished
heiress. So he made up his mind to win her and her
money bags for his own.
But the old man took objections. He was some-
what suspicious of him. Being a stranger and having
nothing to recommend him but his handsome face,
the old man swore that he was not good enough for
his daughter.
He had a husband picked out for her.
Kent Howard was not handsome, but was honest
and true as the day is long. He loved Bessie with
a pure and unselfish love. She knew that he loved
her, but she said she could never love him. It hap-
pened one night that he had to go into a disreputable
portion of the city. As he passed by a gambling hell
the door was opened and a man, held by three or
four others, was fired out on the pavement. He
arose bruised and bleeding, and, looking around, his


28
glance fell on Kent. He gave a start of recognition,
and, turning, fled down the street as fast as his legs
could carry him, but not before Kent had recognized
the face and form of Arnold Campbell.
The next day he went to Bessie's, and, having
heard of her infatuation for the young man, tried to
dissuade her from such a rash step as marrying him,
telling her of the occurrence of the previous night.
She told him he was just giving advice for selfish
motives—self-interest, as she called it. And wound
up by telling him never to speak to her again.
Sad and disheartened Kent left her, and a few
days later when he heard she had married him against
the opposition of her parents, he departed suddenly
to try his fortune in Australia.
>k >k >k >k >k >k >k
In the dining room of a cozy little cottage in the
suburbs of the city, sat Bessie Campbell. On a table
in the centre of the room was a meat set of tea dishes.
A pot of tea and coffee is steaming on the heater in
the kitchen and ever and anon she stirred the fire
with housewifely precision.
“He is rather late to-night,” she murmured anxi-
ously. “I wonder what can be keeping 3 *
She paused, because she had just caught the sound
of his well known steps on the pavement without.
“Ah! there he comes,” she said gladly.
Directly he entered, his face dark as a thunder-
cloud. She went up to him timidly (for of late she
had often noticed just such a frown as this on his
face) and putting her arms about his neck, tried to
kiss it away.


29
“You are not looking pleased to-night, Arny, dear,
Why, Arnold, what is the matter?”
For he had cast her roughly from him, and there
was a look on his face that made her shiver with a
foreboding of coming trouble.
“What is the matter, Arnold? Oh, for pity sake
don’t look at me like that, you frighten me. What
have I done?” she asked piteously.
“What have you done?” he echoed harshly. “What
have you done? Shall I tell you, You have been
the cause of all my blighted prospects. I might have
been the husband of the finest and most well bred lady
in the land, had you not crossed my path with your
pretty face, and infatuated me.”
White as death she cowered from that angry face,
and trembling like an aspen, as he continued: “Now,
I am tired of you. Yes, you may as well start. I am
tired of you and we must part this night—aye, this
hour, forever.”
The hopeless misery and despair would have
touched the heart of a fiend, but his hatred for her
blinded him to her sufferings.
“Arnold, why did you marry me, if you did not
love me?” she asked piteously. “Oh, Arnold!” and
her voice was like the last wail of a lost spirit.
“Why did I marry you? Ha, ha! Why did I
marry you.” Silence followed for a moment. The
laugh which had just ceased was one which made her
blood run icy cold in her veins. “Why, indeed? Be-
cause I thought your old duffer of a father would
finally forgive you and take his children (with a sneer)
to his heart, and I would obtain the money bags that
I had risked so much to obtain, but I have failed in
my expectations. So I will have to make a change


30
in life. I will go to pastures new, where a man of my
beauty can make life a success.
“To be truthful, Bessie, I am in love with a pretty
Adamsel—very pretty,” he continued, very candidly,
“and I don’t want any encumbrance in the shape of a
wife, you understand.”
And he laughed pleasantly, unmindful of the fact
that a heart was breaking.
Bessie had fallen into a seat and sat looking into
the fire with eyes as black as night from suppressed
excitement. Suddenly she raised her head and asked
him in a voice that was calm, “At least you will let
me have my marriage certificate—all in the world I
have that will bind me to the old days.”
A wicked thought shot through his subtle brain
like light and he said, after remaining as if in deep
thought: -
“Yes, I will let you have it, but unfortunately it is
in my other coat pocket at the club room. I lost
heavily to-night. That is why I forgot it. At any
rate you can have it. Meet me to-morrow night at
ten o’clock at the old wharf, and you shall have it.”
“Lost heavily!”
Then he was a gambler. This man whom she
thought was the embodiment of everything that was
noble and grand. And she had wronged, cruelly
wronged poor Kent Howard. And he had loved
her.
After a short silence Arnold said:
“I am glad to see you taking the matter so philo-
sophically. You are still beautiful and you may yet
make a great match and marry some wealthy old
dog.”
And, seeing the horror depicted on her face, at the


33
affections whenever he wishes, and so easily too?”
No, Bertram, he cannot. But when a man loves
he generally loves something that is good, noble and
lovable, about the object of his love. And when all
that is good, noble and lovable about the object
dies, why, naturally, his love dies with it.
So it was with Bertram, he loved, or thought he
loved Mona, for her nobility of nature, her upright-
ness of character and unselfishness.
And when he found that those virtues had ceased
to exist his infatuation died, and he found that his
every thought belonged to another.
And Viola? Well, she hardly knew her own heart.
She could not understand this sweet, new happiness
that had recently come into her life, that made the
earth seem brighter, and her pleased with every thing
in it. She had caught herself more than once watch-
ing impatiently for his coming, and blushed a rosy
red, as she realized what she was doing.
“Pshaw! What right have I—a poor lacemaker—
to think of the rich and handsome Mr. Heathcourt of
Heathcourt Park.
“He only comes here to inquire after mother be-
cause he is kind and good, and likes to please. So I
will not think of him any more.”
But she did think of him again—times without
number.
She could not cease to do so. Every way she
turned, his frank blue eyes rose up before her. His
musical voice rang in her ears. She tried to shake
off the strange feeling, but could not. Dimly she
began to realize that she had given her heart to him
—that her heart had left her, irrevocably left her.
One afternoon she was standing on the stoop


34
watching the beautiful sunset. Her face wore a sweet,
pensive expression. And she murmured over and
over again:
“Bertram, Bertram. I wonder what he is doing
now. I wonder what he is thinking of now. Bertram.
I wonder if he knows how completely he has taken
possession of my life. He is my world. I love him.
I love you Bertram, my darling. Oh, God! how I
love you.”
“Then be my wife,” whispered a low musical voice
in her ear, as she was embraced passionately to the
broad bosom of Bertram Heathcourt.
She had unconsciously been uttering her thoughts
aloud, and she failed to hear the light steps of Ber-
tram as he came quickly up the green walk and found
out her little secret.
She lifted her eyes with a startled, frightened
glance at his face as she lay close to his throbbing
heart.
Love her! a poor working girl, and he a cultured
man of fortune. She was speechless, terrified. She
could have been satisfied to love him without any re-
turn, and would have been happy in the loving. She
could scarcely believe her senses,
“Surely you must have seen, Viola, how completely
my life is wrapped up in you,” continued the low
voice, in impassioned tones that thrilled her to her
heart's core.
“Without you—ah, God would not be so cruel as
to separate us—my life would be a blank. Speak to
me, dear. Will you be my wife?”
“Your wife!” she gasped, breaking away from him
and attempting to flee, but he caught her fluttering
little hand and held it tighly.


35
“Your wife, and I—I a poor working girl! And
- you—”
“Yes! And you the only woman in the world for
m a '’
“You love me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, very softly, “but—”
“Then nothing shall ever separate us.”
x *k *k k sk >k *
There was to be a grand opera at The Criterion
Theatre. Mona and her mother had procured tickets
The theatre was crowded from pit to dome. Mona
and her mother, escorted by Col. Clayton, occupied
one of the boxes, and had in full view the play.
Mona looked lovely in a black silk, with rich black
lace and diamonds on her shapely wrist, in her hair,
and a costly opera shawl thrown carelessly around her
shoulders. -
Col. Clayton felt his heart swell with all a lover's
pride, as he saw the admiration she had evinced.
At the end of the third act, a few acquaintances
made their way into the hox, and they all began chat-
ting gayly.
Someone casually mentioned the name of Heath-
court and Mona felt her heart give a heavy bump,
continuing rapidly, and in spite of herself, her cheek
crimsoned. -
“Speaking of Heathcourt,” remarked one young
man with a drawl, “Edgar ! he is a lucky fellow.
Have you heard the news?”
“News?” echoed some one else. “No, let us hear
it.”
“Oh, it is just like a novel. Some old uncle or


37
tion of his name.” The day came when he knew
why she fainted, only too well, and he cursed the
day he had ever seen her.
Arnold and Mona Wreak Vengeance.
The whole city was ringing with the news of the
impending marriage of the handsome young million-
aire to the daughter of one of the poorest, but who
was once one of Washington's most respected citi-
zens. It was discussed at the table, in the clubs, and
at all the social gatherings.
There are two persons the news had a very seri-
ous effect upon. Arnold Campbell heard it with all
the chagrin and rage of a wicked man who sees his
victim escaping from his clutches.
Mona heard it with the bitterness of death in her
heart, and she realized that she had lost all that was
best and brightest of her youth—her love. She also
realized how happy she could have been with Ber-
tram if she had not been such a fool.
That the very girl she hated and whom she had
feared as a rival had won the love of the man who
was all the world to her, increased her hatred ten-
fold.
That night at ten o'clock Bessie appeared at the
wharf, the place agreed upon, to obtain her marriage
certificate. She had a haggard, careworn look about
her which was pitiful to see. She walked slowly and
feebly to the wharf and glanced around to see if her
husband had put in an appearance. He had not yet


38
come, and Bessie set herself to the task of waiting.
She stood up by one of the huge posts used to make
the boats fast, and gave herself up to deep thought.
How long she stood there she never knew. But a
rustling sound reached her ears, and, turning quickly
she had just time to give one piercing shriek, when
a heavy blow struck her on the temple and she top-
pled over. There was a sudden splash and the waters
closed over Bessie Campbell.
At the same time there came a hollow groan to
the ear of the would-be assassin, and, dropping his
instrument of death, he turned and flew down the
road as if pursued by seven devils.
“It was a terrible thing to do,” he muttered, when
he had stopped to rest. “But it is better, for she was
in my way. And I have sworn to possess Viola Dun-
kirk. She shall be mine,” he continued fiercely. “All
the opposition on earth shall not come between she
and me.”
“And there was no chance for me to do so while
Bessie was alive.
“Uugh !” with a shudder. “How she did scream,”
he thought. “I would not like to undertake the job
again.” And he began feeling his pockets for his
handkerchief, for great beads of perspiration had
broken out over his face.
Suddenly he stopped short, pale as death, and,
began feeling more hastily in his pockets in a nervous
nanner.
“It’s gone,” he gasped hoarsely, “and they will
find it in the morning, and it will be all up with me
when the body is found. And—great heaven!—the
certificate was wrapped up in it. And then the hounds
of the law will have a clew as to the motive for the


39
deed. And—and I cannot go back to look for it.
That voice—that voice—I wonder—. Fool! fool
that I was to bring it with me. I might have known
that would be my luck.”
The baffled villain beat his forehead and gnashed
his teeth in a paroxysm of baffled rage.
Bessie had not been knocked senseless, her turning
so opportunely, and the blinding flash of the light-
ning had made the blow less effective than it would
have been under different circumstances.
As soon as she struck the water it had a revivify-
ing effect upon her, and, being a good swimmer, she
struck out boldly for the wharf.
Just as she was clinging to the wharf for dear life
there came a hurrying of feet upon the pier, and
half dead with fatigue and fright she still clung to
one of the pier posts. There was another vivid flash
of lightning, and by the light of it she saw that it was
a negro bending over the side of the pier looking
anxiously at the place where she had struck the
Water.
She felt her strength failing her, and when she
saw it was not her husband she called in a weak voice
for help.
“Bress de Lord,” said a voice, “she is alive. Hold
on tight, dearie, and youse'll be all right in a minnit.”
And the next moment she was safe on the pier.
Then all her strength seemed to fail her, and she
sank into unconsciousness.
The old colored man, looking around for some-
thing to bathe her face, as he did not have a hand-
kerchief, saw by the dim light of the moon, which had
been previously hidden by clouds, something white a
little distance away.


4O
He stooped and picked it up, and saw that it was
a handkerchief.
“Umph! what's dis?” he muttered as he felt some-
thing hard on the inside. “I’ll just stick it in my
pocket an' lave missus face and carry her home
to de Ole 'oman an in de mornin’ she kin see wot it
is. Spec's its a letter some ob de white folks lost
to-day, an’ if tis, I can gib it to 'em in de mornin.”
And with this he went to bathing Bessie's face, and
chafing her hands, and, as she didn't come around he
stooped and took her in his strong arms and set out
for his own little cabin, which he reached in a very
short time.
Old Steve Jenkins, an old colored man who had
lived with his wife in Washington for years, notwith-
standing the blackness of his skin, had as good and
true a heart as ever beat in human breast.
He had been standing in his cabin door, looking
at the threatenening clouds, and considering the ad-
visibility of going to an all night camp meeting about
three miles distance, the voices of the attendants at
which meeting was borne to him on the summer still-
ness, when, chancing to look around, he saw the
figure of a woman plodding in the direction of the
pier.
His cabin door was open, and the light from a wax
candle was streaming out across the road, which af-
forded him a good view of her as she went on her
way. It was such an unusual thing to see, and several
persons having been found drowned lately, his sus-
picions were aroused. He thought the woman con-
templated suicide. So he determined to be on the
watch and prevent such an act, if possible.
So he walked along in the path behind, and saw


42
and, seeing his curious burden, his wife uttered a cry
of dismay.
“Sakes alive! Mercy on us! Wot is dat-ar you
got, Stebe?”
“Just move an’ let me come in, an’ see wot you can
do fur her while I make a fire an' heat up de room,
an den I'll told you all 'bout it.” And depositing
his burden tenderly on a well worn lounge, he soon
had a bright fire burning. The wife sat chafing Bes-
sie's hands and bathing her face. Steve, smoking his
pipe, told the circumstances of the night.
“De lawd hab mercy,” exclaimed Clory at the con-
clusion. “He sartainly must be a debbil to hit dis
bu'ful crittur. Golly! How pale she is and how soft
her lilly hands is. She suttinly must be a lady, she
is so—”
Clory paused, for Bessie had opened her brown
eyes, and sitting bolt upright, was staring around in
bewilderment.
“Where am I?” she asked, “how came I— Oh, I
remember all now. And you saved me. How kind of
you! But, who are you?”
“Dat's all right, honey,” said Aunt Clory, “but
you'se in good hands. But youse mustn't 'zert yer-
self. It'll be all de wuss fur yer. Jest lay down now
and youse kin go ter sleep while you clothes is a-
drying.” And so saying,the good old colored woman
hustled off and soon returned with dry clothing.
Steve stepped into the next room and Clory dressed
Bessie in them, and when he returned she was sleep-
ing like a tired child in the clean, white bed of
Clory's.


44
Viola Dunkirk. He found that lady under the arbor at
the side of the house, stitching away at some fancy
work that lay in her lap.
It was a beautiful picture as she sat under the shade
of the green vines, with the evening light on her face,
in her simple white robe, with red sash tied loosely
around her waist and a spray of violets in her hair.
Bertram, standing under one of the great old
cedars in the yard, drank in her every movement,
and he could not but compare her to all the women
of his acquaintance. Immediately a great wave of
tender love came over him, stepping quickly up to
her he took her in ''. is arms and showered kisses on
her eyes, brow, hair and ripe rosy mouth, murinur-
ing words of passionate, deathless love.
“Viola! Viola ! my love, my life, my all,” he mur-
mured, and his voice was full of impassioned fine en-
thusiasm. “Bless you! My life is crowned with its
chief blessing. You are mine, Viola. Mine—all
mine!”
Almost bereft of physical strength by her great
love for him, she lay with her face hidden on the
broad bosom of her impulsive lover for many mo-
ments. At last she raised herself, moved back a
little, and looked up into Bertram's face, her own
blushing in sweet confusion, and her eyes radiant with
loving glances.
“Do you really love me so much?” she faltered,
her eyelids drooping bashfully.
“Love vou! Why, my darling, what would be my
life without you. I shudder to think of it. Why do
you ask, dearest?”
“Because—because you are so—so far above me.
You are such a fine gentleman that I—I am almost


45
afraid to marry you. People will say that I married
you for selfish reasons. But—but you know better,
don’t you, Bertram? You know it is because I—I
love you more than I can tell. Oh! Ber-
tram, if anything should happen to part us I should
die. I love you so.” And she cast her arms about
his neck and sobbed happy tears. It was the first
voluntary confession he had ever had from her lips-
and he kissed her tenderly when she made it, as he
he said: -
“Nothing shall ever part us, dear.”
And so these sillv actions, of which lovers never
weary, was kept up until the golden sun had sunk
to rest and the clock in a neighboring church tower
brought to Viola’s mind other thoughts.
“How selfish I have been. I must go and look
after mother, poor mother,” she said sadly. “She
seems to be getting worse. I have to be very careful
of her. Any little excitement might prove fatal.”
They had strolled on to the gate and were taking
leave of each other.
“I want you to think a good deal to-night, dear-
est, for I want you to name the date the next time I
see you.”
The next time I see you! How many things can
be done before that time! And in after days Bertram
realized it.
Mona In Rage.—Mrs. Dunkirk Dies.
When Mona received Bertram's letter she and her
mother were sitting in the drawing room. She read
it over slowly, and her face became pale with sup-
pressed passion. Suddenly she sprang to her feet,
her face distorted with rage, and she hissed:


46
“It is all her fault. She has won my love from
me. I—I could kill her with my own hand. Beware
Viola Dunkirk, how you cross my path. You will re-
gret it.”
Her mother looked at her evil face with a sort of
terror. She had never seen her daughter like this
before.
“My dear Mona,” she began, “you must not give
way to passion like this. You must control yourself.
It is too late to indulge in vain regrets. You have
selected your own destiny. Now stick to it.”
“I selected my own destiny? Il How can you
say such a thing? Who was it that poisoned my
mind against marrying Bertram? Who was it that
told me to angle for Philip Clayton and forget the
beggarly editor? The one I might have won from
the first. It was only a matter of time, and short at
that. You did—you, who never did love anyone but
yourself, and don’t even know the meaning of the
term. And then you stand there and tell me I select-
ed my own destiny. And her lips curled in with a
haughty scorn.
The old lady winced at these homethrusts. She
knew that every word was true, but it galled her to
have her daughter to speak to her in that manner.
So, rallying, she said sternly:
“Hush ! how dare you speak to me like that, and I
your mother, too. Then you must never speak of Ber-
tram in that man...er again. He is nothing to you—
nothing. Just suppose Mr. Clayton were to hear
of it, he would never—”
“I don’t care a fig for old Clayton,” blazed Mona.
“I hate him, loath him. And it is as much as I can
do to keep from telling him so sometimes. If it were


49
to claim Miss Hawthorne's hand in a very short while.
Hoping that you will consider yourself (as I do) dead
to me, I remain, respectfully,
“Bertram Heathcourt.”
Having written this she called a servant and, tell-
ing him to mail it early in the morning, she sat down
to think of the second movement toward love and
vengeance.
CHAPTER VI.
Returns And Finds Mother Dead.
Viola watched her love out of sight, and slowly
turned toward the house. “If I should lose him I
believe it would kill me,” she murmured musingly.
She entered the house. Its stillness struck her
Strangely. Quickening her pace she continued to
her mother's room.
“Mother,” she called, as she reached the closed
door. “Mother, may I come in. It is only I—your
daughter.” She received no answer. A horrible
fear shot through the girl's heart. What if she were
worse, or perhaps—but, no, no, perish the thought.”
But, despite this little assurance, she opened the
door rather quickly, and what she saw never left her
mind. On the bed in the corner, pale as snow, lay
her mother—dead.
“Mother!” screamed the girl, “mother! speak to
me. It is Viola—your child.” But no answer came
from these pale, still lips. If they were not cold in
death no power on earth could have prevented her
from answering when that dear voice called.


50
“Mother! Oh, mother!” continued that agonized
voice. “Oh, why did you leave me all alone? Mother,
let me die and go with you, too,” and, throwing her-
self on that dear breast, she wept as if her heart would
break. How long she lay she did not know, but
soon she caught the noise of closing doors and muf-
fled tread, and into the room came three women.
They were neighbors, and were on their back
piazza chatting pleasantly when that agonizing
scream reached their ears. They knew of the ill-
health of Mrs. Dunkirk, and suspected the cause of
the cry. So they hastily went over to see if they
could render any assistance.
Viola lay in a half-stupefied condition. While one
bore her light form to her room, the others performed
the last sad offices of the dead.
They remained all night at watch by the corpse,
each taking turns to watch by the bedside of Viola,
who lay tossing on her pillow over half the night,
murmuring always in the same monotonous strain,
“Mother, oh, my mother! let me go with you.”
She fell to sleep far into the night, and slept till
late the next day. She arose calm and collected, for
she knew she had to cease repining and turn her at-
tention to the practical side of life. She dressed herself
in a dress of deep black, and, going downstairs, she
softly opened the door of the death chamber and
stepped in. She went up to the couch on which the
corpse lay, and drawing a chair close by the side of
it, she gazed long and earnestly on the face of her
mother. Finally she arose slowly, and with tears in
her eyes, said: “Betram is all I have left. I am alone
in the world.”
She looked around the room, and, seeing a letter


52
After the funeral she was sitting in her room, tak-
ing comfort from her bible when there came a quick
ring at her door bell. She arose hastily and went to
the door. It was the mail carrier. He handed her a
letter, and, tearing it open eagerly, she read it. When
she finished her cheeks were ghastly pale, and, giving
a low moan, she clutched at her heart convulsively,
and sank into a deep swoon.





53
CHAPTER VII.
Lost Letter.
When Viola recovered from her swoon it was dark.
At first she could not remember what had happened.
But gradually the truth dawned upon her mind, and
with a low moan she staggered to her feet and wend-
ed her way to her room.
One of the neighbors consented to remain with
her for several days—until she became used to the
loneliness, Viola told her she was going to lie down,
as she had a severe headache. But the next day
found her unable to leave her room. The terrible
strain on her nervous system had been so great for
the last twenty-four hours that for two days she was
utterly prostrated. When she began to feel better,
she remembered the necessity of her finding some
work, so she gave up the house and with what little
money she had she secured cheaper rooms in a dif-
ferent section of the city.
Bertram was not at home when Viola's mail ar-
rived. A servant went to the village post office for
the mail. When he was returning home he noticed
that the horse he was riding was unusually restless.
The servant thought he was thirsty, so he went down
to the watering place with him to give him a drink.
As ill luck would have it, some persons in skiffs were
passing at the time, and as the horse stepped into the
water to drink, they sent up a loud shout of jol-
lity. The horse became frightened and reared. The
suddenness of the movement caused the servant to
lose his equilibrium. and in recovering dropped some
of the letters in the water. As fate would have it,
Viola’s own letter was among them, and before the


54
man could do anything to save them they were
whirled out into the middle of the stream, and went
floating swiftly down toward the ocean. The man
was very much frightened, but he decided not to say
anything about it and of course nobody would know
of it.
When Bertram arrived after two days' absence, he
read his mail. The letter from Mrs. Dunkirk had a
great effect upon him. It read thus:
“Dear Mr. Heathcourt—I am dying. I know you
love my daughter and I wish you would come and
take charge of her right away, for when you receive
this letter I shall be in eternity. Mr. Heathcourt,
I will take this opportunity to tell you
something strange which happened in my
youthful days. When I was a young girl in England,
a young and handsome man came from America and
made love to me. I loved him dearly, and after
a while married him. We were very happy for about a
year. In the meantime my baby, Viola, was born.
During one of our confidential chats he told me of a
great wrong he had done his brother. How they
both had loved the same woman, and his brother be-
ing the favored one, he had revenged himself upon
him by informing his father of the affair. How his
father disinherited his brother after he had married
her, and the fortune went to him. I was shocked,
horrified, and I chided him for his sin. A coldness
sprang up between us, and every day we drifted fur-
ther apart, until he left me altogether I was alone,
except for my baby Viola. I need not go into details.
Suffice it to say that he gave me money enough to
educate my child, and keep us from immediate want.


55
He left a note also, informing me that I never was
his wife. He had deceived me. The man who per-
formed the ceremony was simply some one gotten
for the occasion. A man by the name of Dunkirk, a
good man, became acquainted with my story. He
pitied me and finally made me his wife and gave my
daughter—my nameless child—the shelter and pro-
tection of his honorable name.
“A few years after we came to America to try our
fortune, and while my daughter was at school I, with
the assistance of my husband, and detectives, man-
aged to get on the track of the man who had wrong-
ed me, intending that justice should be done his child
at least. He, living under a fictitious name, made it
very difficult for us to run him to earth, and when we
were just about to close in on him he died. The next
news that my detective brought was that he had done
justice to the son of the brother he had wronged, and
had installed him in the place that was his by right of
birth.
“The man that wronged me was Richard Heath-
court, your uncle. I watched your growing intimacy
with my daughter with pleasure, for I knew that a
great wrong would be partially righted if you finally
married her. You say you love her! I leave her young
life into your hands. Be a good husband to my child,
and you will well merit the dying blessing of
“Catherine Dunkirk.”
When Bertram finished the letter, he sat staring
straight before him. At last he said in a very low
tone: “Poor woman! I guess she is dead now. This
letter is two days old. How she must have suffered.
But how much more happily she would have died if


57
“My God!” gasped Bertram. “That description
tallies with Viola. I believe it is she. I must go and
see at once,” and wheeling about he called a cab and
said:
“To Pinkham's undertaking establishment! Swift
as you can! Double fare!”
The driver needed no second bidding. The horse
fairly flew over the hard ground, and in ten minutes
he was before the door of the undertaker.
Paying the cabman he went up the stairs three at
a time.
“I want to see the body, the body of the drowned
girl,” he said, when he was in the presence of the un-
dertaker
The undertaker looked at him, and seeing the anx-
iousness in his face, escorted him to the bedside of
the corpse, and pulled back the sheet from her face.
Bertram gave one swift glance. “Great Heavens!
How I loved her!” and fell down by the dead body,
writhing in an agony of grief that he could give no
utterance to except by heart-rending groans. Pres-
ently he felt a touch on his arm, and looking up he
found the undertaker looking at him pityingly. The
good man was really touched by the young fellow's
grief.
“Do you recognize her?” he asked, gently.
“Recognize her!” Bertram exclaimed. “Recog-
nize her! Yes. She was all I had in the world. My
Viola! My own Viola!”
“Poor fellow,” murmured the good man, with
streaming eyes. “But you may be mistaken. See!
The face is somewhat mutilated.”
“Ah, no! I cannot be mistaken. It is she. See!
The golden hair, the dark eyes, and long lashes; the
white, even teeth. The sweet lips that I have kissed


58
over and over again. It is shel I know it! Oh,
Viola! My lost love!”
When the violence of his grief had somewhat
abated he said to the undertaker:
“Give her a Christian burial and charge it to Bert-
ram Heathcourt.”
On that day he attended the funeral. He brought
some violets, her favorite flowers, and put them on
her grave, and long after everyone had left he sat
there by the side of that grave, trying to think what
his life was worth now. .
He finally left the cemetery for the city, and as he
wended his way up the gravel path of his own home,
he told himself that his heart was dead within him
and buried in the grave of his lost Viola.


59
CHAPTER VIII.
Letter Found.
Two days had passed since Mona had taken her
first step toward “Love and Vengeance.” On the
afternoon of the second day she was feeling very rest-
less, and thought she would take a row on the river
for a change. So she dressed herself in a neat boating
costume, and calling for a carriage she was driven to
the boathouse on the great Potomac. She hired
a little shell of a boat and was soon skimming over
the smooth water like a swallow on the wind. She
rowed up the river about two miles, and dropping
the oars, let the little boat drift with the current.
After drifting about half a mile, she looked over to-
ward the shore and saw a pretty little place, and the
notion struck her to go there. Seizing the oars she
steered for it. It was indeed a pretty little spot. The
dark water was almost entirely still. Schools of small
fish frisked about sportingly, casting miniature
waves along its smooth surface. The tall white oak
trees, that lined the shore; and the long, drooping
willows that hung far out over the water, made it a
lovely little cove that would have been dear to the
heart of any romantic person. Mona rowed her boat
under one of the trees, and gave herself up to
thought. She had been sitting about half an hour
looking into the water with an unusual degree of pen-
siveness when she noticed something white being
borne slowly on the water toward her. Closer and
closer it came, and then she saw that it was a letter.
She leaned out to reach it, but the movement caused
a wavelet or two to take it farther from her boat.
Standing up quickly she reached up and broke off a


6I
“You!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “You,
Mona—Miss Hawthorne, and here! Great Heaven!
You must be mad to come here.”
It was indeed Mona Her face was very pale, and
there was a determined compression about her lips
and a light in her eyes not good to see.
“Call it madness, or what you will, I am here, and
I must ask you a few questions.”
“What do you wish to know?” asked Bertram,
hesitatingly,
There was a few moments pause, and then she an-
swered: “I would like to know if you love that pau-
per, Viola Dunkirk, and if you are going to marry
her?”
Bertram stood as if rooted to the spot. What did
it mean? Was not everybody aware of Viola's death?
“You do not answer,” she continued, seeing his
hesitation.
At last he recovered himself and asked: “Is it
possible, Miss Hawthorne, that you do not know that
Viola Dunkirk is dead?”
Mona started violently. Was this true? The girl
she feared—dead?
“No—no. I did not know it.” To herself she said:
“If I cannot win him now, I have not the power over
the male sex that I once had, and may as well give
him up.
There was a long pause, which was at last broken
hy Mona, who asked:
“Did you love her?”
“Did I love her?” in surprise. “Do you think I
would ask her to be my wife if I did not?”
“True, true. And yet—oh, Bertram! When did
you cease to love me—I, who loved you first and


62
best? After asking me to be your wife, to fall in love
with that beggar girl, even while the words were yet
warm on your lips.”
She looked at him beseechingly. Her eyes were
streaming with tears.
Bertram was astonished.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, a little coldly. “But
if Viola was a poor girl, she was a lady in every sense
of the word, and she was not a coquette,” he contin-
ued, meaningly. “I would rather you would not
speak of her in that irreverent manner.”
This defence of the girl she hated, and above all,
the covert sneer in his words, to sting her, almost
drove her to madness.
“She had no right to come between us—to rob me
of my love!” she cried, springing to her feet, her
black eyes flashing. “I loved you first and best; she
had no right to take you from me. Why did you
cast my love back in my teeth after winning my
heart?”
“You forget that you are the one to whom that
accusation might be applied, he said sternly. “After
giving me every reason to believe that you loved me,
to reject me, because I was a beggarly editor, and ac-
cept Col. Philip Clayton, because he was wealthy.”
Tor one single moment Mona was disconcerted—
only for a moment. Instantly a plan shot through
her subtle brain and she proceeded to act upon it.


64
abruptly. “Man | Can't you understand. Can't you
see that that is forgery?”
A swift pallor shot across his face. What if it were
a forgery? But it was closely followed by a look of
incredulity.
“A forgery! How can it be? Who could have any
object in doing such a thing?” •
“My mother,” she said, sharply.
Bertram started. “But the note I sent you? The
boy who carried it said he gave it to you as I in-
structed him to do.”
“The boy prevaricated,” she said, sharply. “I heard
him ring, and came to the head of the stairs; my
mother answered the bell, and I heard her say: “What
is it? “I want to see Miss Mona,' answered he. “I’ve
got a note for her.’ ‘Give it to me; I will deliver it,'
my mother said. It seemed as if the boy hesitated.
‘Give it here this instant, said mother, stamping her
foot. The boy must have been frightened into com-
plying, for I heard mother say: “Now, wait for an
answer. Soon I heard the door slam, and knowing
that he was gone I came down to see what it was all
about. “What is it, mother?' I asked. ‘It is nothing
but an invitation to the opera, she remarked, care-
lessly. Mother was always at liberty to open my
letters, so I thought no more of it. That night we
attended the opera, and some one made a remark
about your being engaged to that—that Viola Dun-
kirk, and half dead with unrequitted love I accepted
Col. Clayton the next day, partly at his earnest re-
quest, and partly out of spite My mother, whom I
trusted, and whom I believed the soul of honor, be-
trayed me, and now I’ve lost all that is worth living
for!” And she cast herself dejectedly into a chair,
and burst afresh into angry tears.


65
Bertram felt really sorry that she loved him so
well—sorry that he could not respond to her love.
The idea that she had uttered a deliberate falsehood
never for once entered his mind. He did not believe
that this girl, in order to gain the ends of her own
selfish heart, would be willing to sacrifice her mother.
Her mother, though a scheming woman, loved her
dearly, and did all of her scheming for her daughter's
sake. After sitting some minutes in deep thought he
said: “I am very sorry for you, Mona—very sorry.
But what can I do?”
“What can you do?” she echoed, eagerly. “You
can make me your wife. You need not look so
shocked. I have no pride now. Why can’t a woman
plead for her love just as a man. The foolish
world debars a woman from obeying the dictates of
her own heart when she ought to be allowed to do
so. Her love is all she has. Oh, Bertram! Let me
be your wife.”
She had come close to him, and rested her hand
pleadingly on his arm, looking him directly in the
eyes. -
He moved back a little as he said: “Impossible,
Miss Hawthorne. I cannot do as you suggest.”
‘Why can't you?”
“For the simple reason that I do not love you.
See : My pulse does not thrill at your touch. My
heart does not throb more quickly. It would be
wrong to marry you.”
“You used to love me once—until she came be-
tween us. Oh, Bertram! If you do not marry me I
shall die. My heart is broken.”
It is no light thing for a man to have a young and
beautiful woman standing before him with tear-dim-


66
med eyes and tell him in a woebegone voice that her
heart is broken, especially when she is inclined to lay
the cause of it at his door. No wonder, then, that
Bertram seeing her sorrow, felt touched by her
pleadings and after thinking deeply, said:
“Mona, you have suffered and I seem to be in-
directly the cause of your suffering. If, therefore, I
can make atonement for the unintentional wrong I
will consent to do as you wish. I will strive to make
you happy and to be a good husband to you, but I
tell you frankly, my heart is dead, and the ashes can
never be kindled. Will you accept me at such an ex-
pense?”
“Yes, gladly. My own Bertram,” she murmured,
twining her fair arms around his neck and kissing him
passionately, the light of a deathless love shining in
her eyes. She thinks, love like mine cannot fail to
win love in return.
He drew her head down on his bosom and im-
planted a cold kiss on her forehead and they were
betrothed. Finally he said:
“It is late,” taking out his watch, “and the last
train goes by in half an hour. Sit here while I order
the carriage.” He ordered the carriage, which soon
came around to the entrance and in a short time
they were at the station.
He had just arrived, when he noticed the slender
figure of a woman, closely veiled, come staggering
into the waiting-room and in a weary voice ask for a
ticket for Washington. It seemed as if she could
hardly stand as she walked on toward the train after
receiving her ticket. Bertram, with inherent cour-
tesy offered to assist her, but shrinking from him, she
made some inaudible refusal and passed on. There


67
seemed to be something strangely familiar about her
to Bertram, but after vainly trying to think where
he had seen her before, he dismissed the occurrence
from his mind. But oh! with what force was it re-
called in after days.


7o
She took a seat in the car at one end, and cover-
ing her face more effectually, she cowered down in
her seat like a criminal. Arriving in Washington she
set out on foot for her home. Just before reaching
her cottage, and while she was yet in the copse of
woods, the sound of men's voices reached her ears.
Concealing herself beyond some briar bushes, she
heard the following conversation. One of the
speakers had a voice that was very familiar.
“When are you going to tackle the house, boss?”
said a course voice.
“In three hours' time—at half-past two A.M.”
“Jimmy, this is mighty short notice.”
“Yes, I just got my bearings. And, as I’ve got a
job on for to-morrow night, I thought that this would
be the best time in which to break in the old duffer's
house.”
“But you haven’t told me whose house we are to
crack yet, boss.”
“That's so. Well, it is the old retired banker,
Quimby, on Pennsylvania Avenue. Here is a bunch
of false keys for the door, and these are for the safe.
It is an old-fashioned affair, and I guess it won’t be
difficult to open Secure the boodle if you can with-
out shedding blood, but if any one tries to stop you,
why, just tickle him under the fifth rib with your
frog sticker.”
Viola did not want to hear any more She knew
they were planning robbery, and would perhaps kill
some one if they were caught in the act. Here one
thought entered her mind, and that was to save the
banker. Creeping out of her place of concealment
as quietly as possible, she sped down the road as fast
as her feet could carry her. She knew where the


72
rang for assistance, and to a servant who answered
the summons, said:
“Have a room fixed for her immediately; she must
remain here for the present”
“What is it, George?” was asked, as a tall woman
advanced into the room, and despite the streaks of
silver that were in her hair, she was still very hand-
SOme.
“A young girl, wife, who heard men planning to
rob me to-night, and came to warn me. She must
have exerted herself too much. She has fainted.”
“Poor young thing,” said motherly Mrs. Quimby.
“How beautiful she is. How perfectly sweet and
lovely. Take her, Jaundice, to the unoccupied room
on the second floor.”
Viola was conveyed to the room mentioned, where
all manner of restoratives were used to bring her out
of her swoon. At last she opened her beautiful eyes,
but there was no look of recognition in their dark
depths.
The doctors who were called in pronounced it a
severe case of brain fever, and recommended quiet-
ness. She lay on the pillow, white as a sheet, with
the exception of two spots burning on either cheek,
crying always: “Robbers! They will shed blood,
You did not mean it. You were just trifling,” and
so on she continued, with but little cessation, for days
and nights.


73
CHAPTER XI.
Viola Adopted. The Rescue.
Three weeks had passed since Viola went to the
house of Mr. Quimby to warn him of the robbers.
The night she went to warn him the robbers came,
but were surprised to find officers of the law lying
in wait to entertain them. A portion of them were
captured, but the principals escaped.
The banker and his wife fell in love with the beau-
tiful girl at first sight. When she recovered and
spoke of going away, they would not hear her. They
pleaded so earnestly with Viola to stay—to remain
and be their child, to let them adopt her—that she
consented, partly to please them, and partly because
she loved the two gentle old people who had been
so good and kind to her. She had come to be the
light of the house. Her gay laughter, her merry
snatches of song and natural vivacity which could not
be repressed, were in strong contrast to the former
grimness and quietude of the grand old house.
The old banker and his wife were delighted. They
loved the young girl who had come into their lives so
miraculously.
Viola was very happy in her new home After she
recovered, she found herself the belle in fashionable
society. She rode, went to balls, parties, operas and
picnics. There was a continual round of gayety.
She was very happy in her new home. Poor girl!
She had been so unfortunate in this world's goods
that the other side of life formed a very pleasing con-
trast, and one that was duly appreciated by her. So
matters ran on for two months, without anything to
mar its brightness. One day Viola announced her


75
girlish head, her fine golden hair tossed playfully by
the breeze People turned and watched her admir-
ingly, wondering who the beautiful equestrienne was,
who sat her horse so gracefully.
Bertram Heathcourt, who was on his way to Mr.
Quimby's to pay a call, for he was an intimate friend
of the banker's, saw her just as she suddenly turned
a corner, and he started back with a wild cry.
“My God! It is Viola!” he cried, hoarsely. “Tell
me,” he panted, turning to a fashionably-dressed
dandy, with patent leather pumps with pink bows,
and clad in that very becoming style of male attire
called “skin-tights,” which would have puzzled the
scientist of any age to explain the phenomenon; an
eye-glass, and the head of his cane in his mouth. “Tell
me who that young lady was that just passed on that
chestnut-colored horse.”
The fellow leisurely took his cane from his
mouth, elevated his eye-glasses, and rewarded Bert-
tram with a cool stare that made Bertram consider
the advisibility of knocking him down, and was only
prevented from doing so by the hope of obtaining the
desired infomation.
“Well, stand there and stare at me about four min-
utes longer and not answer my question as a gentle-
man should.” Bertram rather emphasized the word
“gentleman,” and, as he had guessed, not without
the desired effect. The dandy straightened himself,
pushed out his tiny left foot in advance of the right
and after making a few vigorous attempts to clear his
throat, drawled:
“Oh, baw Jove! That wath Mith Quimby, the
adopted daughter and heireth of the honorable Mr.
Quimby the banker. She's a dooced pretty girwell,


77
left. The horse started and reared. The shooting
had frightened him. Under ordinary circumstances
Viola was a good horsewoman, but she was so occu-
pied in gazing at the beautiful sunset that when the
report was heard she unintentionally dropped the
reins. The horse took advantage of the situation and
seizing the bit in his teeth, started off full tilt for
the river. Along the smooth road he sped as if mad-
dened. Viola managed to get the reins in her hand,
and attempted to rein in the frightened animal. The
only result was the bruising of her hands. Half dead
with fear she tried to pull him in, and so hard did she
pull that the blood oozed from her finger ends.
“Oh, heavens! I can’t stop him,” she moaned, in
despair. -
Straight to the precipice overhanging the river the
horse sped, with dilated nostrils and foam-flecked
flanks. Four hundred yards, and then, poor Viola!
Would nothing save her? She was so young to die.
“Oh, God! Am I to die such a horrible death?”
she moaned piteously
Is she? See! A young man on horseback sees her
danger, raises his gun as if to shoot He hesitates,
drops his gun and comes toward the runaway at full
speed. Nearer he approaches. Nearer. Two hun-
dred yards to the precipice, fifty yards from him to
her. Nearer he comes. He gives a shout, but the
sound is drowned in the noise of the hoofbeats.
Nearer! One hundred yards to the precipice. Ten
yards between him and her. Fifty yards to the preci-
pice. Three yards still intervene between them. See!
He reaches out his hand! He seizes her around the
waist, lifts her bodily from the saddle into his own,
and by a superhuman effort stops his horse just as the


78
the other, with a cry like that of a human being, van-
ished over the precipice.
It was a brave act—one that few men would have
undertaken. He turns his unconscious burden in his
arms to a more comfortable position, and, for the
first time, takes a good look at her. The effect was
wonderful.


79
CHAPTER XII.
Viola Arnold Campbell's Prey.
The young man catches his breath; his eyes seem
to start from their sockets. He almost loses his hold
of his fair burden.
“Viola Dunkirk!” he gasps. My God! How is
this? The whole city has been ringing with the ac-
count of her death, and now”—
He pauses and a triumphant smile passes over his
dark face. His eyes light up with a devilish expres-
sion.
“She is mine, now; all mine,” he said, with intense
satisfaction. “I swore to possess you, my beautiful
Viola, and I will keep my word. You shall be mine,
body and soul.” He chuckled wickedly to himself
as he realized how completely the young girl was in
his power. -
He rode up the river road, thinking deeply. Pres-
ently he muttered: “I wonder what it all means?
She, a poor girl, dressed in all this finery?”
He could not answer that query, and he finally
quickened the pace of his horse as he said: “I will
take her to the rendezvous. Madge will keep her
safe until I get a minister to tie the knot”
He turned from the road as he uttered this, and
rode up to a large, rambling house on the river bank.
It was a peculiar structure, about three stories high.
Half the windows were out on the upper floor, but
the doors and windows, which were all of wood and
the great wheel at the side, would have given it the
appearance of a disused mill but for the latticed piaz-
za at the front. The young man rode around to the
side of the house, and after dismounting, knocked on


8I
“He’ll be in after a while—the one that saved your
life—and I’m his housekeeper,” was the surly reply.
“What gentleman was it who saved my life?”
“You’ll see for yourself directly,” she said, and
then there was an exultant ring in her voice. “He’ll
soon be in to answer for himself.”
Viola remained quiet for a short time, looking
thoughtfully at the floor. Suddenly she took out her
watch and was surprised to find that it was so late
“Why, it is twenty minutes to seven, and papa will
be so anxious to know where I am. Can't you tell
the gentleman to make haste. I shouldn’t like to go
without thanking the man who saved my”—
She stopped, for the door had opened, and a man
advanced into the room. One glance, and Viola
started to her feet with a wild cry, and clutched at
her throat as if suffocating.
“You!” she gasped. “You! Oh! Pitying heaven!
Why didn't I perish over the precipice?”
The woman had stepped from the room as soon as
he had entered it. The man closed the door, locked
it and put the key in his pocket and turning to Viola
with a mocking smile, said:
“You seem to shrink from me as if I were an ogre,
Miss Dunkirk. I am sure I mean you no harm. Have
you no kind word for me? And it is such a long time
since we have seen each other. You remember our
last meeting, do you not?”
She was looking straight before her and beyond
the nervous rising and falling of her bosom, one
would imagine that she was a statue.
“You do not answer me,” he said, impatiently,
“and after I have just saved your life by risking my
own. I think I deserve some consideration, if moth-
ing more than a look.”


82
She realized that she had better say something,
and act in a conciliatory manner, and probably he
would release her. For that she was wholly in his
power she fully realized. So with an effort she ex-
tended her hand, and said:
“I thank you ever so much for saving my life. It
was a brave act and when I go home I shall tell Papa
Quimby, and as he is rich, I know that he will remun-
erate you.”
At the mention of that name Arnold started back.
“What is Mr. Quimby to you?” he asked quickly.
“He is my adopted father,” she answered.
His eyes lighted up avariciously. So this is why
she was so finely clothed, and was out enjoying the
evening on horseback. The daughter of the great
banker and therefore his heiress. If Arnold Camp-
bell was determined to win her before, he was doubly
so now The money itself was a great incentive, to
say nothing of his love.
“She shall be mine!” he muttered, fiercely, with
bated breath. “By fair means or foul.” Aloud he
said:
“You are very fortunate in being the daughter of
such a worthy gentleman.”
“Yes,” she said. “Papa is very good to me and
loves me and that reminds me,” she said suddenly,
“that he will be very anxions at my long absence. I
must go to him at once.”
A peculiar gleam shot into his dark eyes.
“Must you really go so soon?” he inquired, with
well-assumed sorrow.
“Yes, I have been from home two whole hours.
And besides, it is almost dark. Will you let me pass,
please?”


84
He turned on his heel as he spoke, and with a piti-
ful cry Viola sprang after him, and throwing herself
at his feet, cried:
“Oh, sir, for the love of heavven, don't detain me
here. Think how troubled my father and mother
will be at my strange absence . If you have one spark
of manhood in your breast, you will release me for
their sake.”
“I will give you one minute to consent to be my
wife; if you refuse, here you'll stay until you do con-
sent,” he answered, doggedly.
“Then hear my answer now, without a minute's re-
flection,” she cried, springing to her feet, her eyes
blazing, her face crimson with indignation, “I would
rather die than become your wife. Do you hear?
God never ordained such, nor is there any possible
chance of your ever becoming my husband. A thief
and a murderer I never would marry!”
“What do you mean?” he cried, hoarsely, his face
ghastly pale.
“You know what I mean. Ah, ha! You may try
well to cover it, you wretch. I know your little secret
and will blaze it forth to the world if you do not re-
lease me.”
“She knows my little secret,” thought Arnold.
“Nevertheless, she shall never leave here other than
as my wife. Then her testimony will not be worth
anything. I must go to the city early in the morning
and secure the services of some not over-conscien-
tious clergyman to officiate. It is not now a question
of love and wealth, but a question of safety.”
Viola had sprang after him as he left the room only
to have the door closed in her face, and a squeaky
click announced the fact that the door was lock-


85
ed. The girl became well nigh frantic. She screamed
and kicked at the door, and realizing that all such
attempts were failures, she ceased.
“Oh! Heaven help and pity me,” she moaned. “I
am in this man's power and unless some assistance
comes I shall be forced into a union with him.
She was feeling terribly exhausted and she threw
herself on the little cot and was soon sleeping, obliv-
ious of every trouble.


87
formed the chief of Viola's disappearance. The chief
told him he thought she could be found, and referred
him to Special Officer Turpin.
“Dick Turpin,” as he was usually termed by the
rough class, had not been a year on the force, but his
shrewdness and strict attention to business and the
discharge of his duty had made him a man who was
mortally feared by criminals, while his natural geni-
ality of manner and his general temperament had
won for him the respect and admiration of his breth-
ren and made him a general favorite with them all.
Mr. Quimby appeared at the office of the great de-
tective. He found the man busily engaged with a
pile of documents. On his entering the detective
turned on him a pair of piercing gray eyes. Mr.
Quimby asked:
“Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Turpin, the
detective?”
“I am he. To whom am I indebted for the pleas-
ure of this visit?”
The banker handed him his card.
Ah!” said the detective. “Mr. Quimby, the
banker.”
“Yes, and I would like you to take a case for me
if you are not busy.”
“Well, I have a case on hand, as you see, but I
think I can take another,” said the detective.
“Very well, sir. My daughter—my adopted
daughter—is missing She disappeared very strange-
ly from her home yesterday.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes, sir, and in order that you may fully under-
stand the case, I will have to tell you my story.”
“Very well, sir, Let me have all the facts, and al-


88
ways remember that whatever you may tell me will
simply be in the strictest confidence, and as such I
shall hold it sacred.”
The banker began and told the detective the cir-
cumstances with which the reader is aquainted,
from the time Viola had come into his family, until
her disappearance. When he had finished the detec-
tive sat quite still, looking thoughtfully at the car-
peted floor. Finally he said:
“You say she did not tell you anything of her for-
mer life, except that her mother and father were both
dead. Might there not”—and here he gave the
banker a keen look, as he began again. “Has it never
occurred to you that there might be a lover in the
case?”
This second mentioning of a lover in connection
with Viola and her strange disappearance seemed to
give the case a startling significance. As the old
man raised his head he answered:
“No-no. I have never looked at the matter in
that light,” he finally said. “You don't know my
dear girl, sir. She was very different from the girls
in general and, besides if there had been anything
of the kind, I think she would have told me.”
The detective smiled cheerfully, rubbing his hands
vigorously, and said in a pleasant manner:
“Very well, sir; I will undertake your case and I
will have good news for you soon.”
The banker arose and moved toward the door.
When he had laid his hand on the knob he turned:
“Oh, by the bye. You haven't said anything about
your pay.”
“Oh, never mind, sir, never mind. We’ll speak
about that when my work is done”


89
“You shall be amply remunerated if you succeed.
Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
Five days had elapsed since Viola had been a pris-
oner in the house by the river. She had pleaded for
her liberty, implored, stormed and threatened, but it
had done no good. Hope had given place to despair.
She had made up her mind to meet the issue, what-
ever it might be, bravely. Her tormenter had been
to see her this morning and had begged her to be-
come his wife, and had left her in anger, because of
her refusal. He told her to prepare herself, for on
the morrow she would have to become his wife.
She was sitting now on one of the hard stools, try-
ing to be resigned to her fate, but there was a dull
pain at her heart when there came a light step in the
hall. The knob turned in the door and a young
woman entered. Viola sprang to her feet; her heart
leaped with great joy. She was to be free at last.
“Miss Mona! Oh! Merciful Father in Heaven,
I thank Thee!” she cried, joyously. “Oh! I am so
glad you have come to deliver me from that villain
-—that fiend in human shape. How is father and
mother?” she continued, breathlessly. “Are they
anxious about me? Oh! Take me to them. Please
do, and I will bless you as long as I live.”
And the poor girl—poor, because her joy was
Soon to be turned into the bitterness of death—
clasped the haughty Mona Hawthorne about the
knees and sobbed for very joy.
“Why, my dear girl,” said Mona, mockingly, “you
seem to have very pleasant quarters here. How do
you like them? True, your furniture is rough, but I
presume your husband that is to be will refurnish
your apartments when you are settled down.”


9I
“Don’t you dare do it! I—I hate him, loathe him
and you, too. And I believe you have had a hand in
this outrage. You know more about it than you care
to admit.”
Mona had started back quite frightened before
this burst of indignation. She did not believe Viola
had life enough in her for that.
“My! What a regular little virago you are. Mr.
Campbell, your intended husband, will have to bring
that little temper in check, or you will make it warm
for him.”
“Leave me to my misery, you wicked woman.
Why did you come here?”
An angry fire flashed into the eyes of Mona.
“Why did I come here?” she echoed, advancing
meaningly up to the girl. “Shall I tell you? Well,
then, hear me. It was to triumph over you, my rival.
I knew you were here. You are here by my instruc-
tions. Nay! Hear me out. You were in my way.
You won the love of my life from me, and I am deter-
mined on revenge. I tell you this because I am now
safe in the love of Bertram Heathcourt, and on the
fifteenth of this month will become the wife of his
bosom. Now, listen. Your lover was never false to
you. Ah, ha! You started the rivalry which almost
broke my heart strings. I shall wring your heart
strings as mine have been wrung. I wrote that letter
telling you that he never did love you; that hence-
forward you would meet as strangers. He never re-
ceived your letter. I have it in my possession now.
How I got it matters not. He now believes that you
are dead, and in less than a fortnight I shall be his
wife. While you (with a dazzling smile) will be ditto
of Mr. Arnold Campbell. You see, little Viola, I


Q2
have triumphed, and there is no use to kick against
the pricks. You had better accept your fate with
good grace, and make the best of circumstances.”
Viola never moved. She had been looking straight
before her since the beginning of Mona's story. She
had become pale to the lips. Her eyes were dilated
with horror at the enormity of the sin of the woman
whom she believed at most to be proud and haughty.
“My dear,” continued Mona. “Why do you look
like that? You quite frighten me. You do not look
very much like a prospective bride.”
“So you deceived me,” murmured Viola, brokenly.
“And he was true to me! He meant it when he said
that he loved me. He was not doing it to pass away
the time?”
“No, he was not doing it PASSER LE TEMPS.
But so far as you are concerned he might as well have
done so. Well,” said Mona, as she moved toward the
door. “I must leave you, my dear. I will not see
you for—oh! ever so long After our wedding tour,
I may drop in to see you. So, au revoir.” She paused
on the threshold of the door as if to take one last
look, and what she saw never left her mind until her
dying day.
Viola was acting as if she did not hear her—was
not even aware of her presence. She was murmuring
over and over again: “Bertram did mean it. He was
not fooling. He loved me.”
Suddenly, and while Mona was still looking at her,
she started toward the table and, snatching up a fork
that was lying on the plate from which she had eaten
her dinner, said: “Good bye, Bertram, my lost love;
I will never see you again. I love you! Oh! so well.
Mother, dear mother, I will soon be with you.” And


94
CHAPTER XIV.
Mona's Conscience.
Mona had returned to her home that night and
fearful thoughts were haunting her. She could not
vanish from her mind that last despairing cry of the
poor, innocent young girl whom she had so terribly
wronged. She made an excuse to her mother and
after eating a very light supper retired. But not to
sleep. Sleep, that blessed boon which brings rest and
peace to the innocent would not bring oblivion to her
guilty mind. She undressed herself and laid down.
She would ever and anon drop off into a fitful slum-
ber, only to start up again with a smothered cry, as
a voice seemed to whisper: “Murderess!” from under
her pillow. Finally she arose, and robing herself in a
wrapper, threw up the window, drawing a chair close
to the side of it, sat down to look out.
In one of the trees a night bird was singing, but
its lovely notes seemed to her excited fancy to be
crying in harsh tones: “Murderess! Murderess!”
In the grass on the lawn beneath her a cricket took
up the strain of “Murderess! Murderess!”
“Oh, Heaven! will those terrible sounds never
cease?” she moaned and closing the window with a
bang, she arose and began pacing restlessly to and
fro, until a faint gray streak came stealing through
the window and she knew that day was breaking. She
threw herself across the bed and finally dropped into
a kind of deep apathy, which lasted until late in the
day.


96
He finally arose, and asked the woman, who had
been standing near, looking at him with a cynical
expression on her ugly visage, how it had happened.
She told him all she knew about it. How Mona
had visited the girl and after staying in the room a
considerable length of time, came to her and in-
formed her that the girl had killed herself.
“So she was here, eh,” he muttered under his
breath. “I wonder if she could—but no. The girl
was safe from ever molesting her in her love affairs,
and it would be foolish to think that she would do
such a thing.”
He finally left the old woman alone with the
corpse. In half an hour he put his head in the door
and said:
“Madge, I am going to town after a coffin to bury
the girl in. I shall return this afternoon.”
“All right, sir.” -
Madge sat quiet for an hour or two, and then she
began to feel hungry. She remembered that she had
not left the room since the afternoon of the previous
day.
“I’ll step out and get a bite; it won’t, take long.”
So saying, she hobbled from the room.
Three minutes passed and a panel in the wall slid
back, and into the room a woman stepped cautiously.
She was tall and dark, with black hair and eyes of the
same hue. There were lines as of trouble around her
Sweet mouth and eyes, but despite that fact she
seemed to have been once a very beautiful woman.
She advanced cautiously to the side of the bed and
gazed long and earnestly at the girl.
“How beautiful! How very beautiful!” she said.
“And they hounded her down, poor creature, as they


97
attempted to hound me—but” she paused. Was she
mistaken? She thought she saw the lace at the
throat of the girl move. It was only imagination.
No! There it is again! She bent over closer and
examined the girl's face. Then she put out her hand
and pinched that of the girl. It did not remain
pinched and puckered like that of a dead person's,
but the flesh came back into its place just like elastic.
The woman tried the other hand in the same manner,
with a like result. Her face lit up radiantly.
“Not dead,” she murmured, joyously. “I think I
can save her if I begin at once.”
And with incredible strength for a woman she bore
her through the open panel and shoved it into its
place.
About five minutes elapsed, at the end of which
time Madge returned to the room. When she looked
in and saw that the body of the girl had disappeared,
she was almost wild with superstitious wonder.
Where had she gone? Where could she go? She
looked under the bed, and opening the shutters of the
window, looked out, but nothing rewarded her gaze.
She searched every room through and through, but
no Viola could be found.
“I don’t believe that gal was dead. She's been a
playin’ possum on us. But—I could a’swore she
was a corpse. Mr. Arnold will be wild when he finds
out she's gone.”
And she sat down on a chair by the window and
waited patiently for his return.
Meanwhile the strange woman had borne Viola
through the panel, and after sliding it back into its
place, walked along the narrow passage until she
came to a flight of stairs. Ascending these she


98
walked along another passage until she came to a
wall. Pressing her finger on a small button another
panel slid back, which she closed after passing
through. She entered a room that was poorly but
comfortably furnished. A clean white bed and a ta-
ble, a few chairs, a stove, lamp, trunk, cupboard and
washstand constituted its furnishings.
The woman lay her burden tenderly on the bed,
took a flask containing brandy and another of cam-
phor from the cupboard, and for two hours worked
vigorously on the girl, bathing her hands and face
in the camphor, and administering the brandy. A
while after she noticed the chest of the girl begin-
ning to rise and fall, as if in respiration. Soon there
was a little movement of the hand and a long-drawn
sigh, accompanied by a quivering of the eyelids, which
announced that Viola had at last come out of her
trance. She struggled feebly to rise, but the attempt
was a failure, and she sank back, gasping for breath.
The woman raised the pillow under her head and
otherwise made her position more comfortable. She
stood with her hand resting lightly on the girl's head
with a soothing, magnetic touch. Viola lay quiet,
with her eyes closed. Presently she stirred, and when
the woman removed her hand, she let her gaze wan-
der around the room, as if taking in every detail.
“Where am I?” she asked, feebly, passing her hand
slowly over her eyes. “And why am I here?”
The woman put her finger to her lips as if to en-
join silence. -
“Hush, my dear child,” she said, in a sweet voice
that won Viola's heart on the spot. “You must re-
cover as fast as you can, and the only way to do so
is by keeping very quiet, and when you get better I
will tell you all about it.”


99
So saying, she drew a, chair to the bedside, and
taking Viola’s hand in hers, she stroked it caress-
ingly. Viola felt a strange sense of comfort and pro-
tection in this woman's presence. She did not ques--
tion further. She only realized with a wild joy that
in some miraculous manner she had escaped from the
clutches of her enemies. And so, under the soothing
touches of this kind woman, she soon dropped into
a light and refreshing sleep.


IO4
small cave on the river. By the way, you see I pro-
cure work from several families hereabouts and am
enabled to earn a livelihood. I come and go when I
please, without any one being the wiser.
She closed the panel and returned to her seat be-
side the wondering girl. “You are wondering? I
can see it in your eyes. How came I to take up my
abode here? Would you like to hear my story?”
“I would, ever so much, if it does not pain you to
tell it.”
“Indeed, it does not. It has been such a long time
since I’ve had any one with whom to exchange con-
fidences that it is rather a relief than otherwise to be
able to unburden my mind of its weight to some one
whom I can trust. It is all a case of man's duplicity,
woman's weakness and suffering, on account of an
imprudent folly,” she said, sadly.
Viola clasped her hand and then gave it a reassur-
ing pressure, and then began to listen to the most
remarkable story of her life.


IO5
CHAPTER XVI.
Mrs. Smith's Story.
“In the village of B— I lived when quite a small
girl, with my father, who was a simple gardener. I
was a very happy girl Though far from being rich,
we managed to live comfortably, and my mother
being dead, I was the light of my father's life and
loved him dearly I grew from girlhood into young
womanhood, and people all called me beautiful.
“There was in the woods a great old tree known
throughout the settlement as the “Old Elm. It was
strange that almost all the trees in the woods were
beach, and there was not another of its kind to be
found around the village. But it stood in the midst
of the other trees, tall and majestic, like a grim sen-
tinel, spreading its huge arms out over the others in
its vicinity, as if in protection. It was my chief de-
light to take a novel or some other interesting book
in the afternoon and sit under its delightful shade to
read and dream One day while I was so engaged I
did not notice that the sky had suddenly become
overcast presaging one of our Southern storms, until
the drops began to fall thick and fast. I simply had
on a thin dress and a straw hat I surely would have
been the recipient of a good drenching and probably
caught my death of cold, had not a young man,
whom I recognized as the eldest son of the leading
personage in our town, passed opportunely and see-
ing my condition, offered to see me in safety to my
home. I need not tell you of the frequent meetings
under the old elm; of the honeyed words and confi-
dences exchanged. Suffice it to say that when the
summer had gone and the leaves began to fall from


106
the trees, I had promised to be the wife of the son of
the purse-proud millionaire.
In the meantime the younger son of this gentle-
man had met me on several occasions and said he
had fallen in love with me. He proposed and I
rejected him. He stormed; I threatened and defied
him. He asked me why I would not marry
him. I told him that I loved another. Then he
pleaded by the right of his love to know who it was.
I told him that it was his brother. I never shall for-
get the look of murderous hate that came into his
countenance. I shivered with fear when I saw it.
It was terrible. Burt secure in the love of the man
who was all the world to me, his deadly threats of
vengeance did not long remain in mind.
“One day I received a letter from my loved one,
asking me to meet him the next night by the “Old
Elm' and flee with him. I knew that it was not a
prudent thing to do, but what girl with the glamour
of love over her eyes listens to the reasonings of her
own mind or her common sense? It is certain that
I did not. I sat down and wrote him a loving assent,
and the next evening met him at the place named,
and before six hours had rolled over our heads we
were married. -
“The next day my husband left me in a little cot-
tage and returned home. In a few days he came back
and said he had come to remain with me for a whole
week. We went into the garden after awhile and
were lovingly examining some flowers together when
who should drive up to the door but the father and
brother of my husband. The stern father denounced
his son and heaped reproaches upon him and cursed
him. And as I stood trembling at his side, I could


IO8
“When I saw that he was so utterly heartless I be-
came indignant and heaped reproaches on him. He
said to me: ‘My dear Doris, you must not blame me
for the part that I have played in this affair, for I
assure you that I am not the prime mover in it.' I
indignantly demanded to know who was, and he an-
swered: “Your own husband. I never shall forget
the horror with which I heard those awful words,
never! My husband, whom I believed so good, true,
and honorable! My husband, whom I loved so dear-
ly, and whom I knew loved me so well! But why
should he do such a wicked thing, and what was his
object.
“I stood there, speechless. My tongue refused to
do its work. It seemed as if a hand of iron were
clutching at my meart. At last I managed to gasp
and then said, sternly: ‘I do not believe it; my hus-
band loved me, and he would never be a party to such
devilish work. All right, my dear, answered my tor-
mentor with taunting coolness, but your incredulity
does not alter the state of affairs in the least. Now
listen. Your husband truly loved you when he mar-
ried you, but his was not the love of a lifetime, such
as I offered you, and which you rejected with scorn.
My brother was not born to be a poor man and when
my father disinherited him, he began to hate you be-
cause of the blight you had cast over his life. He
soon grew tired of you, and as he did not care to
stain his soul with a worse crime, he had you ab-
ducted and brought here.”
“It was such a ridiculous story that I could not re-
press a smile, in spite of my terrible situation. The
idea of my husband being guilty of such a plot
against the wife he had sworn to cherish was simply


I IO
“That was all, my child, but who can describe the
suffering it brought to me. I was faint and dizzy at
the knowledge of my husband's baseness. It was all
a mistake, his having married me, and oh! the pity of
it—my child, my darling baby—was never to know
its real mother. To be brought up in ignorance of
her very existence. I wonder why it did not drive
me mad. But it did not. Nor did the other horrors
that are presented to inmates of a lunatic asylum
drive me mad. I stayed there for fifteen years—
fifteen long, weary years, and when one night the
asylum caught fire and I escaped, I was the same in
mind as you, or as I am at this moment.”


I I5
aspen. Did he know that she had been to the house?
True, the woman knew, but she had never seen her
before, and therefore did not know her. She must
find out how much he knew. So, recovering herself,
she asked, laughingly:
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” said he angrily, stung
by her manner. “You know that you came to the
river house yesterday and caused her death.”
“It is false!”
“It is true. You cannot fool me, Mona Haw-
thorne. Why did you cause her death? Answer me!
Why did you do it?”
He had advanced upon her menacingly, his eyes
blazing, his splendid physique trembling with pas-
sion.
Mona was frightened. What would he do? This
man loved the girl. Would he betray her for the part
she had played in it? Would he avenge the girl's
death by informing Bertram of her sin? Oh horrors!
Anything but that! There was madness in the
thought. She must try to conciliate the man.
“Arnold” she said, “I admit that I did go to the
river house but I did not kill the girl. She commit-
ted suicide. When she found I had not come to re-
lease her, she—she became desperate.”
“Is that all?” sneeringly.
“Yes,” eagerly coming forward. “And—and, is
she—have they buried her?”
“No.”
“And why?” with a frown. “Do yon want some-
one to find out about her and begin making unpleas-
ant inquiries. Why hasn't she been buried?”
“Because she is gone.”


II9
“How is that, chief? How did you happen to
fail?”
“Well, you men went off on your own hooks and I
had to employ strangers to do the job. They did
not know the bearings of the old banker's house,
and the result was they botched the job and were
caught.”
“They were caught?”
“Yes, they were caught and it was a close call in
my getting away.”
“Good!” exclaimed a few. “I am glad they were
caught, for botching the job.”
“It’s all very well to rejoice that they were caught,
but you see, we missed the money in consequence.”
“But, chief,” said one speaker, rather anxiously.
“Did you think they might squeal on us?”
“No. Well, it doesn't make any difference if they
do. Their squealing would have no effect for the
simple reason that they do not know me—never saw
my face, and furthermore, do not know of the band.
But, boys,” continued the chief, lowering his voice a
trifle, “since you speak of squealing, there is some-
thing of importance I want to tell you.”
Instantly everybody was all attention.
“Boys,” continued the speaker, and the trembling
of his voice showed that he was greatly excited.
“Boys, there is someone on our track—a spy.”
There was a hoarse, angry roar, mingled with fear-
ful oaths, and the men were on their feet in a mo-
ment, flourishing their revolvers in the air.
“A spy! A spy!”
“Who is he?”
“Tell us who he is !”
“Name him, chief!”


I 22
In some manner, just how she could never tell, as
she turned, her arm came in contact with that of the
woman, and the candle fell to the floor with a loud
noise. The glass candlestick, which held the candle,
made a terrible noise, and the noise came to the ears
of those on the inside. There arose an angry, mad-
dened roar:
“A spy!” Kill them!” “Down with the spy!” was
heard. -
There was a series of vigorous blows against the
partition, and as the partition was thin, it soon gave
way. The next instant the excited men, with revol-
vers in hand, came pouring through into the tunnel.


I23
CHAPTER XIX.
Did Not Know His Love.
Bertram Heathcourt was perplexed as to what
course to pursue. Here he was to become the hus-
band of Mona Hawthorne in five days, and he did not
even love her. He not only did not love her but he
found out that he loved another. Yes, loved another.
Loved a woman he never saw but once and that at
a distance, and who, as he thought, had never seen
him.
Ever since Mr. Quimby's daughter had passed
him on the street he had been thinking of her. Her
face haunted him. He wanted to know more of her.
When he went to Mr. Quimby's house and found
that she was missing, he was almost wild, although
he held himself in control, and never by word or look
betrayed to his old friend, the banker, that his heart
was slowly but surely breaking. He called every day
to learn if there was any news of the missing girl,
only to hear with a heavy heart that there was none.
He regretted a thousand times his hasty step in ask-
ing Mona to be his wife, out of pity. What was she
to him that he should waste the best years of his life
to make her happy? he asked himself, regretfully,
thinking of how happy he would be with Viola,
should she put in her appearance. He could not un-
derstand himself or his love. Was he a fickle man,
that his love could change with every pretty face he
met? he asked himself in surprise,and yet he was sure
that he had loved, and still did love, Viola. Every
time he thought of her it was with the same yearning
tenderness that he thought of the banker's daughter.
Why was it? Which did he love? These terrible


I 24
questions were unanswerable, and his attempting to
answer them was telling on him daily. His steps grew
slow and halting, his brow was thoughtful, and the
lines were becoming deeper and deeper on his noble
forehead, and around his handsome mobile mouth.
Each day that he called to see Mona she noticed that
there was a slight increase of silver threads among
the gold of his hair, and her heart smote her for an
instant, only an instant, when she saw that he was
becoming prematurely old.
One morning Bertram called at the house of his
betrothed, his face shining with a grim resolution.
He had been sitting up all night, trying to solve this
momentous problem of his life. Should he submit to
this marriage and so bring the curse of God on their
heads? Should he spoil both their lives by doing this
wicked thing? For since he had begun to think the
matter over, he could see that it was wicked.
Not to marry Mona was his determination. He
would go to Mona's mother and lay his case before
her, and if she was a woman with reason and a heart,
she would see that the best thing to do would be to
release him from the engagement, and she would do
it. She could then explain all to her daughter, and
that would save him the necessity of witnessing her
sorrow, for he told himself he could not stand it. So,
with a heart light with hope, he had gone this morn-
ing to put his plan into operation.
Mona had been expecting him. Therefore when
he came she met him at the dOOr and admitted him.
She was also expecting to have him all to herself this
morning. Bertram noticed the eager light in her
eyes and suspecting that something was in the wind,
pressed a cold kiss on her brow and made haste to
inquire for her mother.


I25
“I have something to say to her alone that is im-
portant,” he said, in answer to her look of surprise.
“Oh! certainly,” she said, sweetly, ringing for a
servant, “you can see mamma all you want, now, be-
cause I will soon have you all to myself, and neither
mamma nor any one else can come between us.”
Bertram winced at these words and was rather
glad when the servant came and announced the fact
that Mrs. Hawthorne would see him upstairs in her
sitting-room, and straightaway he repaired to the
place mentioned.
“It’s very peculiar—very peculiar—that he wants
to see her, and alone, too. He has always shunned
her as much as possible since I told him about her.
I must hear what it is he says, MUST. I believe that
I am the subject of this interview. Strange—strange
that I should feel that this is my very last happy day
—that I shall never know another.”
“There is only one thing that will make me un-
happy, and if that should happen”—Mona stopped
and drew a deep breath, and her face became abso-
lutely fiendish in its expression.
Suddenly she started and a low laugh was hissed
from between her livid lips—a laugh that would
make little chills creep up one's back, as if a blast
had blown on one from an empty grave.
“I must hear what is being said,” she muttered, in
tense tones, and with that she flew up the stairs to a
chamber adjoining her mother's sitting-room and
standing behind the heavy velvet hangings that sepa-
rated the apartments she listened to her doom.


126
CHAPTER XX.
Bertram's Mistake.
Bertram found Mrs. Hawthorne robed in a pretty
satin wrapper, with some fancy-work laying grace-
fully across her lap. After the usual greeting he
plunged without any preliminaries into the topic
nearest his heart.
“Mrs. Hawthorne I have come to you on a mis-
sion of mercy.”
“Is that so?” in surprise. “Well, state your mis-
sion, and if it is reasonable, I shall be happy to be
merciful.”
“Mrs. Hawthorne, I have discovered that I made
a mistake in offering my hand to your daughter. I
do not love her.”
The woman started violently. Her face turned an
ashen-gray hue. There was a roaring in her ears,
and it was by the mightiest effort of will that she
kept from fainting. Recovering, she said coldly:
“Sir! I do not understand you. I thought you
loved my daughter, or else why did you win her heart
and offer to marry her?”
“Mrs. Hawthorne,” said Bertram, slowly. He was
pained. How could he betray, even to the mother,
the pleadings of the daughter for his love. It seemed
to him as if it should be held sacred, but there was
no other way to do. And so in a straightforward,
modest way, he told her all, dwelling quite severely
on the part that she had played in the affair as repre-
sented by Mona. When he had finished she sat look-
ing straight before her, pale as a marble statue.
“Did Mona, my own child, tell that wicked lie?”
She asked, more to herself than to him,


127
“Lie! Good Heavens, Mrs. Hawthorne, what do
you mean?”
Mrs. Hawthorne aroused herself. There were lines
of pain on her face, and for the first time in his life
Bertram thought she looked noble. Noble she should
look; noble she did look. For there was a noble reso-
lution in her heart. If her daughter was wicked
enough to tell so base a lie on the mother who bore
her, lowering her and making her appear a con-
temptible deceiver, then that daughter was not fit
to be the wife of this good man—of any honest man.
“Mr. Heathcourt, I am not a good woman, but I
love my daughter, and for her sake I have schemed
and planned, done everything except actual sin to
promote her welfare. I have done these things for
her, not through any selfish motive—and the thanks
I have received—Oh! Heavens! but it is hard ' To
think that my daughter, my own child, should lower
me in the estimation of my acquaintances; should
make me appear a liar and a cheat. Mr. Heathcourt,
I have been cold to you when you were poor; mer-
cenary toward you when you came into wealth, but I
did not write that note to you; do not even know
that you wrote one. I now pronounce my daugh-
ter's story a base, wicked fabrication, and I absolve
you from your engagement with her. Go! You are
free!”
At the same time there came to their ears a low
moan, accompanied by a heavy fall in the apartment
adjoining and on appearing there found Mona in a
dead faint on the floor, her hand clutching the lace at
her throat as if in agony. Tenderly Bertram placed
her on the couch, and the maid, who had come in
answer to the mother's ring, began applying restora-


I3 I
CHAPTER XXI.
Burglars Break In On Mrs. Smith And Viola.
Mrs. Smith's presence of mind did not desert her
for an instant. When the very first blow was struck
on the frail partition, she knew that she had to act,
and act quickly. So, seizing the girl by the arms, she
shoved her under the stairs which they had just de-
scended. She was just preparing to follow herself
when the angry men began pouring into the passage.
Heaven only knows what would have happened if
their anger had not given way to surprise. At sight
of the woman, the men involuntarily halted, and
stared at her aghast. They were so sure it was a man.
They soon became repossessed with anger and made
a combined rush toward her.
“A female detective! Slit her gullet!”
“Hold!” -
The effect was electrical. The command rang out
like a clarion. They were accustomed to obeying
that voice when it was heard. And this occasion was
no exception to the rule. The chief advanced, and
turning to the men, said:
“Do not injure the woman yet.”
“But, chief,” they all remonstrated, “we’ve just
swore to kill all spies at sight.”
“That's it,” answered the chief. “But is she a spy?
Do not injure her yet. We’ll carry her into the den
and question her. If she does not give a satisfactory
reason for being here, why, she'll die, that's all.”
Viola, under the steps, heard these terrible words
with bated breath. She knew the woman would never
tell why she was there, and the result would be death.
A cold sweat broke out over her at the thought


I33
ing stupidly at her. Finally he said, in a husky whis-
per:
“You! Viola Dunkirk! I thought you were
(lead!” -
“I wish I were,” groaned the poor girl. “Oh! I
wish I were. Father in Heaven let me die!”
The man had now fully recovered from the shock
of the meeting, and he saw the necessity of getting
her out of the way before any of his pals saw her. So,
taking her by the arm, he said:
“Come along with me.”
“I will not—I will scream for help.”
He stooped and picked up his pistol and pointed it
at her, while an angry gleam shot into his eyes, and
said:
“If you do not come with me without any trouble
I will kill you where you stand.”
Viola like the most of women was mortally afraid
of a pistol and it proved more of a persuader than
anything else that could have been done.
“Don't! Don’t point it at me!” covering her face
with her hands that she might not see it. “I will
do as you say. I will go with you, indeed I will.”
“Very well, then, come on.”
He led her along the long passage until they came
to a door. He took a key from his pocket and in-
serting it in the door, opened it. Then he led her
across a room to another door through which they
passed. Then they ascended a flight of stairs and en-
tered another room that was furnished just like the
one in which she had been previously imprisoned.
And but for its being larger, she would have thought
that she was in the same room.
“Now, Viola, my darling,” he said, after fastening


I39
hall she flew up the stairs like a flash, and soon re-
turned, wearing a black dress and veil. Taking a
dark hat from the rack she ran down the steps and
opened the gate just as the hack drove up to the
next door. At the same moment an old man came
along the sidewalk going in the opposite direction.
He stopped and gave her a scrutinizing glance and
turned and looked at the vehicle, and without a word
passed on his way. Bessie was annoyed at the man's
curious actions, and waited to see him out of sight.
The man was evidently not thinking of her, for he
crossed the street and disappeared around the corner.
Then Bessie closed the gate softly and gliding up to
the hack like a shadow, disappeared under it. The
next moment the minister came down the steps and
entered the carriage, and they were all whirled
swiftly away.


I4 I
face, come out of the door, down the steps and hob-
ble toward the stable.
Bessie's heart beat with joy as she noticed that the
woman did not lock the door. As soon as the woman
disappeared she came from her place of concealment
and approached the door. The unseen figure all the
time kept the same distance from her. She put her
hand on the knob and turned it. The door flew open
and she stepped across the threshold. Before she
could close the door a sudden gust of wind blew out
the light and she was in total darkness. She closed
the door however, and began feeling her way toward
the place where she had last seen another door. She
found it and opening it passed through. She stopped
still and listened, and after a moment the sound of
voices was borne to her ears from a room on the left.
Looking up the passage from whence the voices came
she saw a single ray of light shooting out from a key-
hole. Eagerly she went toward it, and reaching the
door she knelt by the side of the keyhole and listened.
sk sk >k >k * s >k *
Poor Viola, when she was left alone stood where
she was for twenty minutes at least. Finally, with a
weary sigh, she cast herself down upon the iron cot.
Not to weep. Oh, no! she was past weeping, poor
girl. But to think. Lying there, she began to think
over her past life, from the time she left school, a
happy, hopeful girl. How, although poor, she was
free from care. These were her every thought until
the first blow in the form of her father’s death came.
Then how happy she had been working for her poor,
invalid mother. Then she thought of the time when


I43
*
“Well, if you will release me,” she said, eagerly, “I
will give it to you.”
But to this the woman gave no answer.
“If that is not enough,” she continued, her face
flushing with hope, as she saw the woman's silence,
and thought she might be won over to her side “I
will add this to it,” going down in her pocket and
pulling out her watch. And when I get home I will
give you five hundred dollars besides.”
The woman smiled a sarcastic smile as she said:
“It ain't no use, miss. I know that you haven't
got that much to your name. Mr. Arnold said so.
He said you was a poor lacemaker, and if you is, how
is yer going to give me five hundred dollars?”
Viola's heart sank, and tears of disappointment
started to her eyes.
“Indeed, I am rich, and I will do as I say. I have
just been adopted by rich people, and if you release
me they will remunerate you.”
“I don’t believe a word on it. Say, miss, if they're
so rich, why don't they do somethin about findin'
you? I know there's detectives 'nough in Washin'ton
to find a needle in a haystack. Why hasn't they
found you, eh?”
Viola saw that the woman was not to be convinced
and with a last wail of despair, cried:
“Oh! My good woman, for pity’s sake, for
Heaven's sake, release me. Surely you could not
stand by quietly and see one of your own sex in sore
trouble and not come to her assistance. No woman
could do that.”
“I am sorry, miss, but I can't do you no good.
Why, you doesn’t know nothin'. Mr. Arnold would
kill me if I was to loose you. I couldn't think o'


I45
CHAPTER XXIV.
Arnold Attempts Bigamy—Wife Objects.
The objection to the marriage fell upon the trio
like an exploding bomb, and the effect upon each
was different. The minister with surprise and annoy-
ance. Viola with hope and joy. Arnold Campbell
with—well, no one knows what the emotion or emo-
tions with which he gazed at that slim, pale figure
standing in the doorway, pointing her finger at him
in condemnation, and lifting a pair of big accusing
eyes at him—the figure of his wronged wife, Bessie.
Had he been confronted by a ghost he could not
have been paler or more rigid.
“Bessie! Alive!” was all that he could say.
“I pronounce this marriage a sacrilege, and forbid
it to proceed any further.”
“Why, my dear woman?” asked the minister, seri-
ously.
“Because that man has a wife living.”
“It's a lie!” gulped the baffled villain.
“Has a wife living?” said the minister. “That is a
serious matter. How do you know he has a wife
living?”
“Because I am his wife.”
The minister frowned as the words rang out clear
and firm. -
Viola uttered a glad cry and burst into tears of joy.
Arnold stood pale and still as a statue. He could
not utter a word. His tongue seemed paralyzed.
“Can you prove what you say, my good woman?
Have you a certificate?”
Bessie faltered for a moment. In her previous
excitement she had forgotten all about the certificate


I47
“Well, sir,” said the minister, “are you prepared to
prove that this young woman is the wife of this young
man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, where is your proof, sir?”
“There it is,” going into his pocket and bringing
out a folded paper. “Here is Mrs. Campbell’s mar-
arge certificate.” *
Bessie uttered a glad cry as she caught sight of
that precious document, and sprang eagerly forward,
taking it from him and kissed it, and pressed it to
her bosom, while tears flowed freely from her eyes.
Campbell, on realizing that he had been foiled,
sprang forward with a cry like that of a wounded
animal and clutched the old man by the throat. He
expected to have a picnic in throttling the old man,
but it seemed as if the old man objected to taking a
part in the feast, for with a quick motion of his mus-
cular arm he threw off Arnold's grasp and catching
him by the collar he shook him until his teeth chat-
tered. The old man seemed well preserved, and his
joints very firm, as he danced around like a whirl-
wind. With a quick sweep of his feet, he tripped
Arnold's legs from under him, and before the baffled
villain realized what had happened, he found his
wrists securely encircled by a pair of steel “darbies.”
“Who are you, man?” gasped Arnold.
“Who am I?” quizzically echoed the old man.
“Yes, who are you? What right have you to com-
mit this outrage?”
“By the right of the law,” sternly. “Man, I am
Dick Turpin, the detective.”
With a groan the prostrate villain closed his eyes.
He had fainted outright.


I49
and found that it was a marriage certificate. I re-
solved to keep it, as it would enable me to spring a
trap on the villain when he least expected it. Every-
thing went well until to-night, when I met this young
lady at her gate. I recognized her and seeing the
carriage standing so close by, I thought there was
something wrong. So I passed on and crossing the
Street, hid behind a tree and saw her crawl among
the springs of the vehicle. It happened that the car-
riage passed by me, and I had no trouble in springing
up behind it, and we all rode out together. The rest
you know.”


I 50
CHAPTER XXV.
Villain Pleads For Mercy.
By this time Arnold had regained consciousness
and as he realized that his race was run, he began to
whine for mercy, but it had no effect on the stony-
hearted detective.
After a while Viola spoke.
“Oh, sir, that man has made a good woman, who
was with me, a prisoner. Make him tell you where
she is, and release her.”
That was not hard to do. Arnold seemed, on ac-
count of his defeat, to be all down and out, and
readily told where she was. Soon Mrs. Smith was
clasped in the arms of her friends.
When they had become quiet the detective
stepped out and gave a shrill whistle. In an instant
a man appeared.
“Hurry to town, Fitch,” said the detective, “and
get the patrol wagon.”
In an incredibly short space of time the patrol
wagon arrived. -
“Well,” said the detective, “we are all here and as
our business is completed here, we might as well va-
cate.”
They all reached the city safely, and by the request
of the detective, all save the minister remained in
quarters prepared by him. He had a hard time to
persuade Viola to remain overnight.
“I cannot remain,” she said. “My father and
mother are anxious about me, and besides”—
She did not finish, but a deep flush completed the
Statement.


I51
“Oh! He is all right,” said the detective, in his
bluff, hearty manner. “You need have no fear on
that score.”
“But,” she said, shyly, dropping her eyes. “You
do not understand that he is to be married to that
woman to-morrow, and I must try and prevent that.”
“You need not be uneasy,” said Mr. Turpin. “I
will attend to things all right, and besides, if I did
not it would be just the same. The engagement be-
tween them is off. I want to see you with rosy cheeks
when I come in the morning. You are very pale
now.”
He did not know that it was a rush of happiness
that had made her pale, and what a struggle she had
to keep from fainting outright from excess of joy.
Bertram Heathcourt, in spite of the blight that had
fallen upon him, was happier as he rang the doorbell
of the great banker, Mr. Quimby, on the succeeding
morning, than he had been for months. As soon as
he was admitted he inquired for the banker. Mr.
Quimby was looking very ill. His steps were grow-
ing feeble and he was becoming morose and
thoughtful, in strong contrast with his once buoyant
step and hearty, jolly air. Although he had no news
for Bertram, that did not quench the ardor of his
hopefulness. After the usual greeting, Bertram con-
fided his secret to the old banker and you may be
sure that the old gentleman was as pleased as he was
surprised. He heartily sympathized with the young
man and made up his mind that he would redouble
his efforts to find his daughter.


158
on her face, was the almost strange, but dearly loved
mother. The next instant they were clasped in each
other's arms. Mother and son were reunited.


163
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Bessie Consents.
As has been stated Bessie had been the companion
of Viola since the latter's rescue. All the remon-
strances of Bessie could not make Viola change her
decision that after her marriage Bessie should come
to the Park and continue to live there, and as Bert-
ram so earnestly voiced the sentiment, Bessie con-
sented. -
Viola and Bertram both sympathized with the poor
girl. They knew that she had suffered and they did
all they could to make her happy.
The detective, too, seemed to take a great interest
in the girl. He had advised her to go to her parents
and tell them all, and he was sure they would forgive
her and take her back to their hearts. But when he
had told her to do this, she had shrunk from him as
if he had cut her with a lash.
“Oh! no, no! I could never go to them with my
wrecked life, and then, too, I know that they would
never forgive me. Never! It will soon be all over.
Don't you see that I am getting thinner and thinner
every day? Mr. Turpin, I am slowly but surely dy-
ing.”
The detective started and exclaimed huskily:
“For God's sake, don’t speak so! I cannot bear it.
If anything of the kind should occur it would kill
me. I—I could not bear it. I—”
And he stopped and turning abruptly, left her
alone.
>k >k >k >k >k >k >k >k


165
the window, threw it up, thinking that the cool air
would make her feel better and refreshed.
“What was that?”
She could have sworn that she saw a dark-robed
figure skulking along in the shrubbery. No, it was
all a fancy of—no, there it is again, sneaking along as
if it did not desire to be seen. What did it mean?
Bessie's first impulse was to arouse the house, but
then she thought it might possibly be some servant
who had been out for a time, and she had no desire
to cause anyone trouble. She was sure it was a ser-
vant when she saw the figure turn in towards the
servants' rooms and disappear behind the house. So
she drew her chair beside the window and gave her-
self up to thought. Presently the clock on the man-
tel struck one. No sooner had the sound died away
When another sound came to her ears. What was it?
Nothnig. Her imagination was playing pranks with
her.
Hark! There it was again! She was sure she heard
stealthy footsteps pass her door. She arose softly,
and going to the door quietly opened it and peeped
Out.
Yes! There it was, the figure of a woman in black.
What did it mean? This was not the servants'
part of the house and if she was a servant what did
she want there? Did Bertram have any dishonest
persons in his employ? What was she doing sneak-
ing in this portion of the house?
Impelled by some force stronger than herself she
noiselessly glided after her. She saw the woman pass
swiftly along the hall and stop at Viola's door and
after trying a few keys in the lock, opened it and
passed in. Bessie was close at her heels. Viola al-


167
CHAPTER XXIX.
Would-Be Murderer Falls To Death.
The woman turned with a stifled cry of fright and
fled toward the door. Bessie had to go a little dis-
tance from the door in order to seize the bell cord,
and before she could return to it, the woman had
darted through and toward the staircase. Bessie
gave chase and so close was she to her that she man-
aged to catch the shawl from her shoulder. This
caused the woman to redouble her efforts to escape,
and she made a spurt forward and began lowering
her veil. This proved the most disastrous thing she
could have done. In lowering her veil it momentarily
cut off her view ahead. Failing to see the marble
statue just at the point where she was to turn to de-
scend the stairs, resulted in her running against it
with force enough to have killed some people. She
was simply momentarily checked and started off
again, but the statue had fallen directly across her
path, and as she started forward she tripped. Strug-
gling desperately to regain her equilibrium, she trip-
ped again, falling headlong down the heavy oak
stairs, bouncing from step to step, finally landing in a
heap thirty feet below, with a sickening thud. Bes-
sie stopped and covered her face with her hands in
horror.
The servants began to arrive on the scene half-
dressed, with terror-stricken faces.
“What is the trouble?” asked Bertram, who had
just arrived. “What does it all mean?”
Bessie was trembling like an aspen, and could not
speak from horror.


169
Bertram, after notifying the authorities, and after
the inquest had been held over the remains of Mona,
had instructed the jurors not to give the facts in the
case to the newspapers. They complied and the jury
found a verdict that the deceased had met death by
accidently falling down stairs in the house of Ber-
tram Heathcourt.
Bertram ordered the body buried at his expense,
and placed in a plot in the Clairmount Cemetery,
near the family vault of the Heathcourts.
*
>k >k >k >k x >k >k >k
Two years have passed and Bessie is still at the
Park. She is looking paler and growing thinner
every day. So much so, in fact, that it has become
quite noticeable to those with whom she daily came
in contact.
Bertram and Viola have advised a change of
air and scenery, but she would not hear of it. She
had also refused to follow the advice of Mr. Turpin,
and return to her parents, whom he was confident
would forgive her. It seemed as if she was waiting
for something. Every day she would look up eagerly
when the mail arrived, and if there was anything for
her, after reading it, she would sigh heavily, as if it
was not from the one she expected. The days flew
by into weeks, and weeks into months.
One day the detective drove to the Park with an
expression of grim determination on his face. He in-
quired for Bessie, and when they were alone, in his
quick but earnest manner and without any parleying,
he began straightway to lay his heart at her feet.
“It breaks my heart to see you dying by inches


171
--
Five years have elapsed. Two women are standing
on the broad piazza at the Park admiring the beauti-
ful sunset. It needs but one glance to tell that they
are the two Mrs. Heathcourts. Mrs. Heathcourt, the
elder, is still beautiful, although her brow is becoming
wrinkled and her hair gray. Viola is almost the same
Viola as of old, only she is becoming less fragile look-
ing. Her superb form has in it now the fulness of
matronhood, and her cheeks the same glow, her
eyes the same sparkle as she gazes on the crimson sky
as they had shown that afternoon on the cliff, when
she was in such imminent danger.
Together the two women turned as the sun was
sinking behind the western horizon, and walked along
the piazza to the other side of the house, where they
stopped to gaze at the pretty picture that their eyes
beheld. -
Seated in an easy chair is Bertram, handsome as
ever, a tiger-skin rug under his feet, and he is divid-
ing his attention between an old Virginia cheroot, a
newspaper and a curly golden head peeping up be-
tween his knees.
Mrs. Bertram Heathcourt, while standing quietly
hy, gazing on, bent forward over the back of the chair
in which was seated her love, tenderly placed her
arms around his neck and gently pressed a kiss on
Bertram's forehead.
Suddenly the little tot of four summers called out:
“Mamma! Gamma! Here tums my uzzer
Gamma an' Gampa Timby”
“Yes, yes,” said Viola, smiling.
“Bless him,” said Mrs. Heathcourt, the elder,
“Bless him ! God bless you all, my children!”
And together they go down the steps to meet the
newly-arrived party.
THE END.