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COPYRIGHT, 1889 AND 1890,
BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS.
(All rights raw rrwl.)
Pump or
THE air.“ YORK 1.5005“
313‘ YORK
‘U
Ix
(I.
Q


i/RéZ
OF
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE OAK PARLOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 5
II. BURRITT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 25
III. A FEARFUL DISCOVERY . . . . . . .._ . . . . . . . .. 37
IV. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 60
V. AN INTERIM OF SUSPENSE . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 71
VI. THE RECLUSE...-. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 78
VII. Two WOMEN . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 91
VIII. A SUDDEN BETROTHAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 110
IX. MARAH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 116
5 X. AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS . . . . . . . . . .. 130
g XI. HONORA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 136
l!“ XII. EDWIN URQUHART . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 142
is XIII. BEFORE THE WEDDING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 148
j XIV. A CASSANDRA AT THE GATE . . . . . . . . . . .. I60
g XV. THE CATASTROPHE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. I71
Q XVI. A DREAM ENDED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 185
g g VII. STRANGE GUESTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 195
12006437


TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.‘
PAGE
MRS. TRUAX TALKS . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 204
IN THE HALLS AT MIDNIGHT . . . . 223
THE STONE IN THE GARDEN . . . . . . . . .. 232
IN THE OAK PARLOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 247
A SURPRISE FOR HONORA . . . . . . . . . . . .. 288
IN THE SECRET CHAMBER . . . . . . . . . . . .. 30:
THE MARQUIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 312
MARK FELT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 318
FOR THE LAST TIME . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 330
A LAST \VORD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 334


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
BY VICTOR PERARD.
In the Garden of the Inn . . . . . . Frantispz‘ere.
[Sn/“g? 299-]
PAGE
The Forsaken Inn . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Burritt at the Door of the Oak Parlor . . . . 25
The New York Coach . . . . . . . . . . 37
Finding the Secret of the Oak Parlor. . . . . 53
“ Worse Than I had Dreamed” . . . . . . . 57
“ How Fearful I” . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
At Mark Felt’s Cave . . . . . . . . . . . 83
The Recreant Bride . . . . . . . . . . . mg
“I Broke his Glass” . . . . . . . . . ._ I42
A Cassandra at the Gate . . . . . . ; . . 167
“ Caesar’s " Information . . . . . . a .1?“ . . . I7I
Dragging the Rii'er . . . . . . . I. . . . 179
“This Morning". . . . . . . Q . . . .204
The Grave in the Garden . . . . . . . . . 235
“The Long-Expected Move ” . . . . . . . 247
Diagram of the Inn’s Ground Floor . . . . . 251
“ Events Crowd " . . . . . . . . . . . . 288
The Arrival of Mark Felt . . . . . . . . . 318
“ Flinging his Rider at the Very Threshold of my
House” . . . . . . 341
“ Happy-go-Lucky Inn " Sign [Tail piece] . . . 346





TO MY HUSBAND.





THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER I.


THE OAK PARLOR.


a T. . 1-“). "as '
AS riding between Albany
" '4 and Poughkeepsie. It was rain-
ing furiously, and my horse, already weary with
long travel, gave unmistakable signs of discour-
agement. I was, therefore, greatly relieved when,
in the most desolate part Of the road, I espied
rising before me the dim outlines of a house, and


was correspondingly disappointed when, upon rid-
ing forward, I perceived that it was but a deserted
ruin I was approaching, whose fallen chimneys
and broken windows betrayed a dilapidation so


6 THE FORSAKEN mu.
great that I could scarcely hope to find so much
as a temporary shelter therein.
Nevertheless, I was so tired of the biting storm
that I involuntarily stopped before the decayed
and forbidding structure, and was, in truth, with-
drawing my foot from the stirrup,when I heard
an unexpected exclamation behind me, and turn-
ing, saw a chaise, from the open front of which
leaned a gentleman of most attractive appearance.
“ What are you going to do P" he asked.
“ Hide my head from the storm," was my hur-
ried rejoinder. “I am tired, and so is my horse,
and the town, according to all appearances, must
be at least two miles distant.”
“ No matter if it is three miles! You must not
take shelter in that charnel-house," he muttered;
and moved along in his seat as if to show me
there was room beside him.
“ Why," I exclaimed, struck with sudden curi-
osity, “is this one of the haunted houses we
hear of P If so, I shall certainly enter, and be
much obliged to the storm for driving me into so
interesting a spot.” Ithought he looked embar-
rassed. At all events, I am sure he hesitated for
a moment whether or not to ride on and leave me


THE OAK PARLOR. 7
to my fate. But his better impulses seemed to
prevail, for he suddenly cried: “Get in’with me,
and leave mysteries alone. If you want to come
back here after you have learned the history of
that house, you can do so; but first ride on to
town and have a good meal. Your horse will
follow easily enough after he is rid of your
weight.” '
It was too tempting an offer to be refused ; so
thankfully accepting his kindness, I alighted fr0m
my horse, and after tying him to the back of the
chaise, got in with this genial stranger. As I did
so I caught another view of the ruin I had been
so near entering.
“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, pointing to
the structure that, with its projecting upper story
and ghastly apertures, presented a most sugges-
tive appearance, “ if it does not look like a skull l"
My companion shrugged his shoulders, but did
not reply. The comparison was evidently not a
new one to him.
That evening, in a comfortable inn parlor, I
read the following manuscript. It was placed
in my hands by this kindly stranger, who in so
doing explained that it had been written by the


8 THE FORSAKEN mn'.
last occupant of the old inn I was so nearly on the
point of investigating. She had been its former
landlady, and had clung to the ancient house long
after decay had settled upon its doorstep and
desolation breathed from its gaping windows.
She died in its north room, and from under her
pillow the discolored leaves were taken, the words
of which I now place before you.
JANUARY 28, 1775.
' I do not understand myself. Ido not under-
stand my doubts nor can I analyze my fears.
	hn I saw the carriage drive off, followed by
the wagon with its inexplicable big box, I thought
I should certainly regain my former serenity.
But I am more uneasy than ever. I cannot rest,
and keep going over and over in my mind the few
words that passed between us in their short stay
under my roof. It is her face that haunts me. It
must be that, for it had a strange look of trouble
in it as well as sickness ; but neither can I forget
his, so fair, so merry, and yet so unpleasant, es-
pecially when he glanced at her and—as I could
not help but think before they went away—when
he glanced at me. Ido not like him, and the
..


THE OAK PARLOR. 9
chills creep over me whenever I remember his
laugh, which was much too frequent to be decent,
considering how poorly his young wife looked.
They are gone, and their belongings with them;
but I am as much 'afraid as if they were still here.
Why? That is what I cannot tell. I Sit in the
room where they slept, and feel as strange and
terrified as if I had encountered a ghost there. I
dread to stay and dread to move and write, be-
cause I must relieve myself in some way—that is,
if I am to have any Sleep to-night. Am I ill, or
was there something unexplained and mysterious '
in their actions? Let me go over the past and
see.
They came last evening about twilight. I was
in the front of the house, and seeing such a good-
looking couple in the carriage, and such a pile "of
baggage with them that they had to have an extra
wagon to carry it, Iran out in all haste to welcome
them. She had a veil drawn over her face, and it
was so thick that I could not see her features, but
her figure was slight and graceful, and I took a
fancy to her at once, perhaps because she held her
arms out when She saw me, as if She thOught she be-
held in me a friend. He did not please me so well,


10 THE FORSAKEN INN.
though there is no gainsaying that he is handsome
enough, and speaks, when he wishes to, with a
great deal of courtesy. But I thought he ought
to give his attention to his young and ailing wife,
instead of being so concerned about his baggage.
Had that big box of his contained gold, he could
not have looked at it more lovingly or been more
anxious about its handling. He said it held books;
but, pshaw! what is there in books, that a man
should love them better than his wife, and watch
over their welfare with the utmost concern, while
allowing a stranger to help her out of the carriage
and up the inn steps?
But I will not dwell any longer upon this. Men
are strange beings, and must not be judged by
rules that apply to women. Let me see if I can re-
member when it was that I first saw her face. Ah,
yes; it was in the parlor. She had taken a seat
there while her husband looked through the house
and decided which room to take. There were fOur
empty, and two of them were the choicest and
airiest in the inn, but he passed by these and in-
sisted upon taking one that was stuffy with disuse,
because it was on the ground floor, and so con-
venient for us to bring his great box into.


THE OAK PARLOR. III
His great box! I was so provoked at this ever-
lasting concern about his great box, that I ran to
the parlor, intending to ask the lady herself to in-
terfere. But when I got to the threshold I paused,
and did not speak, for the lady—or Mrs. Urquhart,
as I presently found she called herself—had risen
from her seat and was looking in the glass with an
expression so sad and searching that I forgot my
errand and only thought of comforting her. But
the moment she heard my step she drew down the
veil which she had tossed back, and coming quick-
ly toward me, asked if her husband had chosen a
room.
I answered in the affirmative, and began to com-
plain that it was not a very cheerful one. But she
paid small attention to my words, and presently I
found myself following her to the apartment
designated. She entered, making a picture, as she
crossed the threshold, which I shall not readily
forget. For in her short, quick walk down the
hall she had torn the bonnet from her head, and
though she was not a strictly beautiful woman, she
was sufficiently interesting to make her every
movement attractive. But that is not all. For
some reason the moment possessed an importance


12 THE FORSAKI-ZN INN.
for her which I could not measure. I saw it in
her posture, in the pallor of her cheeks and the
uprightness of her carriage. The sudden halt she
made at the threshold, the half-startled exclama-
tion she gave as her eyes fell on the interior, all
showed that she was laboring under some secret
agitation. But what was the cause of that agita-
tion I have not been able to determine. She went
in, but as she did so, I heard her murmur:
“ Oak walls! Ah, my soul! it has come soon !"
Not a very intelligible exclamation, you will al-
low, but as intelligible as her whole conduct. For
in another moment every sign of emotion had left
her, and she stood quite calm and cold in the cen-
ter of the room. But her pallor remained, and
I cannot make sure now whether this betokened
weary resignation or some secret and but half
recognized fear.
Had I looked at him instead of at her, I might
have understood the situation better. But,though
I dimly perceived his form drawn up in the
empty space at the left of the door, it was not until
she had passed him and flung herself into a chair,
that I thought to look in his direction. Then it
was too late, for he had turned his face aside and


THE OAK PARLOR. 13
was gazing with rather an obtrusive curiosity at
the old-fashioned room, murmuring, as he did so,
some such commonplaces to his wife as:
“I hope you are not fatigued, my dear. Fine
old house, this. Quite English in style, eh P”
T 0 all of which she answered with a nod or
word, till suddenly, without look or warning, she
slipped from her chair and lay perfectly insensible
upon the dark boards of the worm-eaten floor.
I uttered an exclamation, and so did he; but it
was my arms that lifted her and laid her on the
bed. He stood as if frozen to his place for a mo-
ment, then he mechanically lifted his foot and set
it with an air of proprietorship on the box before
which he had been standing.
“ Strange and inexplicable conduct," thought I,
and looked the indignation I could not but feel.
Instantly he left his position and hastened to my
side, offering his assistance and advice with that
heartless ofliciousness which is so unbearable
when life and death are at stake.
I accepted as little of his help as 'was possible,
and when, after persistent effort on my part, Isaw
her lids-fluttering and her breast heaving, I turned
to him with as inoffensive an air as my mingled


I4 THE FORSAKEN INN.
dislike and distrust would admit, and asked how
long they had been married. He flushed vio-
lently, and with a sudden rage that at once robbed
him of that gentlemanly appearance which, in
him, was but the veneer to a coarse and brutal
nature, he exclaimed :
“ you! and by what right do you ask
that P"
But before I could reply he recovered himself
and was all false polish again, bowing with exag-

gerated politeness, as he exclaimed:
“ Excuse me; I have had much to disturb me
lately. My wife‘s health has been very feeble for
months, and. I am worn out with anxiety and
watching. We are now on our way to a warmer
climate, where I hope she will be quite restored.”
And he smiled a very strange and peCuliar .
smile, that went out like a suddenly extinguished
candle, as he perceived her eyes suddenly open,
and her gaze pass reluctantly around the room, as
if forced to a curiosity against which She secretly
rebelled. x
“ I think Mrs. Urquhart will do very well now,"
was his hurried remark at this sight. He evi-
dently wished to be rid of me, and though I hated


1 nlflnltl $\.\,





THE OAK PARLOR. I7
to leave her, I really found nothing to say in con-
tradiction to his statement, for she certainly looked
completely restored. I therefore turned away
with a heavy heart toward the door, when the
young wife, suddenly throwing out her arms, ex-
claimed : v
“ Do not leave me in this horrible room alone!
Iam afraid of it—aCtually afraid! Couldn’t you
have found some spot in the house less gloomy,
Edwin ?"
I came back.
“ There are plenty of rooms—” I began.
But he interrupted me without any ceremony.
“I chose this room, Honora, for its convenience.
There is nothing horrible about it, and when the
lamps are lit you will find it quite pleasant. Do
not be foolish. We sleep here or nowhere, for I
cannot consent to go upstairs.”
She answered nothing, but I saw her eyes go
traveling once again around the walls, followed in
a furtive way by his. Whereupon I looked about
me, too, and tried to get a stranger’s impression of
.the place. I was astonished at its effect upon my
imagination. Though I had been in and out of the
room fifty times before, I had never noticed till


18 THE FORSAKEN mu.
now the extreme dismalness and desolation of its
appearance.
Once used as an auxiliary parlor, it had that air
of uninhabitableness which clings to such rooms,
together with a certain something else, equally
unpleasant, to which at that moment I could give
no name, and for which I could neither find then
nor now any sufficient reason.‘ It was paneled
With oak far above our heads, and as the walls
above had become gray with smoke, there was
absolutely no color in the room, not even in the
hangings of the gaunt four-poster that loomed
dreary and repelling from one end of the room.
For here, as elsewhere, time had been at work,
and tints that were once bright enough had grad-
ually been subdued by dust and smoke into one
uniform dimness. The floor was black, the fire-
place empty, the walls without a picture, and yet
it was neither from this grayness nor from this
barrenness that one recoiled. It was from some-
thing else—something that went deeper than the
lack of charm or color—something that clung to
the walls like a contagion and caught at the heart-
strings where they are weakest, smothering hope
and awakening horror, till in each faded chair


THE OAK PARLOR. 19
a ghost seemed sitting, gazing at you with im—
movable eycs that could tell tales, but would
not.
There was but .one window in the room, and
that looked toward the west. But the light that
should have entered there was frightened, also,
and halted on the ledge without, balked by the
thick curtains that heavily enshrouded it. A
haunted chamber! or so it appeared at that mo_
ment to my somewhat excited fancy, and for the
first time in my life, here, I felt a dread of my
own house, and experienced the uncanny sensa-
tion of some one walking over my grave.
But I soon recovered myself. Nothing of a
disagreeable nature had ever happened in this
room, nor had we had any special reason for
shutting it up, except that it was in an out-of-the-
way place, and not usually considered convenient,
notwithstanding Mr. Urquhart's opinion to the
contrary. ,
“Never mind,” said I, with a last effort to
soothe the agitated woman. “We will let in a
little light, and dissipate some of these shadows."
And I attempted to throw back the curtains of the
window, but they fell again immediately and I


20 THE FORSAKEN INN.
experienced a sensation as of something ghostly
passing between us and the light.
Provoked at my own weakness, I tore the cur
tains down and fiung them ihto a corner. A
straggling beam of sunset color came in, but it
looked out of place and forlorn upon that black
floor, like a stranger who meets with no welcome.
The poor young wife seemed to hail it, however,
for she moved instantly to where it lay and stood
as if she longed for its warmth and comfort. I
immediately glanced at the fireplace.
“I will soon have a rousing fire for you," I
declared. “These old fireplaces hold a large pile
of wood.”
I thought, but I must be mistaken, that he made
a gesture as if about to protest, but, if so, reason
must have soon come to his aid, for he said noth-
ing, though he looked uneasy, as I moved the
andirons forward and made some other trivial
arrangements for the fire which I had promised
them.
“ He thinks I am never going," I muttered to
myself, and took pleasure in lingering; for, anx- '
ious asI was to have the room heated up for her
comfort, I knew that every moment I stayed there


THE OAK PARLOR. 21
would be one less for her to spend with her surly
husband alone.
At last I had no further excuse for remaining,
and so with the final remark that if the fire failed
to give them cheer we had a sitting room into
which they could come, I went out. But I knew,
even while saying it, that he would not grant her
the opportunity of enjoying the sitting room’s
coziness ; that he would not let her out of his
sight, if he did out of the room, and that for her
to remain in his presence was to be in darkness,
solitude and gloom, no matter what walls sur-
rounded her or in what light she stood.
My impressions were not far wrong. Mr. and
Mrs. Urquhart came to supper, but that was all.
Before the others had finished their roast they had
eaten their pudding and gone ; and though he
had talked, and laughed, and shown his white teeth,
the impression left behind them was a depressing
one which even Hetty felt, and she has anything
but a sensitive nature.
Iwent to the room once again in the evening.
I found them both seated, but in opposite parts of
the room; he by his great box, and she in an easy
chair which I had caused to be brought down


22 THE FORSAKEN INN.
from my own room for her especial use. I did
not look at him, but I did at her, and was aston-
ished to see, first, how dignified she was; and
next how pretty. Had she been happy and at
her ease, I should probably have been afraid of
her, for the firelight, which now shone on her
wan young cheek, brought out evidences of char-
acter and culture in her expression which proved
her to be, by birth and training, of a position su-
perior to what one would be led to expect from
her husband’s aspect and manner. But she was
not happy nor at her ease, and wore, instead of
the quiet and commanding look of the great lady,
such an expression of secret dread that I almost
forgot my position of landlady, and should cer-
tainly, if he had not been there, fallen at her side
and taken her poor, forsaken head upon my breast.
But that silent, immovable form, sitting statue-
like beside his big box, smiling, for aught I knew,
but if so, breathing out a chill that forbade all ex-
hibition of natural feeling, held me in check, as it
held her, so that I merely inquired whether there
was anythingl could do for her; and when she
shook her head, starting a tear down her cheek as
she did so, I dared do nothing more than give her


THE OAK PARLOR. 23
one look of sympathetic understanding, and start
for the door.
A command from him stopped me.
“My wife will need a slight supper before she
goes to bed,” said he. “ Will you be good enough
to see that one is brought P”
She roused herself up with quite a startled
look of wonder.
“ Why, Edwin,” she began, “ I never have been
in the habit—”
But he hushed her at once.
“I know what is best for you,” said be. “A
small plate of luncheon, Mrs. Truax; and let it be
nice and inviting.”
I courtesied, gave her another glance, and went
out. Her countenance had not lost its look of won-
der. Was he going to be considerate, after all?
The lunch was prepared and taken to her.
Not long after this the inn quieted down, and
such guests as were in the house prepared for rest.
Midnight came; all was dark in room and hall.
I was sure of this, for Iwent through the whole
building myself, contrary to my usual habit, which
was to leave this task to my man-of-all-work, Bur-
ritt. All was dark, all was quiet, and I was just


24 THE FORSAKEN INN.
dropping Off to sleep, when there shot up sud-
denly from below a shriek, which was quickly
smothered,but not so quickly that I did not recog-
nize in it that tone which is only given by hide-
ous distress or mortal fear.
“ It is Mrs. Urquhart!" I cried in terror, to my-
self; and plunging into my clothes, I hurried
down- stairs.


BURRITT. 25
CHAPTER II.
BURRITT.
All was quiet in the halls, but as I proceeded
toward their room I perceived a figure standing


J 4.
: ‘llnllmlllmlll‘,

near the doorway, which, in another moment, I
-saw to be that of Burritt. He was trembling like
a leaf, and was bent forward, listening.


26 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“Hush !;' he whispered; “they are talking.
All seems to be right. Ijust heard him call her
darling."
I drew the man away and took his place. Yes;
they were talking in subdued but not unkindly
tones. I heard him bid her be composed, and
caught, as I thought, a light reply that ought to
have satisfied me that Mrs. Urquhart had simply
suffered from some nightmare horror at which she
was as ready to laugh now as be. But my nature
is a contradictory one, and I was not satisfied.
The echo of her cry was still ringing in my ears,
and I felt as if I would give the world for a mo-
mentary peep into their room. Influenced by
this idea, I boldly knocked, and in an instant—too
soon for him not to have been standing near the
door—I heard his breath through the keyhole
and the words:
“ Who is there, and what do you want?"
“We heard a cry,” was my response, “and I
feared Mrs. Urquhart was ill again.”
“Mrs. Urquhart is very well,” came hastily, al-
most gayly, from within. “ She had a dream, and
was willing that every one should know it. Is not
that all P" he said, seemingly addressing his wife.


BURRIT'I'. 2 7
I There was a murmur within, and then I heard
her voice. “ It was only a dream, dear Mrs.
Truax,” it said, and convinced against my will, I
was about to return to my room, when I brushed
against Burritt. He had not moved, and did not
look as if he intended to.
“ Come,” said I, “there is no use of our remain-
ing here."
“Can’t help it," was his whispered reply. “ In
this hall I stay till morning. When I see a lamb
in the care of a wolf, I find it hard to sleep.
There is a door between-us, but please God there
shan’t be anything more."
And knowing Burritt, I did not try to argue,
but went quietly and somewhat thoughtfully to
my room, vaguely relieved that I left him be-
hind, though convinced there would be no further
need of his services.
And so it was. No more sounds disturbed the
house, and when I came down, with the first
streak of daylight, I found Burritt gone about his
work.
Breakfast was served to the Urquharts in their
own room. I had wished to carry it in myself,
but I found this inconvenient, and so I sent Hetty.


28 THE l-‘UkSAKl-ZN INN.
When she came back I asked her how Mrs. Urqu-
hart looked.
“Very well, ma’am,"was the quick reply. “And
see ! I don't think she's as unhappy as we all
thought last night, or she wouldn't be giving me
a bright new crown."
I glanced at the girl’s palm. There was indeed
a bright new crown in it.
“ Did she give you that P” I inquired.
“ Yes, ma’am; she herself. And she laughed
when she did it, and said it was for the good break-
fast I had brought her."
I was busy at the time, and could not stop to
give the girl's words much thought; but as soon
as I had any leisure, I went to see for myself how
Mrs. Urquhart looked when she laughed.
I was five minutes too late. She had just don-
ned her traveling bonnet and veil, and though I
heard her laugh slightly once, I did not see her
face. ‘
I saw his, however, and was surprised at the
good nature in it. He was quite the gentleman,
and if he had not been in such a hurry, would have
doubtless made, or endeavored to make, himself
very agreeable. But he was just watching his


BURRITT. 29
great box carried out to the wagon, and while he
took pains to talk to me—was it to keep me from
talking to herP—he was naturallya little absent_
minded. He was in haste, too, and insisted upon
placing his wife in the carriage before all his bag-
gage was taken from the room. And she seemed
willing to go. I watched her on purpose to see,
for I was not yet satisfied that she was not play-
ing a part at his dictation, but I could discover
no hint of reluctance in her manner, but rather a
quiet alacrity, as if she felt glad to quit a room
to which she had taken a dislike.
When Isaw this, and noted the light step of
her feet, I said to myself that Ihad been a fool,
and lost a little of the interest I had felt for her.
Nor did I regain it till after they had driven
ayvay, though she showed a consideration for me
at the last which I had not expected, leaning
from the carriage to give me agOOd-by pressure
of the hand, and even nodding again and again
as they disappeared down the road. For the fear
which could be dissipated in a night was not the
fear with which Ihad credited her; and of ordii
nary excitements and commonplace natures I had
seen enough in my long experience as landlady t0


30 THE FORSAKI'IN INN.
make me unwilling to trouble myself with any
more of them.
But when the carriage and its accompanying
wagon had quite disappeared, and Mr. and Mrs.
Urquhart were virtually as far beyond my reach
as if they were already in New York, Ibecame
conscious of a great uneasiness. This was the
more strange in that there seemed to be no espe-
cial cause for it. They had left my house in ap-
parently better spirits than they had entered it,
and there was no longer any reason why I should
concern myself about them. And yet I did con-
cern myself, and came into the house and into the
room they had just vacated, with feelings so un-
usual that I was astonished at myself, and not a
little provoked. I had a vague feeling that the
woman who had just left was somehow different
from thexone I had seen the night before.
But I am a busy woman, and I do not thinkl
should have let this trouble me long if it had not
been for Burritt. But when he came into the
room after me, and shut the door behind him and
stood with his back against it, looking at me, I
knew I was not the only one who felt uncomfort-
able about the Urquharts. .Rising from the chair


BURRITT. _~ 31
where I had been sittingcounting the cost of fitting
up that room so as to make it look habitable, I went
toward him and met his gaze pretty sharply.
“ Well, what is it P” I asked.
“I don’t know,” was the somewhat sullen re-
ply. “Idon’t feel right about those folks, and
yet—~" He stopped and scratched his head—-
“ I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Are you sure
they left nothing behind them?"
The last words were uttered in such a tone I
did not know for a minute what to say.
“ Left anything behind them!" I replied. “ They
left their money, if that is what you mean. I
don’t know what else they could have left.”
Notwithstanding which assertion, I involun-
tarily glanced about the room as if half expecting
to see some one of their many belongings protrud-
ing from a hitherto unsearched corner. His gaze
followed mine, but presently returned, and we
stood again looking at each other.
“ Nothing here,” said I.
“Where is it, then P” he asked.
I frowned in displeasure.
“Where is what P” I demanded. “ You speak
like a fool. Explain yourself.”


32 THE FORSAKEN INN.
He took a step toward me and lowered his
voice. Every one knows Burritt, so I need not
describe him. You can all imagine how he looked
when he said:
“Did you see me handling of the big box,
ma'am ?"
I nodded yes.
“Saw how I was the one to help carry it in,
and also how I was the one to first take hold on
it when he wanted it carried out ?" I again nod-
ded yes.
“ \Vell, ma’am, that box was a heavy load to lift
into the wagon, but, ma’am"—here his voice be-
came quite sepulchral—“ it wasn't as heavy as it
was when we lifted it out, and it hadn't the same
feel either. Now, what had happened to it, and
where is the stuff he took out of it P"
Iown I had never in my life felt creepy be-
fore that minute. But with his eyes staring at me
so impressively, and his voice sunk to a depth
that made me lean forward to hear what he had
to say, I do declare I felt as if an icy breath
had been blown across the roots of my hair.
“ Burritt, you want to frighten me," I exclaimed,
as soon as I could get my voice. “The box


BURRITT. 33
seemed heavier to you than it did just now.
There was no change in it, there could not be,
or we should find something here to account for
it. Remember you did not sleep last night, and
lack of rest makes one fanciful.”
“It does not make a man feel stronger, though, .
and I tell you the box was not near so heavy to-
day as yesterday. Besides, as I said before, it
acted differently under the handling. There was
something loose in it today. Yesterday it was
packed tight.”
I shook my head, and tried to throw off the op-
pression caused by his manner. But seeing his
eyes travel to the window, I looked that way too.
“ He didn’t carry anything out of the door,” de-
clared Burritt, at this moment, “ because I watch-
edit, and I know. But that window is only three
feet from the ground, and I remember now that
at the instant I first laid my ear to the keyhole,
I heard a strange, grating sound just like that
of a window being lowered by a very careful
hand. Shall I look outside it, ma’am P"
I replied by going quickly to the window my_
self, lifting it, which I did with very little trou-
ble, and glancing out. The familiar garden, with


34 THE FORSAKEN INN.
its path to the river, lay before me; but though
I allowed myself one quick look in its direction,
it was to the ground immediately beneath the
window that I turned my attention, and it was
here that I instantly, and to the satisfaction of
. both Burritt and myself, discovered unmistakable
Signs of disturbance. Not only was there the im-
pression of a finely booted foot imprinted in the
loose earth, but there was a large stone lying
against the house which we were both confident
had not been there the day before.
“ He went roaming through the garden last
night," cried Burritt, “and he brought back
that stone. Why P"
I Shuddered instead of replying. Then re-
membering that I had seen the young wife well
and happy only a few minutes before, felt con-
fused and mystified beyond any power to express.
“I will have a look at that stone," continued
Burritt; and without waiting for my sanction, he
vaulted out of the window andlifted the stone.
After a moment’s consideration of it he de-
clared:
“ It came from the river“ bank ; that is all I can
make out of it.”


BURRITT. 35
And dropping the stone from his hand, he sud-
denly darted down the path to the river. -
He was not gone long. When he came back,
he looked still more doubtful than before.
“If I know that bank," he declared, “there
has been more than one stone taken from it, and
some dirt. 'Suppose we examine the floor,
ma’am.”
We did so, and just where the box had been
placed we discovered some particles Of sand that
were not brought in from the road.
“ What does it mean?" I cried.
Burritt did not answer. He was looking out
toward the river. Suddenly he turned his eyes
upon me and said in his former suppressed tone:
“He filled the box with stone and earth, and
these were what we carried out and put into the
wagon. But it was full when it came, and very
heavy. Now, what was it filled with, and what
has become of the stuff?”
It was the question then; it is the question now.
Burritt hints at crime, and has gone so far as
to spend all the afternoon searching the river
banks. But he has discovered nothing, nor can
he explain what it was he looked for or expected


36 THE FORSAKEN INN.
to find. Nor are my own thoughts and feelings
any clearer. I remember that the times are un-
settled, that the spirit of revolution is in the air,
and try to be charitable enough to suppose that
it was treasure the young husband brought with
him, and that all the perturbation and distress
which I imagine myself to have witnessed in his
behavior and that of his wife were owing to the
purpose that they had formed of burying, in this
spot, the silver and plate which they were per-
haps unwilling to risk to the chances of war. But
when I try to stifle my graver fears with this
surmise, I recall the fearful nature of the shriek
which startled me from my sleep, and repeat, trem-
blingly, to myself:
“Some one was in mortal agony at the moment
I heard that cry. \Vas it the young wife, or was
it—”


A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. 37
CHAPTER III.
A FEARFUL DISCOVERY.


_ if" 371791.
A!!! T IS sixteen years since I wrote
the preceding chapters of this his-
tory of mystery and crime. When the pen drop-
ped from my hand—why did it drop? Was it
because of some noise I heard?
I imagine so now, and tremble. I did not
anticipate ever adding a line to the words I had
written. The impulse which had led me to put
upon paper my doubts concerning the two Urqu-
harts soon passed, and as nothing ever occurred
to recall this couple to my mind, Igradually al-
lowed their name and memory to vanish from
my thoughts, only remembering them when
chance led me into the oak parlor. Then, in-


38 THE FORSAREN INN.
deed, I recollected their manner and my fears,
and then I also felt repeated, though every time
with fainter and fainter power, the old thrill of
undefined terror which stopped my record of
that day with the half-finished question as to who
had uttered the shriek that had startled me the
night before. To-day I again take up my pen.v
\Vhy? Because to-day, and only since to-day,
can I answer this question.
Sixteen years ago! which makes me sixteen
years older. My house, too, has aged, and the
oak parlor—I never refurnished it—is darker,
gloomier, and more forbidding than it was then,
and in truth, why should it not be? When I re-
member'what was revealed to me a week ago, I
wonder that its walls did not drop fungi, and its
chill strike death through the man or woman
who was brave enough to enter it. Horrible,
horrible room! You shall be torn from my house
if the rest of the structure goes with you. Neither
I nor another shall ever enter your fatal portal
again.
It was a week ago to-day that the coach from
New York set down at my door a stranger of
fine and quaint appearance, whose white hair be-


A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. 39
tokened him to be aged, but whose alert and en_
ergetic movements showed that, if he had passed
the line of fourscore, he had still enough of the
fire of youth remaining to make his presence wel-
come in whatever place he chose to enter. As
had happened sixteen years before, I was looking
out of the window when the coach drove up, and,
being at once attracted by the stranger’s person
and manner, I watched him closely while he was
alighting, and was surprised to observe what in-
tent and searching glances he cast at the house.
“ He could not be more interested if he were
returning to the home of his fathers,” l mur-
mured involuntarily to myself, and hastened to
the door in order to receive him.
He came forward courteously. But after the
first few words between us he turned again and
gazed with marked curiosity up and down the
road and again at the house.
“ You seem to be acquainted with these parts,"
I ventured. He smiled.
“ This is an old house," he answered, “and you
are young.” (I am fifty-five.) “ There must have
been owners of the place before you. Do you
know their names?"


40 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ I bought the place of Dan Forsyth, and he of
one Hammond. I don't know as [can go back
any further than that. Originally the house was
the property of an Englishman. There were
strange stories about him, but it was so long ago ‘
that they are almost forgotten."
The stranger smiled again, and followed me
into the house. Here his interest seemed to re-
double.
Instantly a thought flashed through my brain.
“He is its ancient owner the Englishman. I
am standing in the presence of—"
“You wish to know my name," interrupted his
genial voice. “ It is Tamworth. 1 am a Vir-
ginian, and hope to stay at your inn one night.
What kind of a room have you to offer me P”
There was a twinkle in his eyes I did not under-
stand. He was looking down the hall, and I
thought his gaze rested on the corridor leading to
the oak parlor.
“I shOuld like to sleep on the ground floor,”
he added.
“ I have but one room,” I began.
“And one is all I want," he smiled. Then, with
a quick glance at my face : “I suppose you are a


A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. 4I
little particular Whom you put into the oak parlor.
It is not every one who can appreciate such ro-
mantic surroundings.”
I surveyed him, completely puzzled. Where-
upon he looked at me with an expression of sur-
prise and incredulity that added to the mystery
of the moment.
“ The room is gloomy and uninviting," I de-
clared; “but beyond that, I do not know of any
especial claim it has upon our interest."
“ You astonish me,” was his evidently sincere
reply; and he walked on, very thoughtfully,
straight to the room of which we were speaking.
At the door he paused. “Don’t you know the
secret of this room,” he asked, giving me a very
bright and searching glance.
“If you mean anything concerning the Urqu-
harts,” I began doubtfully.
“Urquharts!” he carelessly repeated. “I do
not know anything about them. I am speaking of
an old tradition. I was told—let me see how
long it is now—well, it must be sixteen years at
least—that this house contained a hidden chamber
communicating with a certain oak parlor in the
west wing. I thought it was curious, and—Why,


44 THE FORSAKEN INN.
for a long story, I Shall make my words as few as
possible. Some years ago I had occasion to spend
a night in an inn not unlike this, on Long Island.
I was alone, but there was a merry crowd in the
tap room, and being fond of good company, I
presently found myself joining in the conversa-
tion. The talk was of inns, and many a stirring
story of adventure in Out-of-the-way taverns did I
listen to that night before the clock struck twelve.
Each man present had some humorous or thrilling
experience to relate, with the exception of a certain
glum and dark-browed gentleman, who sat some-
what apart from the rest, and who said nothing.
His reticence was in such marked contrast to the
volubility about him that he finally attracted uni-
versal attention, and more than one of the merry-
makers near him asked if he had not some anec-
dote to add to the rest. But though he replied
with sufficient politeness, it was evident that he
had no intention of dropping his reserve, and it
was not till the party had broken up and the room
was nearly cleared that he deigned to address any
one. Then he turned to me, and with a very pe-
culiar smile, remarked :
“ ‘A dull collection of tales, sir. Bah ! if they


A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. 45
had wanted to hear of an inn that was really ro-
mantic, I could have told them—'
“ ‘What?’ I involuntarily ejaculated. ‘You
will not torture me by suggesting a mystery you
will not explain.’
“ He looked very indifferent.
“ ‘ It is nothing,’ he declared, ‘ only I know of
an inn—at least it is used for an inn now—which
has in its interior a secret chamber so deftly hid-
den away in the very heart of the house that I
doubt if even its present owner could find it with-
out the minutest directions from the man who
> saw it built. Iknew that man. He was an Eng-
lishman, and he had a fancy to make his fortune
through the aid. of smuggled goods. He did it;
and though always suspected, was never convicted,
owing to the fact that he kept all his goods in this
hidden room. The place is sold now, but the
room remains. I wonder if any forgotten treas-
ures lie in it. Imagination could easily run riot
over the supposition, do you not think so, sir?’ y
“I certainly did, especially as Iimagined myself
to detect in every line of his able and crafty face
that he bore a closer relation to the Englishman
than he would have me believe. I did not betray


46 THE FORSAKEN INN.
my feelings, however, but urged him to tell me
how in a modern house, a room, or even a closet,
could be so concealed as not to awaken any one’s
suspicion. He answered by taking out pencil and
paper, and showing me, by a few lines, the secret
of its construction. Then seeing me deeply inter-
ested, he went on to say :
“ ‘We find what we have been told to search
for; but here is a case where the secret has been
so well kept that in all possibility the question of
this room’s existence has never arisen. It is just
as well.’
“ Meantime I was studying the plan.
“ ‘The hidden chamber lies,’ said I, ‘between
this room,’ designating one with my forefinger,
‘ and these two others. From which is it entered?’
“ He pointed at the one I had first indicated.
“ ‘ From this,’ he affirmed. ‘And a quaint, old-
fashioned room it is, too, with a wainscoting of
oak all around it as high as a man’s head. It used
to be called the oak parlor, and many a time has
its floor rung to the tread of the king’s soldiers,
who, disappointed in their search for hidden
goods, consented to take a drink at their host's
expense, little recking that, but a few feet away,


A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. 47
behind the carven chimneypiece upon which they
doubtless set down their glasses, there lay heaps
and heaps of the richest goods, only awaiting their
own departure' to be scattered through the length
and breadth of the land.’
“ ‘And this house is now an inn?’ I remarked.
“ ‘ Yes.’
“ ‘ Curious. I should like nothing better than to
visit that inn.‘
“ ‘ You doubtless have.’
“‘ It is not this one ?' I suddenly cried, looking
uneasily about me.
“‘Oh, no; it is on the Hudson River, not fifty
miles this side of Albany. It is called the Happy-
Go-Lucky, and is in a woman’s hands at present;
but it prospers, I believe. Perhaps because she
has discovered the secret, and knows where to
keep her stores.’ And with a shrug of his shoul-
ders he dismissed the subject, with the remark:
‘ I don’t know why I told you of this. I never
made it the subject of conversation before in my
life.’
“This was just before the outbreak in Lexing_
ton, sixteen years ago. ma'am, and this is the first
time I have found myself in this region since that


48 THE FORSAKEN INN.
day. But I have never forgotten this story of a
secret room,and when I took the coach this morn-
ing I made up my mind that I would spend the
night here, and, if possible, see the famous oak
parlor, with its mysterious adjunct; never dream-
ing that in all these years of your occupancy you
would have remained as ignorant of its existence
as he hinted and you have now declared."
Mr. Tamworth paused, looking so benevolent
that I summoned up my courage, and quietly in-
formed him that he had not told me what kind of
a looking man this stranger was.
“ IVas he'young P” I asked. “ Had he a blond
complexion P”
“On the contrary,” interrupted Mr. Tamworth,
“ he was very dark, and, in years, as old or nearly
as old as myself.”
I was disappointed. I had expected a different
reply. As he talked of the stranger, I had, right
fully or wrongfully, with reason or without reason,
seen before me the face of Mr. Urquhart, and this
description of adark and well-nigh aged man com-
pletely disconcerted me.
“ Are you certain this man was not in disguise ?”
I asked.


A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. 49
“ Disguise?"
“ Are you certain that he was not young, and
blond, and—"
“Quite sure,’
9
was the dry interruption. “ No
disguise could transform a young blood into the
man I saw that night. May I ask—”
In my turn I interrupted him. “ Pardon me,” I
entreated, “but an anxiety I will presently explain
forces another question from me. \Vere you and
this stranger alone in the room when you held this
conversation P You say that it had been full a few
minutes before. Were there none of the crowd
remaining besides your two selves ?”
Mr. Tamworth looked ‘thoughtful. “ It is six-
teen years ago," he replied, “ but I have a dim re-
membrance of a man sitting at a table somewhat
near us, with his face thrown forward on his arms.
He seemed to be asleep; I did not notice him par-
ticularly."
“Did you not see his face ?"
“ N0.”
“ \Vas he young?"
“I Should say so.”
“ And blond P”
“ That I cannot say."


A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. SI
_ “I see him,” was Mr. Tamworth’s sudden re-
mark. “ That description of his hands recalls him
to my mind. Yes; there was such a man in the
room that night. Ieven recollect his story. It
was coarse, but not without wit.”
I advanced and surveyed Mr. Tamworth very
earnestly. “ The man you thought asleep—the man
who was near enOugh to hear all the Englishman
said—was he or was he not the same we have
just been talking about P”
"I never thought of it before, but he did look
something like him—his figure, I mean; I did not
see his face.”
“ It was he,” I murmured, with intense convic-
tion, “ and the villain—” But how did I know he
was a villain? I paused and pointed to the huge
mantel guarding the fireplace. “If you know
how to enter the secret room, do so. Only I should
like to have a few witnesses present besides my-
self. Will you wait till I call one or two of my
lodgers ?"
He bowed with great urbanity. “If you wish
to make the discovery public," said he, “I, of
course, have no objection.”
But I saw that he was disappointed.


52 THE I-‘URSAKEN INN.
“I can never confront the secret of that room
alone,” I insisted. “I must have Dr. Kenyon
here at least.” And without waiting for my im-
pulses to cool,I sent a message to the doctor’s
room, and was rewarded in a moment by the
appearance at the door of that excellent
man.
It did not take many words for me to explain
to him our intentions. \Ve were going to search
for a secret chamber which we had been told
opened into the room in which we then found
ourselves. As I did not wish to make any mys-
tery of the affair, and as I naturally had my
doubts as to what the room might disclose, Iasked
the support of his presence.
He was gratified—the doctor always is gratified
at any token of appreciation—and perceiving that
I had no further reason for delay, I motioned to
Mr. Tamworth to proceed.
How he discovered the one movable panel in
that old~fashioned wainscoting, I have never in-
quired. When I saw him turn toward the fire-
place and lay his ear to the wall, I withdrew in
haste to the window, feeling as if I could not bear
to watch him, or be the first to catch a glimpse of








A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. 55
the mysterious depths which in another moment
must open before his touch. What I feared I cannot
say. As far as I could reason on the subject, I had
no cause to fear anything; and yet my shaking
frame and unevenly throbbing heart were but the
too sure tokens of an excessive and uncontrolla-
ble agitation. The view from the window increas-
ed it. Before me lay the river from whose banks
sand and stone had.been taken sixteen years be-
fore to replace—what? I knew no more this
minute than I did then. I might know in the next.
By the faint tapping that came to my ears I must
—and it was this thought that sent a chill through
me, and made it so difficult for me to stand. And
yet why shOuld it? Was not that old theory of
ours, that the Urquharts had brought treasure in
their great box, still a plausible one ? Nay, more,
was it not even a probable one, since we had dis-
covered that the house held so excellent a hiding
place, unknown to the world at large, but known
to this man, as Mr. Tamworth’s story so plainly
showed? Yes; and yet I started with uncontrolla-
ble forebodings, when I heard an exclamation of
satisfaction behind me, and hardly found courage
to turn around, even when I knew that an open-


56 THE FORSAKEN mu.
ing had been effected, and that they were only
waiting for my approach to enter it.
And it took courage, both on my part and on
theirs; for the air which rushed from the high and
narrow slit of darkness before us was stifling and
almost deadly. But in a few minutes, after one or
two experiments with a lighted candle, Dr. Ken-
yon stepped through the opening, followed by
Mr. Tamworth, and, in a long minute. afterward,
by myself. .
Shall I ever forget my emotions as I looked
about me and saw, by the lamp which the doc-
tor carried, nothing more startling than an old oak
chest in one corner, a pile of faded clothing in
another, and in a third—Heavens! what is it?
We all stare, and then a shriek escapes my lips
as piercing and terror-stricken as any that ever
disturbed those fearful shadows ; and I rush blind-
Iy from the spot, followed by Mr. Tamworth,
whose face, as I turn to look at him, gives me
another pang of fear, so white and sick it looks in
the sudden glare of day.
Worse than I had thought, worse than I had
dreamed! I cannot speak, and fall into a chair,
waiting in mortal terror for the doctor, who


A FEARFUL DISCOVERY.
stayed some minutes behind. When his kindly
but not undisturbed countenance showed itself
again in the gap at the side of the fireplace, I could
almost have thrown myself at his feet.


“What is it P" I gasped. “Tell me at once. Is
it a man or a woman or—”
“It is a woman. See! here is a lock of her
hair. Beautiful, is it not? She must have been
y0ung."
I stared at it like one demented. It was of a


A FEARFUL DISCOVERY. 59
And he held out a plain gold circlet whichI
eagerly took, looked at, and fell at their feet as
senseless as a stone.
On the inner surface I had discovered this le-
gend: -
E. U. to H. D. Jan. 27, 1775.


60 THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER IV.
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.
Never have I felt such relief as when, upon my
resuscitation, I remembered that I had put upon
paper all the events and all the suspicions which
had troubled me during that fatal night of Jan-
uary the 28th, sixteen years before. With that in
my possession, I could confront any suspicion
which might arise, and it was this thought which
lent to my bearing at this unhappy time a dignity
and Self-possession which evidently surprised the
two gentlemen. I
“ You seem more Shocked than astonished,” was
Mr. Tamworth’s first remark, as, mistress once
more of myself, I led the way out of that horrible
room into one breathing less of death and the
' charnel house.
“You are right," said I. “ Mysteries which
have troubled me for years are now in the way of
being explained by this discovery. I knew that
something either fearful or precious had been left
in the keeping of this house or grounds; but I


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. OI
did not know what this something was, and least
of all did I suspect that its hiding place was be-
tWeen walls whose turns and limitations I thought
I knew as well as I do the paths of my garden.”
“You speak riddles,” Dr. Kenyon now de-
clared. “ You knew that something fearful or
precious had been left in your house—”
“ Pardon me,” I interrupted; “I said house or
grounds. I thought it was in the grounds, for
how could I think that the house could, without
my knowledge, hold anything of. the nature I have
just suggested P”
“ You knew, then, that a person had been ‘mur-
dered P"
“ N o,” I persisted, with a strange calmness, con-
sidering how agitated I was, both by my memo-
ries and the fears I could not but entertain for the
future; “I know nothing; nor can I, even with
the knowledge of this discovery, understand or
explain what took place in my house sixteen years '
ago.”
And in a few hurried words I related the story
of the mysterious couple who had occupied that
room on the night of January 27, 1775.
They listened to me as if I were repeating a


62 THE FORSAKEN INN.
fairy tale, and as I noted the sympathizing air
with which Dr. Kenyon tried to hide his natural
incredulity, I again congratulated myself that I
had been a weak enough woman to keep an ac-
count of the events which had so impressed me.
“You think I am drawing upon my imagina-
tion," I quietly remarked, as silence fell upon my
narration.
H
“By no means, the doctor began, hurriedly;
“ but the details you give are so open to question,
and the conclusions you expect us to draw from
them are so serious, that I wish, for your own
sake, we had heard something of the Urquharts,
and your doubts and suspicions in their regard,
before we had made the discovery which points
to death and crime. You see I speak plainly,
Mrs. Truax."
“You cannot speak too plainly, Doctor Ken-
yon; and my opinion so entirely coincides with
' yours that I am going to furnish you with what
you ask." And without heeding their looks of
astonishment, I rang the bell for one of the girls,
and sent her to a certain drawer in my desk for
the folded paper which she would find there.
“ Here I” I exclaimed, as the paper was brought,


omissnons AND ANSWERS. 6 3
“read this, and you will soon see how I felt about
the Urquharts on the evening of the day they left
us.”
And I put into their hands the record I had
made of that day’s experience.
While they were reading it, I puzzled myself
with questions. If this body which we had just
found sepulchered in my house was, as the initials
in the ring seemed to declare, that of Honora
Urquhart, who was the woman who passed for
her at the time of the departure of this accursed
couple from my doors? I was with them, and saw
the lady, and supposed her to be the same I had
entertained at my table the night before. But
then I chiefly noted her dress and height, and did
not see her face, which was hidden by her veil,
and did not hear her voice beyond the short and
somewhat embarrassed laugh she gave at some
little incident which had occurred. But Hetty
had seen her, and had even received money from
her hand; and Hetty could not have been de-
ceived, nor was Hetty a girl to be bribed. How
was I, then, to understand the matter? And where,
in case another woman had taken Mrs. Urquhart’s
place, had that woman come from?


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 65
this awful token in the rOOm beyond! What
should I, what could I think!
At this point in my surmises I grew so faint that
I turned to Dr. Kenyon and Mr. Tamworth for
relief. They had just finished my record of the
past, and were looking at each other in surprise
and horror.
“It surpasses the most atrocious deeds of the
middle ages,” quoth Mr. Tamworth.
“In a country deemed civilized,” finished the
doctor.
“ Then you think," I tremblingly began—
“That you have harbored two demons under
your roof, Mrs. Truax. There seems to be no
doubt that the woman who went away with Mr.
Urquhart was not the woman who came with
him. She lies here, while the other—"
He paused,and Mr. Tamworth took up the word.
“ It seems to have been a strangely triumphant
piece of villainy. The woman who profited by it
must have had great self-control and force of
character. Don’t you think so, doctor?”
“ Unquestionably,” was the firm reply.
“You do not say how you account for her
presence here," I now reluctantly intimated.


66 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ I think she was hidden in the great box. It was
large enough for that, was it not, Mrs. Truax ?”
I nodded, much agitated.
“ His care of it, his call for a supper, the change
in its weight, and the fact that its contents were of
a different character in going than coming, all
point to the fact of its having been used for the
purpose we intimated. It strikes one as most hor-
rible, but history furnishes us with precedents of
attempts equally daring, and if the box was well
furnished with holes—did you notice any breath-
ing places in it P"
“ No,” I returned; “but I 'did not cast two
glances at the box. Iwas jealous of it, for the
young wife’s sake, though, as God knows, I had
little idea of what it contained, and merely noticed
that it was big and clumsy, and capable of holding
many books.” »
“ Yet you must have noticed, even in a cursory
glance, whether its top or sides were broken by
holes.”
“ They were not, but—”
“ But what?"
“ I do remember, now, that he flung his travel-
ing-cloak across it just as the men went to lift it


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 67
from the wagon, and that the cloak remained upon
it all the time it was in their hands, and until after
we had all left the room. But it was taken away
later, for when I went in the second time, I saw it
lying across the chair.”
“ And the box P"
“ Was hidden by the foot of the bed behind
which he had dragged it.”
“ And the cloak? Was it over the box when it
went out?”
“No; but I have thought since we have been
talking, that the box might have been turned
over after its occupant left it._ The holes, if there
were any, would thus be on the bottom, and
would escape our detection.”
“Very possible, but the sand with which we
supposed the box had been filled would have
sifted through.”
“ Not if a good firm piece of stuff was laid in
first, and there were plenty of such in the secret
chamber.”
“That is true. But Burritt, you write, was
listening at the door, and yet you mention no re_
marks of his concerning any noises heard by him
from within. And noise must have been made if


68 THE FORSAKEN INN.
this was done, as it must have had to be done
after the tragedy."
“I know I do not," was the hurried reply.
“ But Burritt probably did not remain at the door
all the time. There is a window seat at the end
of the corridor, and upon it he probably lolled
during the few hours of his watch. (Besides, you
must remember that Burritt left his post some
time before daylight. He had his duties to attend
to, some of which necessitated his being in the
stables by four o’clock, at least."
“I see; and so the affair prospered, as most
very daring deeds do, and they escaped without
suspicion, or rather without suspicion pointed
enough to lead to their being followed. I wonder
where they escaped to, and if in all the years that
have elapsed, they have for one moment imagined
that they were happy.”
“ Happy 1” was my horrified exclamation. “ Oh,
if I could find them! If Icould drag them both
to this room and make them keep company with
their victim for a week,I should feel it too slight
a retribution for them.”
“ Heaven has had its eye upon them. We have
been through fearful crises since that day, and


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 69
much unrighteous as well 'as righteous blood has
been shed in this land. They may both be dead."
“I do not believe it," I muttered. “ Such
wretches never die.” Then, with a renewed re-
membrance of Hetty, I remarked: “ Curses on
the duties that kept me out of this room on that
fatal morning. Had I seen the woman's face, this
horrid crime would at least been spared its tri-
umph. But I was obliged to send Hetty, and she
saw nothing strange in the woman, though she
received money from her hand, and—"
“ Where is Hetty ?" interrupted the doctor.
“ She is married, and lives in the next town."
“ So, so. Well, we must hunt her up t0-morrow,
and see what she has to say about the matter now."
But we soon found ourselves too impatient to
wait till the morrow, so after we had eaten a good
supper in a cheerful room, Dr. Kenyon mounted
his horse, and rode away to the farm house where
Hetty lived. While he was gone, Mr. Tamworth
summoned up courage to reenter that cave of
horror, and bring out the contents of the oak
chest we had seen there. These were mostly
stuffs in a more or less good state of preservation,
and all the assistance they lent to the understand-


70 THE FORSAKEN INN.
ing of the tragedy that mystified us was the fact
that the chest contained nothing, nor the room
itself, of suflicient substance to help the wicked
Urquhart in giving weight to the box which he
had emptied of its living freight. This is doubt-
less the reason he resorted to the garden for the
sand and stone he found there.
Dr. Kenyon returned about midnight, and was
met at the door by Mr. Tamworth and myself.
“ Well?" I cried, in great excitement.
“Just as I supposed," he returned. “She did not
see the lady’s face either. The latter was in bed,
and the girl took it for granted that the arm and
hand which reached her out a silver piece from
between the bed curtains were those of Mrs.
Urquhart."
“ My house is cursed l”, was my sudden excla-
mation. “It has not only lent itself to the success
of the most demoniacal scheme that ever entered
into the heart of man, but it has kept its secret so
long_ that all hope of explaining its details or
reaching the guilty must be abandOned.”
“ Not so," quoth Mr. Tamworth._ “ Though an
old man, I dedicate myself to this task. You will
hear again of the Urquharts.”


AN INTERIM OF SUSPENSE. 71
CHAPTER v.
,AN INTERIM OF SUSPENSE.


1/ MAY 5, 1791.
W ' OW fearful! To hear a spade in
the night and know that this
spade is digging a grave! I sit
at my desk and listen to
hear if any one in the house
has been aroused or is sus-
picious, and then I turn to
the window and try to
‘ pierce the gloom to see if
anything can be discerned, from the hOuse, of the
grewsome act now being performed in the garden.
For after much consultation and several confer-
ences with the authorities, we have decided to
preserve from public knowledge, not only the
secret of the room hidden in my house, but of the
discovery which has lately been made there. But
while much harm would accrue to me by revela-
tions which would throw a pall of horror over
my inn, and make it no better than a place of


72 THE FORSAKEN INN.
I ._
morbid curiosity forever, the purposes of justice
would be rather hindered than helped by a pub-
licity which would give warning to the guilty
couple, and prevent us from surprising them in
the imagined security which the lapse of so many
years must have brought them.
And so a grave is being dug in the garden,
where, at the darkest hour of night, the remains
of the sweet and gentle bride are to be placed
without tablet or mound. '
Meanwhile do there hide in any part of this
wicked world two hearts which throb with un-
usual terrors this night? Or does there pass
across the mirror of a guilty memory any unusual
shapes of horror prognostic of detection and
coming punishment? It would comfort my un-
' easy heart to know; for the spirit of vengeance
has seized upon me, and my house will never
seem washed of its stain, or my conscience be
quite at rest as to the past, till that vile man and
woman pay, in Some way, the penalty of their
crime.
That we know nothing of them but their names
lends an interest to their pursuit. The very difii
culty before us, the hopelessness almost of the


AN INTERIM OF SUSPENSE. ' 73
task we have set ourselves, have raised in me a
wild and well-nigh superstitious reliance on Pro-
vidence and the eternal justice, so that it seems
natural for me to expect aid even from such
sources as dreams and visions, and make the in-
quiry in which I have just indulged the reason-
able expression of my belief in the mysterious
forces of right and wrong, which will yet bring
this long triumphant, but now secretly threatened,
pair to justice.
Dr. Kenyon, who is as practical as he is pious,
smiles at my confidence; but Mr. Tamworth nei-
ther mocks nor frowns. He has shouldered the
responsibility of finding this man, and has often
observed, in his long life, that a woman’s intuitions
go as far as a man’s reasoning.
To-morrow he will start upon his travels.

JUNE 12, 1791.
It is foolish to put every passing thought on
paper, but these sheets have already served me so
well that I cannot resist the temptation of making
them the repositories of my secret fears and hopes.
Mr. Tamworth has been gone a month, and I have
heard nothing from him. This is all the more


74, THE FORSAKEN INN.
difficult to bear that Dr. Kenyon also has left me,
thus taking from my house all in whom I can
confide or to whom Ican talk. For I will not
place confidence in servants, and there are no
guests here at present upon whose judgment I
can rely concerning even a lesser matter than this
whichoccupies all my thoughts.
I must talk, then, to thee, unknown reader of
these lines, and declare on paper what I have said
a thousand times to myself—what a mystery this
whole matter is, and how little probability there
is of our ever understanding it ! Why was it that
Edwin Urquhart, if he loved one woman so well
that he was willing to risk his life to gain her,
would subject himself to the terrors which must
follow any crime, no matter how secretly per-
formed, by marrying a woman he must kill in
twenty-four hours? Marriages are not compul-
sory in this country, and any one must acknow-
ledge that it would be easier for a strong man—
and he certainly was no weakling—to refuse a
woman at the nuptial altar than to undertake and
carry out a scheme So full of revolting details and
involving so much risk as this which we have
been forced to ascribe to him.


76 THE FORSAKEN INN.
occupied in researches, made doubly diflicult by
the changes which have been erught in the
country by the late conflict, I have just come
upon a fact that has the strongest bearing upon
the serious tragedy which we are both so'inter-
ested in investigating. It is this:
That every year the agent of a certain large
estate in Albany, N. Y., forwards to France a
large sum of money, for the use and behoof of one
Honora Quentin Urquhart, daughter of the late
Cyrus Dudleigh, of Albany, and wife of one Ed-
win Urquhart, a gentleman of that same city, to
whom she was married in her father’s house on
January 27, I 775, and with whom she at once de-
parted for France, where she and her husband
have been living ever since.
Thus by chance, almost, have I stumbled upon
an explanation of the tragedy we found so inex-
plicable, and found that clew to the whereabouts
of the wretched pair which is so essential to their
apprehension and the proper satisfaction of the
claims of justice.
With great consideration I sign myself,
Your obedient servant,
ANTHONY TAMWORTH.


AN INTERIM 0F SUSPENSE. 77
AUGUST 11, 8 o’clock.
I was so overwhelmed by the above letter that
I found it impossible at the time to comment
upon it. Today it is too late, for this morning a
packet arrived from Mr. Tamworth containing
another letter of such length that I am sure it
must be one of complete explanation. I burn to
read it, but I have merely had time to break the
seal and glance at the first opening words. Will
my guests be so kind as to leave me in peace to-
night, so that I may satisfy a curiosity which has
become almost insupportable ?
MIDNIGHT.
No time to-night; too tired almost to write this.

AUGUST 12. v
The packet is read. I am all of a tremble.
What a tale! What a— But why encumber
these sheets with words of mine? I will insert
the letter and let it tell its own portion of the
strange and terrible history which time is slowly
unrolling before us.


78 THE FORSAKEN INN.
PART II.
AN OLD ALBANY ROMANCE.
CHAPTER VI.
THE RECLUSE.
To Mrs. Clarissa Truax,
of the Happy-go-lucky Inn:
RESPECTED MADAM: Appreciating your anxi-
ety, I hasten to give you the particulars of an
interview which I have just had with a person
who knew Edwin Urquhart. They must be ac-
ceptable to you, and I shall make no excuse for
the length of my communication, knowing that
each detail in the lives of the three persons con-
nected with this crime must be of interest to one
who has brooded upon the subject as long as you
have.
The person to whom I allude is a certain Mark
Felt, a most eccentric and unhappyv being now
living the life of a recluse amid the forests of the


THE RECLUSE. 79
Catskills. I became acquainted with his name at
the time of my first investigation into the history
of the Dudleigh and Urquhart families, and it was
to him I was referred when I asked for such par-
ticulars as mere neighbors and public officials
found it impossible to give.
I was told, however, at the same time, that I
should find it hard to gain his confidence, as for
sixteen years now he had avoided the companion-
ship of men, by hiding in the caves and living
upon such food as he could procure through the
means of gun and net. A disappointment in love
was said to be at the bottom of this, the lady he
was engaged to having thrown herself into the
river at about the time Of the marriage of his
friend.
He was, notwithstanding, a good-hearted man,
and if I could once break through the reserve he
had maintained for so many years, they thought I
would be able to surprise facts from him which I
could never hope to reach in any other way.
Interested by these insinuations, and somewhat
excited, for an Old man, at the prospect of beard-
ing such a lion in his den, I .at once made up my
mind to seek this Felt; and accordingly one bright


80 THE 'FORSAKEN INN.
day last week crossed the river and entered the
forest. Iwas not alone. I had taken a guide
who knew the location of the cave which Felt was
supposed to inhabit, and through his efforts my
journey was made as little fatiguing as possible.
Fallen brambles were removed from my path,
limbs lifted, and where the road was too rough
for the passage of such faltering feet as mine, I
found myself lifted bodily, in arms as strong and
steadfast as steel, and carried like a child to where
it was smoother.
Thus I was enabled to traverse paths that at
first view appeared inaccessible, and finally reached
a spot so far up the mountain side that I gazed
behind me in terror lest I should never be able to
return again theway I had come. My guide,
seeing my alarm, assured me that our destination
was not far off, and presently I perceived before me
a huge overhanging cliff, from the upper ledges
of which hung down a tangle of vines and branches
that veiled, without wholly concealing, the yawn-
ing mouth of a cave.
“ That is where the man we are seeking lives,
eats, and sleeps," quoth my guide, as we paused
for a moment to regain our breath. And imme-


THE RECLUSE. 8r
diately upon his words, and as if called forth by
them, we perceived an unkempt and disheveled
head slowly uprear itself through the black gap
before us, then hastily disappear again behind the
vines it had for a moment disturbed.
“I will encounter him alone," I thereupon de-
clared ; and leaving the guide behind me, I pushed
forward to the cliff, and pausing before the en-
trance of the cave, I called aloud:
_“ Mark Felt, do you want to hear news from
yOur friend Urquhart ?"
For a moment all was still, and I began to fear
that my somewhat daring attempt had failed in its
effect. But this was only for an instant, for pre-
sently something between a growl and a cry issued
from the darkness within, and the next moment the
wild and disheveled head showed itself again, and
I heard distinctly these words:
“He is no friend of mine, your Edwin Urqu-
hart."
“ Then,” I returned, without a moment's hesita-
tion, “ do you want to hear news of your enemy?
--for I have some, and of the rarest nature,
too." i
The wild eyes flashed as if a flame of fire had


82 THE FORSAKEN INN. I
shot from them, and the head that held them ad-
vanced till I could see 'the whole bearded counte-
nance of the man.
“ IS he dead ?” he asked, with an eagerness and
underlying triumph in the voice that argued well
for the presence of those passions upon the rous-
ing of which I relied for the revelations I sought.
“No,” said I, “but death is looking his way.
With a little more knowledge of his early life and
a little more insight into his character at the time
he married Honora Dudleigh, the law will have
so firm a hold upon him that I can safely promise
any one who longs to see him pay the penalty of
his evil deeds a certain opportunity of doing so.”
The vines trembled and suddenly parted their
full length, and Mark Felt stepped out into the
Sunshine and confronted me. What he wore I
cannot say, for his personality was so strong I
received no impression of anything else. Not
that he was tall or picturesque, or even rudely
handsome. On the contrary, he was as plain a
,man as I had ever seen, with eyes to which some
defect lent a strange, fixed glare, and a mouth
whose under jaw protruded so markedly beyond
the upper that his profile gave you a shock when








THE RECLUSE. 85
any slight noise or stir drew his head to one side
and thus revealed it to you. Yet, in spite of all
this, in spite of tangled locks and a wide, rough
beard, half brown, half white, his face held some-
thing that fixed the attention and fascinated the
eye that encountered it. Did it lie in his eyes?
How could it, with one looking like a fixed stone
of agate and the other like a rolling ball of fire?
Was it in his smile? How could it be when his
smile had no joy in it, only a satisfaction that was
not of good, but evil, and promised trouble rather
than relief or sympathy? It must be in the gen-
eral expression of his features, which seemed
made only to mirror the emotions of a soul full of
vitality and purpose—a soul which, if clouded by
wrongs and embittered by heavy memories, ‘pos-
sessed at least the characteristic of force and the
charm'of an unswerving purpose.
He seemed to recognize the impression he had
made, for his lips smiled with a sort of scornful
triumph before he said:
“ These are peculiar words for a stranger. May
I ask your name and whose interests you repre-
sent?"
His speech was quick, and had an odd halt in it,


86 THE FORSAKEN INN.
such as might be expected from one who had not
conferred with his fellows for years. But there
was no rudeness in its tone, nor was there any
mistaking the fact that he was, both by nature and
education, a gentleman. I began to take an inter-
est in him apart from my mission.
“ Mr. Felt," I replied, “ my name is Tamworth.
I am from Virginia, and only by chance have I
become involved in a matter near to you and the
man who, you tell me, is, or was, your enemy.
As for the interests I represent, they are those of
justice, and justice only; and it is in her behalf
and for the triumph of law and righteousness that
I now ask you for your confidence and such details
concerning your early intercourse with Edwin
Urquhart as will enable me to understand a past
that will certainly yield us a clew to the present.
Are you willing to give them ?" . '
“ \Vill I give them ?” he laughed. “ Will I
break the seal which guards the tablets of my
youth, and let a stranger's eyes read lines to
which I have shut my own for these many years!
Do you not know that for me to tell you what I
once knew of Edwin Urquhart is to bare my own
breast to view, and subject to new sufferings a


THE RECLUSE. 87
heart that it has taken fifteen years of solitude to
render callous ?”
Igave no answer to this, only looked at him
and stood waiting.
“You have hunted me out, you have touched
the last string that ceases to vibrate in a man’s
breast—that of a wild desire for vengeance—and
now you ask me—” I
“ To ease your memories of a burden. To
drag into light the skeleton of old days, and by
the light thus thrown upon it to see that it is only
a skeleton, that, once beheld, Should be buried
and its old bones forgotten. You are too much
of a man, Felt, to waste away in these wilds.
Come! forget I am a stranger, and relieve your-
self and me by opening these tablets you speak of,
even if it does cost you a pang of the old sorrow.
The talk we have had has already made a flutter
in the long-closed leaves, and Should I leave you
this minute you could not smother the thoughts
and memories to which our conversation has given
rise. Then why not think to purpose and—”
He raised one hand and stopped me. The ges-
ture was full of fire, and so was the eye he now
turned away from me to gaze up at the overhang-


88 THE FORSAKEN INN.
ing steeps above, with their great gorges and
magnificent play of light and shadow; at the
valley beneath, with its broad belt of shining
water winding in and out through fertile banks
and growing towns; and finally at the blue dome
of the sky, across which great clouds went sailing
in shapes so varied and of size so majestic that it
was like a vision of floating palaces on a sea of
translucent azure.
Gasping in a strange mood between delight and
despair, he flung up his arms.
“Ah! I have loved these hills. Of all the long-
ings and affections that one by one have perished
from my heart, the solitary passion for nature has
alone remained, unlessened and undisturbed. I
love these trees with their countless boughs; these
rocks, with their hidden pitfalls and sudden pre-
cipices. The sky that bends above me here is
bluer than any other sky; and when it frowns and
gathers its storms together, and hurls them above
these ledges and upon my uncovered head, I
throw up my arms as I do now and exult in the
tumult, and become a part of it, till the hunger in
my soul is appeased, and the blood in my veins
runs mildly again. And now I must quit all this.


THE RECLUSE. 89
I must give to men thoughts that have been
closely wedded to Nature. I must tear her image
from my heart, and in her pure place substitute
interests in a life I thought forever sacrificed to
her worship. It is a bitter task, but I will perform
it. There are other calls than those which rever-
berate from you peaks. I have just heard one,
and my feet go down once more into the valleys."
His arms fell with the last words, and his eyes
returned again to my face.
“ Come into the cave,” said he. “I cannot tell
my story in the sight of these pure skies."
I followed him without a word. He had affected
me. The invocation in which he had indulged,
and which, from another man, and other circum-
stances, would have struck me as a theatrical
attempt upon my sympathy as forced as it was
unnatural, was in him'so appropriate, and in such
keeping with the grandeur of the scene by which
we were surrounded, that I was disarmed of criti-
cism, and succumbed without resistance to his
power.
The cave, once entered, was light enough. On
the ground were spread in profusion leaves and
twigs of the sweet-smelling cedar, making a carpet


90 THE FORSAKEN INN.

as pleasing as it was warm and healthful. On one
side I saw a mound of the same, making a couch,
across which a great cloak was spread ; while be-
yond, the half-defined forms of a rude seat and
table appeared, lending an air of habitableness to
the spot, which, from the exterior, I had hardly
expected to find. A long slab of stOne served as
a hearth, and above it I perceived a hole in the
rock, toward which a thin column of smoke was
rising from a few smouldering embers that yet
remained burning upon the great stone below.
Altogether, it was a home I had entered; and
awed a little at the remembrance that it had been
the refuge of this solitary man through years
pregnant with events forever memorable in the
history of the world as those which gave birth to
a new nation, I sank down upon the pile of cedar
he pointed out to me, and waited in some impa-
tience for him to begin his tale.
This he seemed in no hurry to do. He waited
so long with his chin sunk in his two hands and
his eyes fixed upon vacancy, that I grew restless
and was about to break the Silence myself, when,
without moving, he suddenly spoke.


TWO WOMEN. 91
CHAPTER VII.
TWO WOMEN.
“You want to hear about Edwin Urquhart.
Well, you shall, but first I promise you that I
shall talk much less 'of him than of another per-
son. Why? because it is on account of this other
person that I hate him, and solely because of this
other person that I avenge myself, or seek to
assist others in avenging the justice you say he
has outraged.
“We were friends from boyhood. Reared in
the same town and. under the same influences,
there was a community of interests between us
that threw us together and made us what is called
friends. But I never liked him. That is, I never
felt a confidence in him which is essential to a
mutual understanding. And, though I accepted
his companionship, and was much with him at the
most critical time of my life, I always kept one
side, and that the better side, of my nature closed
to him.
“ He was a gentleman with no expectations; I


92 THE FORSAKEN INN.
the inheritor of a small fortune that made my
friendship of temporary use to him, even if it did
not offer him much to rely on in the future. We
lived, he with an uncle who was ready to throw
him off the moment he was assured that he would
not marry one of his daughters, and I in my own
house, which, if no manor, was at least my own,
and for the present free from debt. I myself
thought that Urquhart intended to marry one of
the girls to whom I have just alluded. But it
seems that he never meant to do this, and only
encouraged his uncle to think so because he was
not yet ready to give up the shelter he enjoyed
with him. But of this, as I say, I was ignorant,
and was consequently very much astonished when,
one nightfall, in passing the great Dudleigh place,
he remarked:
“ ‘ How would you like to drink a glass with me
in yonder? Better than in the Fairfax kitchen,
eh ?’ .
“I thought he was joking. "Tis a fine old
house,’ I observed. ‘ No doubt its wines are good.
But it is no tavern, and I question if Miss Dud-
leigh would make either of us very welcome.’
“‘ You do! Then you don’t know Miss Dud-


Two WOMEN. 93
leigh,’ he vaunted, with a proud swelling of his
person, and a lift of his head that almost took my
breath away. For, though he was a handsome
fellow—too handsome for a man no worthier than
he—I should no more have presumed to have
associated him in my thoughts with Miss Dud-
leigh than if he had been a worker in her fields.
Not so much because she was rich—very rich for
that day and place—or that her family was an old
one, and his but a mushroom stock, as that she was
a being of the gentlest instincts and the purest
thoughts, while he was what you may have gather-
ed from my words—vain, coarse, cowardly and
mean; an abject cur beside her, who was, and is,
one of the sweetest women the sun ever shone
upon.”
At this expression of admiration on the part of
the hermit, which proved him to be in entire
ignorance of the crime which had been perpe-
trated against this woman, I found myself struck
so aghast that I could not forbear showing it.
But he was too engrossed in his reminiscences to
notice my emotion, and presently continued his
story by saying:
“I probably betrayed my astonishment to Ur-


94 THE FORSAKEN INN.
quhart, for he gave a great laugh, and forced me
about toward the gates.
“ ‘We will not be turned out,’ he said. ‘Let us
go in and pay our respects.’
“ ‘ But,’ I stammered.
“ ‘ Oh, it’s all right,’ he pursued. ‘The fair lady
is of age and has the privilege of choosing her
future husband. I shall live in clover, eh? Well,
it is time I lived in something. I have had a hard
enough time of it so far, for a none too homely
fellow.’
“I was overwhelmed ; more than that, I was
sickened by these words, whose import I under-
stood only too well. Not that I had any special
’interest in Miss Dudleigh; indeed, I hardly knew
her; but any such woman inspires respect, and I
could not think of her as allied to this man without
a spasm of revolt that almost amounted to fear.
“ ‘ You are going to marry her, this white rose!’
Iexclaimed. ‘I should as soon have thought of
your marrying a princess of the royal house. I
hope you appreciate your unbounded good for-
tune.’
“He pomted to the great chimneys and impos-
ing facade of the fine structure before us. ‘Do


Two WOMEN. 95
you think I am so blind as not to know the advan-
tage of being the master in a house like that?
You must not think me quite a fool if I am not as
clever a fellow as you are. Remember that I am
a poorer one and like my ease better.’
“ ‘ But Miss Dudleigh ?'
“‘Oh, she’s a trifle peaked and dull, but She’s
fond and not too exacting.’
“I was angry, but had no excuse- for showing
it. Righteous indignation he could never have
understood, and to have provoked a quarrel with-
out any definite end in view "would have been A
folly. I remained silent, therefore, but my heart
burned within me.
“ It had not lost its heat when we entered her
house, and when my eyes fell upon her seated at
her spinet in front of a latticed window that
brought out her gentle figure in all its sweet sim-
plicity, I felt like clutching, and flinging back
over the threshold, which his desecrating foot
should never have crossed, the hollow-hearted
being at my Side, who could neither see her beauty
nor estimate the worth of her innocent affection.
“There was an aunt or some such relative in the
room with her, but this did not hinder the glad


‘96 THE FORSAKEN INN.
smile from rising to her lips as she saw us—or
rather him, for she hardly seemed to notice
my presence. I learned afterward that this aunt
had been greatly instrumental in bringing these
incongruous natures together; that for reasons of
her own, which I have never attempted to fathom,
she thought Edwin Urquhart the best husband
that her niece could have, and not only introduced
him into the house, but stood so much his friend
during the first days of his courtship that she
gradually imparted to her niece her own enthusi-
asm, till the poor girl saw—or thought she saw—
the ideal of her dreams in the base and shallow
being whom I called my friend.
“ However that may be, she certainly rose from
her spinet that night in a pretty confusion that
made her absolutely lovely, and advancing with
the mingled dignity of the heiress and the tender
bashfulness of the maiden in the presence of him
she loved, she tendered us a courtesy whose grace
put me out of ease with myself, so much it ex-
pressed the manners of people removed from the
sphere in which it had hitherto been my lot to
move.
“ But Urquhart showed no embarrassment.


TWO WOMEN. 97
His fine figure—he had that—bent forward with
the most courtly of bows, and after the introduc-
tion of my humble self to her notice, he entered
into a conversation which, if shallow, was at least
bright, and for the moment interesting. As I had
no wish to talk, I gave myself up to watching
her, and came away at last more fixed than ever
in my belief of her extreme worthiness and of
his extreme presumption in thinking of calling so
perfect a creature his.
“‘ Would to God she was as poor as Janet Fair-
fax,’ I thought to myself. ‘ Then she would never
have attracted his attention, and might have
known what happiness was with some man who
could appreciate her. Now she is doomed, and
being fatherless and motherless, will rush on to
her fate, and no one can stop her.’ _
“ Thus I thought, and thus I continued to think
as chance and Urquhart’s stubborn will led me
more and more to her house, and within the radius
of her gentle influence. But my thoughts never
went further. I never saw her, even in my dreams,
fostered by me, or soothed of an old grief by my
love and affection. For though she was a dainty
and gracious being, with beauty enough to de_


98 THE FORSAKEN INN.
light the eyes and warm the heart, she was not
the one destined to move me, and awake the tu-
multuous passions that lay dormant in my own
scarcely understood nature. Urquhart, therefore,
was not acting unwisely in taking me there 'so
often, though, if I could have foreseen what was
likely to be the result of those visits,l should have
_ leaped from my house's roof on to the stones below
before I had passed again under those fatal portals.
“And yet—would I? Do we fear suffering or
apathy most? Is it from experience or the mono-
tony of a commonplace existence that we quickest
flee? A man with passions like mine must love;
and if that love comes girt with flame and mysteri‘
ous death, he still must embrace it, and rise and
fall as the destinies will. '
“ But I talk riddles. I have not yet told you of
her; and yet speak of fire and death. Iwill try
to be more coherent, if only to show that the
years have brought me some mastery over myself.
One day—it was a fall day and beautiful as limpid
sunshine and a world of yellowing woods could
make it-—I went to Miss Dudleigh’s house to
apologize for my friend, who had wished to im-
prove the gorgeous sunshine elsewhere.


TWO WOMEN. 99
“ I had by this time lost all fear of her, as well
as of her rich and spacious surroundings, and
passed through the hospitable door and along the
wide halls to the especial room in which we were
wont to find her, with that freedom engendered
by an intimacy as cordial as it was sincere. It
was the room where firstI had seen her, the room
with the wide latticed window at the back, and
the spinet beneath it, and the old carven chair
of oak in which her white-clad form had always
looked so ethereal; and I entered it smiling, ex-
pecting to see her delicate figure rise from the
window, and advance toward me with that look
of surprise and possible disappointment which
the absence of Urquhart would be apt to arouse
in this too loving nature. But the room was
empty and the spinet closed, and I was about
turning to find a servant, when I felt an influ-
ence stealing over me so subtile and so peculiar
that I stood petrified and enthralled, hardly know- ‘
ing if it were music that held me spell-bound or
some unknown and subduing perfume, that, filling
my senses, worked- upon my brain, and made me
feel like a man transported at a breath from the
land of reality into a land of dreams.


100 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ So potent the spell, so inexplicable its action,
that minutes may have elapsed before I wrenched
myself free from its power and looked to see what
it was that so moved me. When I did, I found
myself at a loss to explain it. Whether it was
music or perfume, or just the emanation from an
intense personality, I have never determined. I
only know that when I turned, I saw standing
before me, in an attitude of waiting, a woman of
such marvelous attractions, and yet of an order
of beauty so bizarre and out of keeping with the
times and the place in which she stood, that I
forgot to question everything but my own sanity
and the reality of a vision so unprecedented in
all my experience. I therefore simply stood like
her, speechless and lost, and only came to myself
when the figure before me suddenly melted from
a statue into a woman, and, with a deep and
graceful courtesy, almost daring in its abandon-
ment, said:
“ ‘ You must be Master Felt, I take it. Master
Urquhart would never be so thrown Off his
balance by a Simple girl like me.’
“There are voices that pierce like arrows and
sink deep into the heart, which closes over their
0


TWO WOMEN. 101
sweetness forever. So it was with this voice.
From its first sound to its last it held me en-
thralled, and had she shown but half the beauty
she did, those accents of hers would have made
me her slave. As it was. I was more than her
slave. I instantly became all and everything to
her. I breathed but as she breathed, and in the
absorbing delight which from that moment took
hold of me I lost all sense of the proprieties and ‘
conventionalities of social intercourse, and only
thought of drinking in at one draught the strange
and mysterious loveliness which I saw revealed
before me.
“ She was not a tall woman, no taller than Miss
Dudleigh. Nor was she of marked carriage or
build. Her form, indeed, seemed only made to
express suppleness and passion, and was as speak-
ing in its slight proportions as if it had breathed
forth the nobler attributes of majesty and strength.
Her dress was dark,'and clung to every curve
with a loving persistence bewildering in its effect
upon an eye like mine. Upon the bust, and just
below the white throat, burned a mass of gor-
geous flowers as ruddy as wine; and from one
delicate hand a long vine trailed t0 the floor. But


[02 THE FORSAKEN INN.
it was in her face that her power lay ; in her eyes
possibly, though I scarcely think so, for there
were curves to her lips such as I have never seen
in any other, and a delicate turn to her nostril
that at times made me feel as if she were breath-
ing fire. Her skin was pale, her forehead broad
and low, her nose straight, and her lips of a bril-
liant vermilion. I, however, saw only her eyes,
though I may have been influenced by the rest of
her bewildering physiognomy ; they were so large,
so changeful, so full of alternating flames and Ian-
guor, so indeterminate in color, and yet so persist-
ent in their effect upon the eye and the feelings.
Looking at them, I swore shewas an anomaly.
Gazing into them, I resolved that she was this
only because she let herself be natural and sought
to smother none of the fires which had been en-
kindled by a bountiful nature within her soul.
“IVhile I was reasoning thus, she made me
another mock courtesy, and explaining her pre-
sence by saying she was a cousin of Miss Dud-
leigh’s, ventured to remark that, if Master Felt
would be, kind enough to state his errand, she
would be glad to carry it to Miss Dudleigh“ I
answered confusedly, but with a fervor she could


TWO WOMEN. 103
not fail to understand, and following up this effort
by another, led her into a conversation in which
my responses gradually became such as she should
expect from a gentleman and an equal.
“ For with her, notwithstanding her beauty, and
the sense of splendor and luxury which breathed
from her mysterious presence, I never felt that
sense of personal inferiority I experienced at first
with Miss Dudleigh. Whether I recognized then,
as now, the lack of those high qualities which lift
one mortal above another, I do not know. I am
only certain that, while I regarded her as a
woman to be obeyed, to be loved, to be followed
through life, through death, into whatsoever re-
gions of horror, danger, and pain she might lead
me, I never looked upon her as a being out of my
world or beyond my reach, except so far as her
caprice might carry her.
“It was therefore with the fixed determination
to force from her some of the interest she had
awakened in me, that I grasped at this first oppor-
tunity of conversation; and in spite of her unrest
—she did not want to linger—held her to the spot
till I had made her feel that a man had come into
her life whose will meant something, and to whom,


104 THE FORSAKEN INN.

if she did not subdue the light of her glances, she
must give account for every added throb she
caused to beat in his proud heart.
“ This done I let her go, for Miss Dudleigh was
not well and needed her, and the door closed be-
hind her mysterious smile, and the sound of her
steps died out in the hall, and in fancy only could
I behold her supple, dark-clad form go up the
broad staircase, projecting itself now against the
golden daylight falling through one window, and
now against the clustering vines that screened
another, till she disappeared in regions of which I
knew nothing and whither even my daring imagi-
nation presumed not to follow. And the vision
never left my eyes nor her form my heart, and I
went out in my turn, a burning, eager, determined
man, where in a short half hour before I had en-
'tered cold and self-satisfied, without hope and
without exaltation.
“ This was the beginning. In a week the earth
and sky held nothing for me but that woman.
’Her name, which I had not learned at our first in-
terview, was Marah Leighton—a fitting watch-
word for a struggle that could terminate only with
my life! For I had got to the pass that this


Two WOMEN. 105
woman must be mine. I would have her for my
wife or see her dead; she should never leave the
town with another. Yes; homely as I was, with-
out recommendation of family, or more means
than enough to keep a wife from want, I boldly
entered upon this determination, and in the face
of some dozen lovers, that at the first revelation
of her beauty began to swarm about her steps,
pressed my claims and pushed forward my suit
till I finally gained a hearing, and after thata
promise, which, if vague, was more than any of
her other lovers could boast of, or why did they
all gradually withdraw from the struggle, leaving
me alone in my homage ?
, “ The uncertainties of her position (she was an
orphan and dependent upon Miss Dudleigh for
subsistence) had added greatly to my tenderness
for her. It also added to my hope. For if I were
poor, she was poorer, and ought to find in the
managing of my humble home a satisfaction she
could not experience in the enjoyment of a rela-
tive’s bounty, even if that relative was a woman
like Honora Dudleigh. And yet one doubts an
exultant happiness; and as I grew to know her
better, I realized that if I ever did succeed in mak-


'106 THE FORSAKEN INN.
ing her mine, I must see to it that my fortunes
bettered, as she would never be happy as a poor
man's wife, even if that man brought her independ-
ence and love.
“ She loved splendor, she loved distinction, she
loved the frivolities of life. Not with a childish
pleasure or even a girlish enthusiasm, but with a
woman's strong and determined spirit. I have
seen her pace through and through those great
halls just for the pleasure of realizing their spaci-
ousness; and though the sight made my heart
cringe, I have admired her step and the poise of
her head as much as if she had been the queen of
it all, and Iher humblest vassal. Then her lux-
ury! It showed as plainly in her poverty as it
could have done in wealth. If it were flowers she
handled, it was as a goddess would handle them.
None were too beautiful, or too costly, or too rare
for her restless fingers to pluck, or her dainty feet
to tread on. Had she possessed jewels,she WOuld
have worn them like roses, and flung them away
almost as freely if they had displeased her or she
had grown weary of them. .Love was to her a
jewel, and she wore it just now because it suited
her fancy to do so; but would not the day come


T“'O WOMEN. 107
when she would grow tired of it or demand
another, and so fling it and me to the dogs?
“ I did not ask. I was permitted to walk at her
side and pay her my court, and now and then,
when the humor took her, to press her hand or
drop a kiss upon the rosy palm ; and while I
could do this, was it for me to question a future
which seemed more likely to hold fewer pleasures
than more ?
“But I grow diffuse; I must return to facts.
Honora Dudleigh, who saw my devotion, encou-
raged it. I wondered at it sometimes, for she
knew the smallness of my fortune, and must have
known the nature of the woman I expected to
share it. But as time passed I wondered less, for
her woman’s intuition must have told her, what
observation had as yet failed to tell me, that there
was trouble in the air, and that Marah needed a
protector.
“ The day that I first recognized this fact made
an era in my life. I had been so happy, so at ease
with myself, so sure of her growing confidence
and of my coming happiness. That I had cause
for this, the conduct of her friends and the jealousy
of her lovers seemed to prove. Though she gave


108 THE FORSAKEN INN.
no visible token of her regard, she clung to me as
to a support, and allowed my passion the constant
feast of her presence and the stimulation of her
voice.
“ Her enchantments, and they were innume-
rable, were never spared me, nor did she stint
herself of a smile that could allure, nor of a glance
that could arouse or perplex.
“I was happy, and questioned only the extent of
my patience, which I felt fast giving way as the
preparations for Miss Dudleigh’s marriage pro-
ceeded without my seeing any immediate prospect
of my own. You can realize, then, the madden-
ing nature of the shock which I received when,
coming quietly into the house as I did one day, I
beheld her face disappearing through one of the
doorways, with that look upon it which I had
always felt was natural to it, but which no passion '
of mine had ever been able to evoke, and then per-
ceived in the shadow from which she had just
glided, Edwin Urquhart, pale as excessiVe feeling
could make him, and so shaken by the first real
emotion which had ever probably moved his selfish
soul that he not only failed to see me when I ad-
vanced, but hastened by me, and away into the


TWO WOMEN. 109
solitudes of the garden, without noticing my ex-
istence, 0r honoring with a reply the words of
wrath and confusion which, in my misery and de-
spair, I threw after him.”


IIO THE FORSAKEN lNN.
CHAPTER VIII.
A SUDDEN BETROTHAL.
“ As for myself,” continued Mark Felt, “ I stood
crushed, and after the first torrent of emotion had
swept by, lifted my head like a drowning man and
looked wildly about, as if, in the catastrophe
which overwhelmed me, all nature must have
changed, and I should find myself in a strange
place. The sight of the door through which
Marah Leighton had passed stung me into tor-
tured existence again. \Vith a roar of passion and
hate I sprang toward it, burst it open, and passed
in. Instantly silence and semi-darkness fell upon
me, through which I felt her presence exhaling its
wonted perfume, though I could see nothing but
the dim shapes of unaccustomed articles of furni-
ture grouped against a Window that was almost
completely closed from the light of day.
“Advancing, I gazed upon chair after chair.
They were all empty, and not till I reached the
further corner did I find her, thrown at full length
upon a couch, with her head buried in her arms,


A SUDDEN BETROTHAL. III
and motionless as any stone. Confused, appalled
even, for I had never seen her otherwise than erect
and mocking, I stumbled back, and would have
fled, but that she suddenly arose, and flinging back
her head, gave me one look, which I felt rather
than saw, and bursting into a peal of laughter,
called me to account for disturbing the first min-
ute of rest she had known that day.
“ I was dumfounded. If she had consulted all
her wiles, and sought for the one best way to si-
lence me, she could not have chanced on one surer
than this. I gazed at her quite helpless, and for-
got—actually forgot—what had drawn me into her
presence, and only asked to get a good glimpse of
her face, which, in the dim light, was more like
that of a spirit than of a woman—a mocking spirit,
in whom no love could lodge, whatever my fancy
might have pictured in the delirium of the moment
that had just passed.
“ She seemed to comprehend my mood, for she
flung back the curtain and drew herself up to her
full height before me.
“ ‘ Did you think I was playing the coquette ?’
she asked. ‘ Well, perhaps I was; women like
me must have their amusements; but—’


112 ' THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ Oh! the languishment in that but. I shut my
eyes as I heard it. I could neither bear its sound,
nor the sight of her face.
“ ‘ You listened to him. He was making love to
you—he, the promised husband of another; and
you—’
“ She forced me to open my eyes.
“ ‘And I?’ she repeated, with an indescribable
emphasis that called up the blushes to my cheek.
“ ‘And you,’ I went on, answering her demand
without hesitation, ‘ the beloved of an honest man
who would die to keep you true, and will die if
you play him false I’
“ She sighed. Softness took the place of scorn ;
she involuntarily held out her hand.
“I was amazed; she had never done so much
before. I seized that hand, I pressed it wildly,
hungrily, and with lingering fondness.
“ ‘ Do you not know that you are everything to
me?’ I asked. ‘ That to win you I am ready to do
everything, barter anything, suffer anything but
shame! You are my fate, Marah; will you not
let me be yours?’
“ She was silent; she had drawn her hand from
mine and had locked it in its fellow, and now stood


A SUDDEN BETROTHAL. 113
with them hanging down before her, fixed as asta-
tue, in a reverie I could neither fathom nor break.
“ ‘ You are beautiful,’ I went on, ‘too beautiful
for me; but I love you. You are proud, also, and.
would grace the noblest palaces of the old world;
but they are far away, and my home is near
and eager to welcome you. You are dainty and
have never taught your hands to toil, or your
feet to walk our common earth; but there are
affections that sweeten labor. and under my roof
you will be so honored, so aided and so beloved,
that you will soon learn there are pleasures of the
fireside that can compensate for its cares, and
triumphs of the affections that are beyond the
dignities of outside life.’ _
“ Her lip curled and her hands parted. She
lifted' one rosy palm and looked at it, then she
glanced at me. i
“ ‘ I shall never work,’ she said.
“My heart contracted, but I could not give her
up. Madness as it was to put faith and life in the
grasp of such a woman, I was too little of a man
or too much of a one to turn my back upon a
hope which, even in its realization, could bring
me nothing but pain.


114 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ ‘You shall not work,’ I declared. And I
meant it. If I died she should not handle any-
thing harsher than rose leaves in her new home.
“‘ You want me?’ She breathed it. I stood in
a gasp of hope and fear.
“ ‘ More than I want heaven! Or, rather, you
are my heaven.’
“‘ We will be married before Honora,’ she mur-
mured. And gliding from my side before I had
recovered from the shock of a promise so unex-
pected, a bliss so unforeseen and immediate, she
vanished from my sight, and nothing but the per-
fume which lingered behind her remaincd to tell
me that it was not all a dream, and I the most
presumptuous being alive.
“And so the hour that opened in disaster ended
in joy; and from the heart of what I deemed an
irredeemable disaster rose a hope that for several
days put wings to my feet. Then something be-
gan to tarnish my delight, an impalpable dread
seized me, and though I worked with love and
fury upon my house, which I had begun adorn-
ing for my bride, I began to question if she had
played the coquette in smiling upon Edwin Urqu-
hart, and whether in the mockery of the laugh


A SUDDEN BETROTHAL. 115
with which she had dismissed my accusations
there had not been some regret for a love she
dared not entertain, but yet suffered to lose. The
memory of the glow in her eyes, as she turned
away from him at my step, returned with grow-
ing power, and I decided that if this were coquet-
ry, it were sweeter than love, and longed to ask
her to play the coquette with me. But she
never did, and though she did not smile upon
him again in my presence, I felt that her beauty
was more bewildering, her voice more enchant-
ing, when he was in the room with us than when
chance or my purpose found us alone. To settle
my doubts, I left watching her and began to
watch him, and when I found that he betrayed
nothing, I turned my attention from them both
and bestowed it upon Miss Dudleigh."


116 THE FORSAKEN 1NN.
CHAPT ER IX.
MARAH.
“Great heaven! why had I not noticed Miss
Dudleigh before! In her changed face, and in
the wasting of her delicate form, I saw that my
fears were not all vain, inasmuch as they were
shared by her; and shocked at evidences so
much beyond my expectations, I knew not
whether to shed the bitter tears which rose to
my eyes in pity for her or in rage for myself.
“ We were sitting all together, and I had a full
opportunity to observe the mOurnful smile that
now and then crossed her lips as Marah uttered
some brighter sally than common or broke—as
she often did—into sOng that rippled for a minute
through the heavy air and then ceased as sudden~
ly as it had begun. She looked much oftener at
Marah than at Urquhart, and seemed to be asking
in what lay the charm that subdued everybody,
even herself. And when she seemed to receive
no answer to her secret questioning, her eyes fell
and a sigh stirred her lips, which, if unheard by


MARAH. 117
the preoccupied man at her side, rang on in my
ears long after I had bidden farewell to 'her and
- the siren whose smiles, intentionally or uninten-
tionally, seemed destined to bring shipwreck into
three lives.
“It was not the last timeI heard that sigh. As
the weeks progressed it fluttered oftener and oft-
ener from between those pale lips, and at last the
change in Miss Dudleigh became so marked that
people stopped in the midst of their talk about the
stamp act to remark upon Miss Dudleigh's grow_
ing weakness, and venture assertions that she
would never live to be a bride. And yet the pre-
parations for her bridal and for mine went on, and
the day set apart for the latter drew bewilder-
ingly near.
“ NIarah saw my perplexity and her cousin’s
grief, but did nothing to dispel the one or assuage
the other. She seemed to be too busy. She was
embroidering a famous stomacher for herself, and
while a sprig of it remained unworked she had
neither eyes nor attention for anything else, even
for the bleeding hearts around her. She would
smile—O yes, smile upon me, smile upon Honora,
and not smile upon him; but she would not meet


118 THE FORSAKEN INN.
her cousin’s true eyes, nor would she grant me one
minute apart from the rest in which I could utter
my fears or demand the breaking of that spell
whose effects were so visible, even if its workings
were secret and imperceptible. But at last the
stomacher was finished, and as it dropped from
her hands I threw myself at her feet, and from
this position, looking into her eyes, I whispered :
“‘This is the last thing that shall ever flaunt
itself between us. You are to be mine now, and
in token of your truth come with me into the
conservatory, for I have words to utter that will
not be put off.’ I
“‘You are cruel,’ she murmured, ‘you are
tyrannical. This is a time of revolt; shall I re-
volt, too?’
“Maddened, for her eyes were not looking at
me, but at him, I leaped to my feet, and, regard-
less of everything but my determination to end
this uncertainty then and there, I lifted her and
carried her out of the room into another, where
I could have her alone, and withOut the humi-
liating sense of his presence.
“My bold act seemed to frighten her, for she
stood very still where I had placed her, only



'11 .
j V _ ‘ \ .flg‘
' '4M/J/réremw' .w.
\J .
o
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.5.


MARAH. I 2 I
trembling slightly. when I looked at her and
cried :
“‘Did you ask 'that question of me? Am I to
understand you want to break your fetters ?'
“ She plucked a rose from her breast and
crumpled it to atoms between her hands.
“‘ 0 why are they not golden ones !' she asked.
‘ I am miserable because we must be poor; because
—because I want to ride in a carriage, because
I want to wear jewels and own a dozen servants,
and trample on the pride of women plainer than
myself. I hate your humble home, I hate your
stiff Dutch kitchen, I hate your sordid ways and
the decent respectability that is all you can offer
me. \Vere you beautiful as Adonis, it would
make no difference. I was born to drink wine
and not water, and I shall never'forgive you for
forcing me to take yOur crystal goblet in my
hands, while, if I had waited—’
“ She stopped, panting. I let my whole pent-
up jealousy out in a word.
“ ‘ Edwin Urquhart has not even a crystal gob-
let to offer you. He is poorer than I am, and will
remain so till he has actually married Miss Dud-
leigh.’


122 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ ‘ Don’t I know it!’ she flashed out. ‘ If it had
been otherwise do you think-J
“She had the grace or the wisdom to falter.
I regret it now. I regret that she did not go on
and reveal her whole soul to me in one fell burst
of feeling. As it was, I trembled with jealousy
and passion, but I did not cast her from me.
“‘ Then you acknowledge—' I cried.
“ But she would acknowledge nothing. ‘ I love
no one,’ she asserted, ‘ no one. I want what I want,
but none of you can give it to me.’
“ Then blame me as you will, I took a great re-
solve. I determined to give her what she craved;
convinced of her sordid nature,-convinced of her
heartlessness and the folly of ever thinking she
could even understand, much less reciprocate my
passion, I was so much under her sway at that mo-
ment that I would have flung at her feet kingdoms
had I possessed them. Flushing, I seized her
hand. ‘
“‘ You do not know what a man in love can do,’
I cried. ‘ Trust me; give me yourself as you have
promised,and sooner or later I will give you what
you have asked. I am not a weak man or an in- .
competent one. Politics opens a vast field to an


MARAH. 123
V ambitious nature, and if war breaks out, as we all
expect it will, you will see me rise to the front, if
I have you for my wife and inspiration.’
“ The scorn in her eyes did not abate. ‘ O you
men!’ she cried. ‘ You think you give us every-
thing with a promise. A war! What is the his-
tory of wars? Demolished homes, broken fortunes,
rack, ruin and desolation. Is there gold, or honor,
'or case in these? A war! It will not be a war.
It will be a struggle in which men will fight bare-
foot and on empty stomachs for the privilege of
calling themselves free. I have no sympathy with
such a war. It robs us of comfort in the present
and brings nothing worth waiting for in the future.
Were Ito have my will, I would take the arm of
the first officer returning to England and remain
there. I hate this country, so new, so crude, so
democratic! I should like to live where I could
ride over the necks of common people.’
“A tory and an aristocrat! Another gulf be-
tween us. I looked at her in horror, but, alas! the
horror was strangely mixed with admiration. She
was such a burning embodiment of pride. Her pe.
culiar beauty—~the source of which I have never to
this day been able to fathom—lent itself so readily
II


124 THE FORSAKEN INN.
to the expression of fury and disdain, that, recoil as
I would from her principles, I could not shut my
eyes to the fascination of her glance or the tortur-
ing charm that hid in the corners of her pouting
lips. She was a queen. Oh, yes, but the queen
of some strange realm in a distant oriental land,
where right and wrong were only words, and the
sole end of beauty was delight, without reference
to God or one’s fellows. I saw it all, I felt“ it all,
yet I lingered. She was to be my wife in three
days, and the intoxication of this prospect was in
my blood and brain.
“ ‘ You will do so and so,’ were her next words.
‘You will give me what I ask when you have won
it. But I cannot wait for the winning; I want it
now. Do you know what I would do to get the
wealth I was born to? I would risk life! I would
walk on burning plowshares! I would—’
“ She stopped, and I saw the lines come out in
her forehead. She was thinking—thinking deeply.
I felt the shadow of a great horror creeping over
me. I caught her- impetuously in my arms. I
kissed her passionately to drive away the demons.
I begged and implored her to forget her evil
th0ughts, and be the woman I could love and che-


MARAH. 125
rish ; and finally I moved her. She shook herself
free, but she also shook the shadow from her brow.
She even found a smile to bestow upon me ; and
was it a tear? Could it have been a tear I saw
for a moment glisten in her eye as she turned
half petulantly, half imperiously away? I have
never known, but the very suspicion filled my
heart to overflowing, and the great sobs rose in my
breast; and—fool that I was—I was about to beg
her pardon, when she gave me one other look, and
I merely faltered out :
“ ‘ Where will you find another love like mine,
Marah? If you got your gold, you would soon
miss something which only comes with love. You
would be unhappy, and curse the day you left my
arms. I am your master, Marah; why not make
me a happy one ?’
“‘I expect,’ she murmured, ‘to marry you.’
“‘And then?’ I could not help it; the words
sprang to my lips involuntarily.
“Her eyes opened wide; she literally flashed
them upon me. I felt their lightnings play all
about my doubtful nature, and scorch it.
“ ‘ I will be your wife,’ she uttered gravely.
“I fell at her feet. I kissed the hem of her


126 THE FORSAKEN INN.
robe. In that moment I adored her. ‘ 0 best and
fairest !’ Icried, ‘I will make you happy. I will
fill your hopes to the full. You shall ride in a
carriage, and yOur will shall be a law to those who
smile in scorn upon you now, and you will be—'
“ ‘ Mistress Felt, of most honorable degree,’ she
finished, with the half laughing disdain she could
never keep long out of her words.
“And thus I became again her slave, and lived
in that sweet, if servile, condition till the hour of
_ our nuptials came, and I went to conduct her to
the church where, in sight of half the town, she
was to be made my wife. Shall I ever forget
that'morning? It was a December day, but the
heavens were blue and the earth white, and not a
cloud bespoke a rising storm. As for me, I
walked on air, all the more that I knew Urquhart
was out of town and would not be present at the
wedding. He had gone away on some behest of
Miss Dudleigh’s immediately after the last inter-
view I have mentioned, and would not come back,
or so I had been told, till after Miss Leighton had
been Mistress Felt for a week. So there was
nothing to mar my day or make my entrance into
Miss Dudleigh‘s house anything but one of pro~


MARAH. 127
misc. I saw Miss Dudleigh first. She was stand-
ing in the vast colonial hall when I entered, and in
her gala robes, and with the sunshine on her head,
she looked almost happy. Yet she was greatly
changed from her old self, and I felt much like
pouring out my soul to her and bidding her to
break a tie that would never bring her peace, or
even honor. But I feared to shatter my own
hopes. Selfish being that I was, Idreaded to have
her made free, lest— What? My thoughts did
not interpret my fears, for at that moment a sun-
beam struck down the stairs and through my
heart, and, looking up, I saw Marah descending,
and thought and reason flew to greet her.
“She had been robed by her cousin’s bounteous
hand, and her dress of stiff yellow brocade burned
in the morning light with almost as much bril-
liance as the sunshine itself. Folded across her
bust was the wonderful stomacher, under whose
making I had suffered so many emotions that each
sprig of work upon it seemed to have its own tale
of misery for my eyes, and fixed against this and
her white throat were those masses of flowers
without which her beauty never seemed quite
complete. In her hair, which was piled high


128 THE FORSAKEN INN.
above her forehead, flashed a huge golden comb,
and upon her arm gleamed two bracelets, whose
exquisite workmanship was well known to me,
for they had been an heirloom in my family for
years. She was fair as a dream, proud as a queen,
cold as a statue, but she was mine ! \Vas not the
minister waiting for us at the church ? and were
not the horses that were to take us there even
now champing their bits before the door?
“ She rodewith me. Four white horses had
been attached to Miss Dudleigh’s coach, and be-
hind these we passed in state out through the no-
ble park that separated this lordly house from the
rest, into the closely packed streets, where hun-
dreds waited to catch a glimpse of the most beau-
tiful woman in Albany, going to be made a
bride.
“Miss Dudleigh rode behind us in another coach,
and the murmur which greeted our appearance
did not die out till after she had passed, for they
knew she would soon be riding the same road
with even greater state, if not with so much
beauty ; and the people of Albany loved Honora
Dudleigh, for she was ever a beneficent spirit to
them, and more than ever, since a shadow had fal-


MARAH. 129
len upon her happiness, and she had come to know
what misery was.
“And thus we passed on, Marah with a glowing
flush of triumph burning on her cheek and I in
one of those moods of happiness whose rapture was
so unalloyed that I scarcely heard the half-laugh-
ing comments of those who saw with wonder how
plain was the man who had succeeded in carrying
' off this well-known beauty. And the greater part
of the way was traversed, and the bells of the old
North Church became audible, and in a moment
more we should have seen the belfry of the church
itself rising before us, when, suddenly, the woman
that I loved, the woman whose nuptials the minis-
ter was waiting to celebrate, gave a great start,
and, turning quickly toward me, cried :'
“ ‘ Turn the horses’ heads! I do not go to the
church with you to-day. Not if you kill me, Mark
Felt !’
“You have heard of stray bullets coming sing-
ing from some unknown quarter and striking a
person seated at a feast. Such a bullet struck me
then. I looked at her in horror.”


[30 THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER X.
AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS.
“ ‘ You think I am playing with you,’ She mur-
mured. ‘I am not. I have sickened of these nup-
tials and am going back. If you want to, you may
kill me where I sit. You carry a dagger, I know ;
one more red blossom will not Show on my breast.
Give it to me if you will, but turn the horses.’
“She meant it, however much my lost heart
might cry out for its happiness and honor. Lean-
ing forward, I told the pompous driver that Miss
Leighton had been taken very ill, and bade him
drive back; and then with the calmness born of
utter despair and loss, I said to her:
“ ‘ In pity for my pride drop your head upon my
shoulder. I have said you were sick, and sick you
must be. It is the least you can do for me now.’
“ She obeyed me. That head on which in fancy
I had set the crowns of empires, for whose every
hair my heart hadv given a throb, sank coldly
down till it rested upon the heart she had broken ;
and while I steadied my nerves to meet the


AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS. I31
changed faces of the crowd, the carriage gave a
sudden turn, and amid murmurings that fell almost
unheeded on my benumbed senses, -we wheeled
about and faced again the gates through which
we had so lately issued.
“ ‘ She is ill,’ I shOuted to Miss Dudleigh, as we
passed her carriage. But she gave me no reply.
She was gazing over the heads of the crowd at
some distant object that enthralled her every look
and sense; and moved by her expression as I
thought never to be moved by anything again, I
followed her glance, and there, on the outskirts of
the crowd, crouching amid branches that yet re-
fused to hide him, I saw Edwin Urquhart; and
the miserable truth smote home to my heart that
it was he who had stopped my marriage—he,
whom I had thought far distant, but who had now
come to hinder, by some secret gesture or glance,
my bride on her path to the altar.
“ A dagger was hidden in my breast, and I still
wonder that I did not _leap from the carriage,
burst through the crowd, and slay him where he
crouched in cowardly ambush. But I let the mo-
ment go by, perhaps because I dreaded to bring
the shadow of another woe into Miss Dudleigh’s


AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS. 133
“‘I must carry you in,’ I whispered. ‘I beg
your pardon for it, but it is necessary to'the
faree.’ And following up my words by action, I
lifted her from the seat, cold and unresponsive as
a stone, and carried her into the house and set
her down before the astonished eyes of such
servants as had remained to guard the house in
our absence.
“ ‘ Miss Leighton has not been married,’ I cried.
‘She was taken ill on the way to church, and I
have brought her back.’ She needs no attend-
ance.’ And I waved them all back, for their
startled, gaping countenances infuriated me, and
threatened to shatter the dreadful calmness which
was my only strength.
“ As they disappeared, murmuring and peering,
Miss Dudleigh entered. I gave her one glance
and dropped my eyes. She and I could not bear
each other’s looks yet. Meantime Marah stood
erect in the center of the hall, her face pale, her
lips' set, her eyes fixed upon vacancy. Not a
word passed our three months. At last a petu-
lant murmur broke the dreadful silence, and
Marah, tossing her head in disdain, turned away
before our eyes and began to mount the stairs.


134 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ I felt my blood, which for many minutes had
seemed at a standstill, pour with a rush through
vein and artery, and darting to her side, I caught
her by the hand and held her to her place.
“ ‘ You shall not go up,’ I cried, ‘ till you and I
have understood each other. You have refused
to marry me today. Was it some caprice that
moved you, or—‘ I paused and looked behind me ;
Miss Dudleigh had shrunk from sight into one of
the rooms—‘ or because you saw Edwin Urquhart
in the crowd and followed his commanding ges-
ture ?’
“ The hand which I held grew cold as ice. She
drew it away and looked at me haughtily, butI
saw that I had frightened her.
“‘ Edwin Urquhart is nothing to me,’ came in
low but emphatic tones from her lips. ‘I did not
want to marry any one, and I said so. It would
be better if more brides hesitated on the thresh-
old of matrimony instead of crossing it to their
ruin.’
“I could have killed her, but I subdued my-
self. I knew that I had Iost her; that in another
moment she would be gone, never to enter my
presence again as my promised wife; but I utter-


AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS. 135
ed no word, honored her with no glance; merely
made her a low bow and stepped back, as I
thought, master of myself again.
“ But in that final instant one last arrow entered
my breast, and darting back to her side, I whis-
pered, in what must have been a terrible voice :
“‘Go, falsest of the false! I have done with
you! But if you have lied to me—if you think
to trip up Edwin-Urquhart in his duty, and break
Honora Dudleigh’s noble heart, and shame my
honor—I will kill you as I would a snake in the
grass! You shall never approach the altar with
another as nearly as you have this day with me !’
“And with the last mockery of a look, in which
every detail of her beauty flashed with almost
an unbearable insistence upon my eyes, I turned
my back upon her and strode toward the outer
door.”


136 THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER XI.
HONORA.
“ But I did not pass it. Asound struck my ear.
It was that of a smothered sob, and it came from
the room where Ihad first seen Miss Dudleigh.
Instantly avision Of that sweet form bowed in
misery struck upon my still palpitating heart; and
moved at a grief I knew to be well nigh as bitter
as my own, I stopped before the half-closed door,
and gently pushed it open.
“ Miss Dudleigh at once advanced to meet me.
Tears were on her cheeks, but she walked very
firmly, and took my hand with an inquiry in her
soft eyes that almost drove me distracted.
“ ‘What shall I do?’ I cried to myself. ‘Tell
this woman to beware, or leave her to fight her
battles alone ?’ NO answer came from my inmost
soul. I was appalled by her weakness and my
own selfishness, and bowed my head and said
nothing.
“ ‘A strange ending to the hopes of this day,’
were the words that thereupon fell from her lips.


HONORA. I37
‘Is-is—Marah ill, or did one of her strange moods
overtake her ?’
“ ‘ I do not understand Miss Leighton,’ I replied.
‘The time I have spent in the study of her charac-
ter has been wasted. Ishall never undertake to
open the book again.’ .
“ ‘ Then,’ she faltered, and an absolute terror
grew in her eyes, ‘ you are going to leave her.
She is going to be free, and—’ The white cheeks
grew scarlet. She evidently feared that She had
shown me her heart.
“Affected, but irresolute still, I took her hand
and carried it to my lips.
“ ‘ Let me thank you,’ said I, ‘for glimpses into
a nature so noble and womanly that I am saved
in this hour from cursing all womankind.’ .
“Ah, how she sighed.
“ ‘ You are good,’ she murmured. ‘ You have
deserved a better fate. But it is the lot of good-
ness and truth ever to meet with misappreciatio‘n
and disdain. Here, here, only,’ and she struck her
breast with her clenched right hand, ‘lie the re-
wards for honesty, long-suffering, and tenderness.
In the world without there is nothing.’
“Tears, which I could not restrain, welled up


I38 TI-IF. YORSAKEN INN.
to my eyes. I could never have wept for my
own suffering, but for hers it seemed both natural
and real. Ah, why had she thrown the treasures
of her heart away upon a fool? \Vhy. had she
given the trust of her heart to a villain? I opened
my lips to speak; she saw his name faltering on
my tongue, and stopped me.
“ ‘ Don’t !’ she breathed. ‘I know what you
would say and I cannot bear it. I was motherless,
fatherless, almost friendless, and I relied upon the
wisdom of an aunt, whose judgment was, perhaps,
not all that it should have been. But it is too
late now for regrets. I have launched my boat,
and it must sail on; only—you are an honest man
and will respect my confidence—was it Mr. Urqu-
hart I saw on the outskirts of the crowd to-day ?’
“ I bowed. I knew she had not asked because
she had any doubts as to the fact of his being
there, but because she wanted to see if I had re-
cognized him and owed any of my misery to that
fact.
“ ‘ It was he,’ said I, and said no more.
“The mask fell from her countenance. She
clasped her hands together till they showed white
as marble.
u"


HONORA. 139
“‘ Oh! we are four miserable ones!’ she cried.
' He—’
“It was my turn to stop her.
“ ‘I would rather you did not say it,’ I exclaim-
ed. ‘I can hear much, but not to hear another
person utter words that will force me to think
of the dagger I carry always in my breast. Be-
sides, we may be mistaken.’ I did not believe it,
but I forced myself to say it. ‘ She declares he is
nothing to her, and if that is so, you might wish to
have kept silent.’
“ ‘ She says! Ah ! can you believe her? do you?’
“ ‘ I must—or go mad.’
“ ‘ Then I will believe her, too. I am so slight-
' ly tied to this world that has deceived me, that I
will trust on a little while longer, even if my trust
lands me in my grave. I had rather die than dis-
cover deceit where I had looked for honesty and
gratitude.’
“I was a coward, perhaps, but I did not try
to dissuade her. Though she was fatherless and
motherless, and loverless and friendless, I let her
grasp at this wisp of hope and cling to it, though
Iknew it would never hold, and that her only
chance for happiness was passing from her.


I40 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ ‘ If he were not poor,’ she now breathed rather
than whispered, ‘ I would find it easier to rend
myself free. But he has nothing but what lies in
my future, and if I should make a mistake and do
injustice to a man that is merely suffering under
a temporary intoxication, I should rob him of- his
only hope, Without adding one chance to my
own.’
“I boWed, and made a movement toward the
door. I could not stand much more of this
strain.
“ ‘ You are going?’ she cried. ‘ IVell, I cannot
keep you. But that dagger! You will promise
me to throw it away? You do not need it in de-
fense, and you do not want to kill me before my
time.’
“ No, no; I did not want to kill her. Grief was
doing that fast enough ; so I thought at that time.
Shuddering, but resolute, I drew the tiny steel
from my breast and laid it in her hand.
“‘ It is all I can give you to Show you my ap-
preciation of your goodness.’ And not trusting my-
self to linger longer lest I should take it again from
her hand, I went out and walked hastily from the
house.


HONOR A. 141
“ If you asked me what road I took, or through
what streets I passed, or whose eye I encountered
in my next hOur’s walking through the town,I
could not tell you. If jeers followed me, I heard
them not; if I was the recipient of sympathizing
looks and wondering conjectures, they were all
lost upon eyes that were blind and ears that were
deaf. I did not even feel ; and did not realize till
night that I had been wandering for hours with-
out my cloak, which I had left in the carriage and
forgotten to take again when I went out. The first
knowledge I had of my surroundings was when I
found an obstruction in my path, and looking up,
saw myself in front of my own door, and not two
feet from me, Edwin Urquhart.” '


142 THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER XII.
EDWIN URQUHART.




\ \2’
/ (3.
[N THAT momen Mark Felt
paused and cast a glance toward
the Hudson far below us. Then he resumed his
narrative.
“I drew back,” he said, “and clenched my
hands to keep myself from strangling Urquhart.
Then I broke into hurried pants, that sub-
sided gradually into words of perplexity and


I44 TIIE FURSAKEN INN.
worthy of my bride, he came and stood before me
and uttered these unexpected words:
“ ‘ Felt, I like you. You are the only friend I
have, and I am indebted to you. Now, what have
you against me?’
“I was astonished. His whole look and bear-
ing were so different from what I had expected,
so different from anything I had ever seen in him
before. I began to question my doubts, and
dropped my eyes as he pursued :
“ ‘ You have been disappointed in your mar-
riage, I hear; but that need not make you as
downcast as this. A woman as capricious as Miss
Leighton might easily imagine she was too ill to
go through the ceremony today. But she must
have repented of her folly by this time, and in a
week will reward you as your patience deserves.
But what have I got to do with it? For incredi-
ble as it appears, your every look and tone assures
me that you blame me for this mishap.’ ,
“ Was he daring me? If so, he should find me
his equal. I raised my eyes and surveyed him.
“ ‘ Shall I tell you why this is so—why I associ-
ate Miss Leighton's caprice with your return, and
regard both with suspicion? Because I have seen


EDWIN URQUHART, I45
you look on her with love; because I have sur_
prised the passion in your face and beheld her-J
“ ‘ Well ?’ _
“The tone was indescribable. It was as if a
hand had taken me by the throat and choked me.
I drew off and was silent.
“ He seized the word at once.
“ ‘You have seen nothing. If you think you
have, then have you deceived yourself. Marah
Leighton has beauty, but it is not a kind that
moves me—’
“He paled. Was it horror of the lie he was
uttering? I have never known, never shall
know.
“ ‘The woman I am going to marry is Honora
Dudleigh.’ ’
“ Igazed at him, determined to find the truth if
it were in him. He bore my look unflinchingly,
though his color did not return, and his hands
trembled nervously.
“ ‘ You love her?’ I asked.
“ ‘ I love her,’ he returned.
“ ‘And your wedding day—’
“ ‘ Is set.’
“ ‘ May it have no interruptions,’ I remarked.


146 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ He laughed—an uneasy laugh, I thought——but
jealousy was not yet dead within me.
“ ‘And yours?’ he inquired.
“ ‘I have had mine,’ I returned. ‘I shall never
have another.’
“ He shook his head and looked at me inquisi-
tively. I repeated my assertion.
“ ‘ I shall never approach the altar again with _a
woman. Iam done with such things, and done
with love.’ '
“ He finished his laugh.
“ ‘ \Vait till you see Marah Leighton smile again,’
he cried; and with the first reappearance of his
old manner that I had seen in him since the be-
ginning of this interview, he caught up a wine
glass off the table, and filling it with wine, ex-
claimed jovially: ‘ Here’s to our future wives!
May they be all that love paints them l'
“I thought his mirth indecent, his manne'r out
of keeping with the occasion, and the whole situa-
tion atrocious. But I saw he was about to leave,
and said nothing; but I did not drink his toast.
When he was gone, I broke his glass by flinging
it at my own reflection, in a glass I had bought to
mirror her beauty ; and before the day was spent,


EDWIN URQUHART. I47
I had destroyed every destructible article in the
house whose value or whOse prettiness spoke of
the attempt I had made to alter my home from a
bachelor’s abode to the nest I had thought in
keeping with the dove I had failed to place there.
As I did it I filled the house with mocking laugh-
ter; that Ishould have thought that this or that
would please her, who would have found a palace
open to criticism, and the splendors of a throne
room scarce grand enough for her taste! I was
but suffering the stings of a lifetime compressed
into a day, and was miserable because I could see
no prospect but further addition to my suffering.”


I48 TIIE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER XIII.
BEFORE THE WEDDING.
“ Two weeks after this I was sitting beside my
solitary hearth, musing upon my misery and long-
ing for the blessed relief of sleep. There was no
one with me in the house. I had dismissed every
servant; for I would have no spies about me, pry-
ing'into my misery ; and though I could not keep
the world of men and women from my doors, I
could at least refuse to admit them; and this I did
——living the life of a recluse almost as much as I
do here, but with less case, because the wind
would bring whispers, and the walls were not I
thick enough to shut out from my fancy the
curious glancesl felt to be cast upon them by
every passer-by that wandered through the street.
“On this night I had been thinking of Miss
Dudleigh, of whose viSIbly failing health various
murmurs had reached me, and I felt, notwith-
standing my determination to hold myself aloof
from every one and everything that could in any
way reopen my still smarting wound, I could


BEFORE THE WEDDING. I49
more easily find the sleep I longed for if some
word from the great house would relieve the sus-
pense in which my ignorance kept me. But I
would not go there if Idied of my anxiety, nor
would I stoop to question any of the market men
or women, who were the only persons admitted
now within my doors. 7
“ The clock was striking, and the strange sense
of desolation which is inseparable from this sound
to a solitary man (you see I have no clock here)
was stealing over me, when I heard a tap on one
of the windows overlooking my small garden,
and a voice came through the lattice, crying:
“ ‘ Massa—Massa Felt.’
“I knew the voice at once. It was that of one
of Miss Dudleigh’s servants, an honest black, who
had always been devoted to me from the day he
did me some trifling service with Miss Leighton.
Hearing it now, and after such thoughts, I was so
moved by the promise it gave of news from the
one quarter I desired, that Istumbled asI rose,
and found difficulty in answering him. Nor did I
recover my self-possession for hours; for the
story he had to tell—after numerous apologies for
his presumption in disturbing me—was so signifi-


BEFORE THE WEDDING. ISI
warded by catching the words : ‘ You are a brave
girl and my queen !’ and then something like a
prayer for a kiss, or some such favor, as a seal to
their compact. But to this she returned a vigor-
ous ‘ No,’ followed by the mysterious sentence : ‘ I
shall give you nothing till I am dead, and then I .
will give you everything.’
“ After which they made a move as if to sepa-
rate, which action so alarmed the now deeply dis-
concerted negro that he drew back in haste, hid-
ing behind some neighboring bushes till they had
passed him and disappeared, he out of the gate,
and she through the small side entrance into the
house. This was the previous night, and for near-
ly twenty-four hours the poor negro had tortured
himself as to what he should do with the informa-
tion thus surreptitiously gained. He lacked the
. courage to tell his mistress, and finally he had
thought of me, who was her best friend, and who
must have known there was something amiss with
Miss Leighton, or why had I not married her
when everything was ready and the minister wait-
ing with his book in his hand?
“Not answering this insinuation,I put to him
one or two of the many questions that were burn-


152 THE FORSAKEN INN.
ing inmy brain. Had he told any of the other
servants what he had seen? And did Miss Dud-
leigh look as if she suspected there was anything
wrong ?
“ He answered that he had not dared to speak a
word of it even to his wife; and as for Miss Dud-
leigh, she was ill so much of the time that it was
hard to tell whether she had any other cause for
uneasiness or not. He only knew that she was
greatly changed since this miserable deceiver
came into the house.
“ I believed him, and amid all my struggle and
wrath tried to fix my mind upon her alone. I sue-
ceeded only partially, but enough to enable me to
write this line, which I entreated him to carry to
her:
‘HONORED MISS DUDLEIGII—You will forgive
me if I overstep the bounds of friendship in yield-
ing to the inner voice which compels me to say
' that if before or on your marriage day you need
advice or protectiOn, you may command both
from Your respectful servant,
‘MARK FELT.’
“I did not expect a reply to this note, and I did
not receive any. Ithought I went as far as my
position toward her allowed, but I have ques-
tioned it since—questioned if Ishould not have


BEFORE THE WEDDING. 153
told her what the negro had heard and seen, and
let her own judgment decide her fate. But I was
not in my right mind in those days. I was too
much a part of all this misery to be a fair judge of
my own duty ; and then the mysterious nature of
Miss Leighton’s remark, the incomprehensibility
of the words—‘ I shall give you nothing till I am
dead, and then I shall give you everything ’——add-
ed such unreality to the scene, and awakened such
curious conjectures, that I did not know Where
any of us stood, or to what especial misery the
future pointed.
“ ‘ Till she was dead!’ What could she, what
did she mean? She would then give him every-
thing! Ah ! ah l—when she was dead! Well, so
be it. Meanwhile, there was no prospect Of death
for any one, unless it was for Miss Dudleigh, Whom
rumor acknowledged to be still fading, though
everything was being done for her comfort, and
physician after physician employed. .
“ I saw Caesar once again in these days. I met
, him in the street, seemingly greatly to his de-
light, for he smiled till his teeth shone from ear to
ear, and made haste to remark, in quite a jovial
voice :


154. THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ ‘ I specs it’s all right, massa. Massa Urquhart
never looks at Miss Leighton now, but always
doin’ his best for missus, making her smile quite
happy when she isn’t coughing that dreadful
cough. WVe will have a gay wedding yet. Yes;
Miss Leighton seems to spect that; for she all de
time making pretty things and trying them on
missus, and laughing and cheering her up, just as
if she didn’t spect any one to die.’
- “ Yes, but this change of manner frightened me.
I grew feverishly anxious, and spent night and
day in asking myself unanswerable questions. Nor
did these in any way abate when one day I was
startled by the tidings that all preparations for re-
fitting the great house had stopped; that the doc-
tors had decided that Miss Dudleigh must remove
to a warmer climate, and that accordingly upon
her marriage she and her husband would set sail
for the Bermudas, there to take up their abode till
her health was quite restored. I doubted my ears;
I doubted the facts; I doubted Urquhart, and I
doubted one other most of all whose name Ifind it
hard to mention even to myself.
“ Yet I should not have doubted her; I should
have remembered the flame that was always burn-


156 _ THE FORSAKEN INN.
of a room at home?‘ She would be there, of
course, but I need not look at her; and if he or
she meditated any treachery, where ought I to be
but in the one place where my presence would be
most useful? I decided to gratify Miss Dud-
leigh, almost before the inquiry in her eyes had
changed to a look of suspense. ‘ Yes, I will come,’
said I. i
“ She drew a deep breath, and smiled with ten-
der sweetness. -
“‘I thank you,’ she rejoined. ‘I thank you
most deeply and most truly. I do not know
why I desired it so much. Possibly because I
feel something like a sister to you, possibly be-
cause I feel afraid—’ .
“ She stopped, blushing. ‘ I do not mean afraid.
Why should I feel afraid? Edwin is very good
to me; very good. I did not know he could be
so attentive.’ And she sighed.
“I felt that sigh go through and through me.
Looking at her I took a sudden resolution.
“‘Honora,’ I said (I had never called her by
her first name before), ‘do not give your hap_
piness into Edwin Urquhart’s keeping. You
have yet three days before you for reconsidera-


BEFORE THE WEDDING. 157
tion. Break your bonds, and, unhampered by
uncongenial ties, seek in another climate for that
peace of mind you will never enjoy here or else-
where as his wife.’
“ She stared at me for a moment with wide-open
and appealing eyes ; then she shook her head, and
answered quietly:
“ ‘ One broken-off wedding in the family is
enough. I cannot shock society with another.
But, oh, Mark! why did you not warn me at first?
I think I would have listened; I think so.’
“ ‘ Forgive me,’ 'I entreated. ‘ You know it
would have been presumptuous in me at first;
afterward she stood in the way.’
“ ‘ I kndw,’ she answered, and turned away her
head. .
“I saw she did not wish me to leave her yet;
so I said:
“ ‘ You are going away; you are going to leave
Albany.’
“ ‘ I must, or so Edwin thinks. He says I will
never recoverin this climate.’
“ ‘ Do you wish to go?’
“‘ Yes; I think I do. I can never be happy
here, and perhaps when we are far away, and have


I58 THE FORSAKEN INN.
only each other to think of, the love and confidence
of which I have dreamed may come. At all events,
I comfort myself with that hope.’
“ ‘ But it is a long, long sea voyage. Have you
strength enough to carry you through?’
“ ‘If I have not,’ she intimated, with a mournful
smile, ‘ he will be free, and I released without
scandal from a marriage that fills you with appre-
hension.’
“ ‘ Oh,’ I cried, ‘ would I were your brother in-
deed ! This should never go on.’ Then impelled
by what I thought to be my duty, I inquired :
‘ And your money, Honora ?'
“She flushed, but answered in the same spirit
in which I had spoken.
“ ‘ As little of it as may be will remain with him.
That much my old guardian insisted upon. Do not
ask me any more questions, Mark.’
“ ‘ None of a nature so personal,’ I promised.
‘ But there is one thing—can you not guess what
it is ?—-which I ought to know. It is about
Marah.’
“ The words came with effort, and hurt her as
much as me. But she answered bravely:
“ ‘ She returns to Schenectady the same day that


BEFORE THE WEDDING. 159
we depart. I hoped she would not linger to the
wedding, but she seems to have a strange desire
to face again the people who have talked about
her so freely these last few weeks. So what can
I say to dissuade her?’
“ ‘ Let her stay,’ I muttered ; ‘ but let her be-
ware how she behaves on that day, for there will
be two eyes watching her, prompt to see any
treachery, and prompt, too, to avenge it.’
“ ‘ You will have nothing to avenge,’ murmured
Honora; ‘ that is all in the past.’ q
“I prayed to Heaven she might be right, and
ere long bowed in adieu and left her. I saw
neither herself nor any one else again till I enter-\
ed the Dudleigh mansion three days later to wit-
ness her nuptials."


160 THE EORSAxEN INN.
CHAPTER XIV.
A CASSANDRA AT THE GATE.
“ Miss Dudleigh, moved, perhaps, by the un-
pleasant rrlal which had followed the broken-off
marriage of her cousin, chose to celebrate her OWII
wedding in her own house, and with as little cere-
mony as possible. Only her most intimate friends,
therefore, were invited, but these were numerous
enough to fill the halls and most of the lower
rooms.
“ When I entered there was a sudden cessation
of conversation; but this I had expected. If any-
thing could add to the interest of the occasion,
certainly it was my presence; and, feeling this, I
made them all a profound obeisance, and, neither
shirking their glances nor inviting them, I took
my place in the spot I had chosen for myself, and
waited, with a face as impassive as a mask, but
with a heart burning with fury and love, not for
the coming of the bride, but of her who in this
hour ought to have been standing at my side as
my wife.


A CASSANDRA AT THE GATE. 16x
“ But I miscalculated if I thought she would
enter with them. Even her bold and arrogant
spirit shrank from a position so conspicuous, and
it was not till they had presented themselves and
taken their places in front of the latticed window
so associated with my past, that I ‘ felt that
peculiar sensation which always followed the en-
trance of Marah into the same room with ' my-
self, and, yielding to the force that constrained me,
I searched the throng with eager looks, and there,
where the crowd was thickest, and the shadow
deepest, I saw her. She‘ was gazing straight at
me, and there was in her great eyes a look which
Idid not then understand, and about which I have
since tortured myself by asking again and again if
it were remorse, entreaty, farewell, or despair that
spoke through it. Sometimes I have thought it
was fear. Sometimes— But why conjecture? It
was an unreadable expression to me then, and even
in remembrance it is 'no clearer. Whatever it be-
tokened, my pride bent before it, and a flood of the
old feeling rushed over my heart, making me
quite weak for a moment.
“ But I conquered. myself, as far as all betrayal
of my feelings was concerned, and turning from


162 THE FORSAKEN INN.
the spot that so enthralled me, I fixed my gaze
upon the bride.
“ She was looking beautiful ; more beautiful than
any one had seen her look for weeks. A bright
color suffused her delicate cheeks, and in her eyes
burned a strange excitement, which did the work
of happiness in lighting up her face. But it was
a transient glow which faded imperceptibly but
surely, as the ceremony proceeded, and passed
completely away as the last inexorable words were
uttered which made her the wife of the false being
at her side.
“ He, on the contrary, was pale up to that same
critical moment—very pale, when one remembers
his naturally florid complexion; but as her color
went, his rose, and when the minister withdrew,
and friends began to crowd around them, he grew
so jovial and so noisy that more than one person
glanced at him with suspicion, and cast pitying.
looks at the now quiet and immobile young
wife. .
“ Meantime I sought with eager anxiety to
catch one more glimpse of Marah. But she had
shrunk from sight, and was not to be found. And
the gayety ran high and the wine was poured


164 THE FORSAKEN INN.
up, I found myself in the room alone. During the
hour of my abstraction the guests had gone out,
and I had neither noticed their departure nor the
gradual cessation of the noise which at one time
had filled my ears with hubbub. But the bride
had not gone. She was at that moment coming
down the stairs, and it was this fact which had
pierced to my inner consciousness, and aroused
once more in me a vivid sense of my surroundings.
He was with her, and behind them, gliding like a
wraith from landing to landing, came Marah, clad
like the bride in a traveling dress, but without the
bonnet which betokened an instant departure.
“Not anticipating her presence so near, I felt
my courage fail, and pushing forward, joined the
group of servants at the door. They, seeing in
this departure of their mistress a possibly endless
separation, were weeping and uttering exclama-
tions that not only showed their devotion, but
their fears. Shocked lest these words should reach
her ears, I quieted them ; and then seeing that the
carriage which stood outside had a stranger for a
driver, and that there was no accompanying wagon
filled with their body servants and baggage, I
asked the friendly Caesar, who had pressed close


A CASSANDRA AT THE GATE. 165
to my side, if Mrs. Urquhart was not going to
take a maid with her.
“ The negro at once growled out an injured
‘ No !’ and when I expressed my astonishment, he
explained that ‘ There was no one here good
enough to please Massa Urquhart. That he was
going to pick up with some one in New York.
That, though missus was Sick, he would not even
let her have her own gal go wid her as far as
the city; said he would do everything for her
hisself—as if any man could do for missus like
her own Sally, who had been wid her ever since
’l'ore She was born !’
“ ‘ And the baggage?’ I asked, troubled more
than I can say by What certainly augured anything
but favorably for her future.
“ ‘ Oh, massa send dat round to his house. He
got books, an’, a lot 0’ things to add to it.‘ Dere’s
enough 0’ dat; an’ den more went down de ribber
on a sloop a week an' more ago.’
“ ‘ So! so! And they are going to ride ?'
“ ‘ Yes, sah. You see, dey want to catch de ship
w’at set sail for Bermudas, an’ got to hurry; so
massa says.’
“ By this time Urquhart and his bride had reach-


166 THE FORSAKEN INN.
ed the door. He was still gay and she was still
quiet. But in her eye glistened a tear, while in
his there gleamed nothing softer than that vague
spark of triumph which one might expect to see
in a man who had just married the richest heiress
in Albany. _
“‘ Good-by! good-by! good-by!’ came in soft
tones from her lips; and she was just stepping
over the threshold, when there suddenly appeared
at the foot of the steps an old crone, so seamed and
bowed with age, so weird and threatening of as-
- pect, that we all started back appalled, and were
about to draw Mrs. Urquhart out of her path,
when the unknown creature raised her voice, and
pointing with one skinny hand straight into the
bride’s face, shrieked :
“ ‘ Beware of oak walls! Beware of oak walls!
They are more dangerous to you than fire and
water! Beware of oak walls!’
“A shriek interrupted her. It came, not from
the bride, but from the interior of the well-nigh
forsaken hall behind us.
“Instantly the old crone drew herself up into
an attitude more threatening and more terrible
than before.








A CASSANDRA AT THE GATE. I69
“‘ And you,’ she cried, pointing now beyond us
'toward afigure which I could feel shrinking in
inexplicable terror against the wall. ‘And you
cannot trust them either! There is death within
oak walls. Beware! beware!’
“A curse, a rush, and Edwin Urquhart had
flung himself at the old witch’s throat. But he
fell to the pavement without touching her. \Vith
the utterance of her last word, she had slipped
from before our eyes and melted into the crowd
which curiosity and interest had drawn within the
gates, to watch this young couple’s departure.
“ ‘ Who was that creature? Let me have her!
Give her up, I say!’ leaped from the infuriated
bridegroom’s lips, as he rushed up and down be-
fore the crowd with threatening arms and flash-
ing eyes.
“ But there was no response from the surging
throng; while from his frightened wife such an
appealing cry rung out that he returned from the
vain pursuit, and regaining his place at Honora’s
side, put her into the carriage. But as he did so
he could not refrain from casting a stealthy look
behind him, which betrayed to me,_if to no one
else, that his anger was more on account of the.


THE CATASTROPHE. 1']!
CHAPTER XV.
THE CATASTROPHE.


I ‘ U HAVE but little more to tell,”
i is ' Mark Felt continued, “but that
little is everything to me.
“ When we became positively assured that Miss
Leighton had disappeared from the house and
would not be on hand to take the stage to Sche_


172 THE FORSAKEN INN.
nectady, the excitement, which had been increas-
ing on all sides since the ceremony, culminated,
and the whole town was set agog to find her, if
only to solve the mystery of a nature whose
actions had now become inexplicable.
“I was the first to start the pursuit. Haunted
by her last look, and thrilled to every extremity
by the terror of the shriek she had uttered, I did
not wait for the alarm to become public, but
rushed immediately up stairs at the first intima-
tion of her disappearance.
“Though I had never pierced those regions
before, my good or evil fate took me at once to a
room which I saw at one glance to be hers. The
boxes waiting to be carried down, the tags and
ends of ribbons that I recognized, the nameless
something which speaks of one particular person-
ality and no other, all were there to assure me
that I stood in the chamber which for six months
or more had palpitated with the breath of the
one being I loved.
“ But of that I dared not think ; it was no time
for dreams; and only stopping to see that her
bonnet had been taken, but her gloves left, I
hurried down again and out of the house.


THE CATAS'I‘ROPHE. 173
“An impulse WhichI cannot understand took
me to Edwin Urquhart’s house, or, rather, to that
portion Of a house which he had hired for his use
since he had been looking forward to his marriage
with Miss Dudleigh. Why I should' go there I
cannot say, unless jealousy whispered that only
in this place could she hope for one final word
with him, as he and his bride stopped at the door
for his portion of the baggage. Be this as it may,
I turned neither to right nor left till I came to his
house, and whenI had reached it I found that,
with all my haste, I was too late, for not a soul
was in its empty rooms, while far down the street
which leads to the bridge I saw a carriage disap-
pearing, which, from the wagon following it so
closely, I knew to be the one containing Urquhart
and his bride.
“‘ She has not been here,’ thought I, ‘ or I should
have met her, unlessi’nand‘rny eye stole with a
certain shrinking terror toward the river which
skirted along the garden at the back—‘ unless ’—
But even my thoughts stopped here. I would
not, could not, think of what, if it were true,
would end all things for me. .
“ Leaving this place, I wandered aimlessly


174 THE FORsAKEN INN.
through the streets, studying each face that I met
for intimations which sh0uld guide me in my
search. If not amadman, I was near enough to one
to make the memory of that hour hideous to me;
and when at last, worn out as much by my emo-
tions as by the countless stepsI had taken, I
returned to my house for a bite and sup, something
in the sight of its desolation overpowered me, and
yielding to a despair which assured me thatI
should never again see her in this world, I sank
on the floor inert and powerless, and continued
thus till morning, without movement and almost
without consciousness.
“Fatal repose! And yetI do not know if I
should call it so. It only robbed me of a few
hours less of conscious misery. For when I
roused, when I became again myself, and looked
about my house, there on the floor, underneath a
curtain window which had been left unlatched, I
saw a letter containing these words :
‘HONORED AND MUCH ABUSED FRIEND :—
When ou read this, Marah will be no more.
After all, that has passed—after our broken mar-
riage and the departure of my COusin—life has
become insupportable; and, believing that lyou
would rather know me dead than miserab e,I


THE CATASTROPHE. I75
ventured to write you these words, and ask you
to forgive me, now that I am gone. '
‘ I loved him: let that explain everything.
‘ Despairingly yours,
‘MARAH LEIGHTON.’
“With shrieks I tore from the house. Marah
dying ! Marah dead! I would see about that.
Racing down to the gate, I paused. Some one
was leaning on it. It was Caesar, and at the first
glimpse I had of his face I knew I was too late-—
that all was over, and that the whole town knew' it.
‘~‘ ‘ Oh, massa, I wanted to go in, but I was
frightened. l’s been waiting here an hour, sah ;
when dey told me dat dey had found her bonnet
floating on de ribber, I know’d how you’d feel, sah,
and so I come here and—’
“ I found words to ask him a question. ‘ When
was this found, and where?’
“ ‘ This morning, sah, at daybreak. It was
caught by one of the strings to that old log, sah,
that lies out in the ribber back of—’ he hesitated
—‘ Massa Urquhart’s house, sah.’
“I knew; and I had glanced that way just as
her bright head was perhaps sinking under the
water. I threw up my arms in anguish and stum-
bled back into the house.


176 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ ‘ Then every one knows—’ I managed to say
on the threshold.
“ ‘ Dat she cared for him? Yes, sah ; I fear so.
How could dey help it, sah? Mor’n one person
saw her run down de street and go into massa's
old house just before de carriage stopped thar, and
as she didn’t come out again, I ’specs it was from
dat big log at the foot of the garden she. jumped
into de ribber. All de folks pities you very much,
sah—’
“ I choked him off with a look.
“ ‘ Who has been sent after Mr. and Mrs. Urqu-
hart to inform them of what has happened ?’
“ ‘ No one yet, sah. But Massa Hatton—'
“ ‘ Mr. Hatton is an old man. We must have a
young one for this business. Go saddle me the
quickest horse in your stables. I will ride after
them, and overtake them, too, before they can.
reach Poughkeepsie. He shall know—’
“ A glance from the negro’s eye warned me to _
be careful. I smothered my impatience and let
only my earnestness appear.
“ ‘ Mrs. Urquhart ought to know that her cou-
sin is dead,’ I declared.
“ ‘ I’ll tell Massa Hatton,’ said the black.


THE CATASTROPHE. I77
“ But my caution was now too much aroused
for me to make Mr. Hatton the medium of my re-
quest—he was Mrs. Urquhart’s old' guardian and
future agent; and subduing the extreme fury of
my feelings, I obtained his permission to act as his
messenger. Had he known of the letter which
had been thrown into my window, he might not
have given his consent so freely; but I had told
no man of that, and he and others saw me ride
away without a seeming suspicion of the murder-
ous thoughts that struggled with my grief, and
almost overwhelmed it.
“ For to me her death—~if she were dead—was
the result of a compact entered into with the des-
picable Urquhart, who, if he could not have her
for himself, was willing she should go where no
other man could have her. Though the idea
seemed quixotic, though it be an anomaly in hu-
man experience, for a woman thus to sacrifice
herself, I could not ascribe any other motive to
her deed; for the memory of that interview she
had held with her cousin’s future husband in the
garden was still fresh in my mind. Do you re-
member the words as told me by the negro who
overheard them? First, the question from his


178 THE FORSAKEN INN.
lips: ‘ Will you undertake it? Can you go through
with it without shrinking and without fear ?' And
the reply from hers: ‘I will undertake it, and I
can go through with it,’ followed by that assur-
ance which struck me as being so inexplicable at
the time, and which, with all the light that this
late horrible event has thrown upon it, still pre-
serves its mystery for me. ‘I shall give you
nothing till I am dead, and then I will give you
everything.’ If the conclusions I drew seemed
wild, were they Il)ll warranted by these words?
Did she not speak of death, and did he not en-
courage her? _
“If she were not dead—and sometimes this
thought would cross my burning brain—then she
was with him, forced into the company of his un-
willing wife in that last interview which they
must have held in his cottage. In either case he
was a villain and a coward, deserving of death;
and death he should have, and from the hand of
him whom he had doubly outraged.
“But as I rode out of town and came in sight
of the river, I found myself seized by terrifying
thoughts. Should I have to ride by the place
where I could see them stooping with boat hooks








THE CATASTROPHE. 181
and bending with peering eyes over some snag
they had brought up from the river bottom?
Could I endure to face this picture, then to pass
it, then to ride on, feeling it ever at my back,
blackening the morning, destroying the noontide,
making more horrible the night? Could I go
from this place till I knew whether or not the
sullen waters would yield up their beautiful prey,
and would my body proceed while my heart was '
on this river bank, and my jealousy divided be-
tween the wretch who had urged her on to death
and these other men who might yet touch her un-
conscious -form and gaze upon her disfigured
beauty? And the answer which welled up from
within me was, yes, I could go ; I could pass that
picture; I could feel it glooming ever and ever
upon me from behind my back, and never turn my
head ;—such an impetus of hate was upon me,
driving me forward after the wretch fleeing in
self-complacency and triumph into a future of
wealth and social consideration.
“But when I had done all this, when my too
fleet horse had carried me beyond sight of the city,
and nature, with its irresistible beauty, had begun
to influence my understanding, other thoughts


182 THE FORSAKEN INN,
came trooping in upon me, and a vision of Honora
Dudleigh’s face as She took the dagger from my
hands and an implied promise from my lips, rose
before me till I could see nothing else. Honora,
Honora, Honora who trusted me! who had Suf-
fered everything but the sight of blood ! who was
a bride, and whom it would be base ingratitude
for me to plunge into the depths of dishonor and
despair! And the struggle was so fierce, and the
torture of it so keen, that ere long my brain suc-
cumbed to the strain, and from the height of an-
guished feeling I sank into apathy, and from apa-
thy into unconsciousness, till I no longer knew
where I was or possessed power to guide my
horse. In this condition I was found wandering
in a field and thence carried to a farm house,
where I remained a prey to fever. When I
returned to consciousness, three weeks had
elapsed. _
“As soon as I could be moved, I went back to
Albany. I found the community there settled in
the belief that I had joined in death the woman I
so much loved,.and was shown a letter which had
been sent me, and which had been opened by the
authorities after all hope had been given up of my


184 THE FORSAKEN INN.
step forward on the road which led to this spot, a
great shout broke out in the market place:
“‘The farmers of Lexington have fired upon
the king’s troops !’
“ And I did not even turn my head I"


A DREAM ENDED. 187
only pity for the past I see in your eyes, but fear
for the future. What is it? What can threaten
me now of importance enough to call up such an
expression to your face? Since Marah is dead—~”
“ Wait!” I cried. “ First let me ask if Marah is
dead.” His face, which was turned toward me,
grew so pale I felt my own heart contract.
“If—Mar‘ah—As—dead !” he gasped, growing
huskier with each intonation till the last word was
almost unintelligible.
“ Yes,” I continued, ignoring his glance and
talking very rapidly ; “her body was never found.
You have no proof that she perished. The letter
that she wrote you may have been a blind. Such
things have happened. Try and remember that
such things have happened.” I
He did not seem to hear me. Turning away,
he looked about him with wide-open and ques-
tioning eyes, like a child lost in a wood.
“ I cannot follow you,” he murmured. “ Marah
living?” His own words seemed to give him life.
He turned upon me again. “ Do you know that
she is living?” he asked. . “ Is it this you have
come to tell me? If so, speak, speak! I can bear
the news. I have not lost all firmness. I;I—”


A DREAM ENDED. 189
“ Of course. Why should you question it?
Why—"
“And was this letter in her writing? written by
her hand?" '
“Of course—of course; wasn’t it signed with
her name ?”
“ But the handwriting? Couldn‘t it have been
an imitation ? Wasn‘t it one ? Was it not written
by Marah,-and not Honora? She was a clever
woman, and—”
“ Written by Marah? By Marah? Great hea-
vens, did she go with them, then? Were my
secret doubts right? Is she lost to me in eternity
as well as here? Is she living with him ?"
“She was living with him, and there is good
reason to believe she is doing so still. There is a
Mr. Urquhart in Paris, and a Mrs. Urquhart. 'As
Marah is the woman he loved, she must be this
latter.”
“Must be? Ido not see why you should say
must be! Is Honora dead? Is—"
“ Honora is dead—has been dead for sixteen
years. The woman who sailed with Mr. Urquhart
called herself Honora, but she was not Honora.
She who rightfully bore this name was dead and


190 THE FORSAKEN INN.
hidden away. It is of crime that I am speaking. Ed-
win Urquhart is a murderer, and his victim was—"
It was not necessary to say more. In the sud-
denly outstretched hand, with its open palm; in
the white face so drawn that his mother would not
have known it ; in the gradual sinking and collaps-
ing of the whole body, I saw that I had driven
the truth home at last, and that silence now was
the only mercy left to show him.
I was silent, therefore, and waited as we wait
beside a death bed for the final sigh of a depart-
ing spirit. But life, and not death, was in the
soul of this man before me. Ere long he faintly
stirred, then a smothered moan‘left his lips, fol-
lowed by one word, and that word was the echo
of my own:
“ Murder.”
The sound it made Seemed to awake whatever
energy of horror lay dormant within him. Be-
stirring himself, he lifted his head and repeated
again that fearsome word :'
“ Murder !” '
Then he leaped to his feet, and his aspect grew
terrible as he looked up and shouted, as it were,
into the heavens that same dread word:
/.


A DREAM ENDED 191
“ Murder 1”
Filled with horror, I endeavored to take him by
the arm, but he shook me off, and cried in a terri-
ble voice:
“ A fiend, a demon, a creature of the darkest
hell! I have worshiped her, pardoned her, dream-
ed of her for fifteen years in solitudes dedicated
to God! O Creator of all good! What sacrilege
I have committed! How shall I ever atone for a
manhood wasted on a dream, and for thoughts
that must have made the angels of Heaven veil
their faces in wonder and pity.
“ You must have a story to tell,” he now said,
turning toward me, with the first look of natural
human curiosity which I had seen in his face since
I came.
“ Yes," said I,“ I have; but it will not serve to
lessen your horror ; it will only add to it.”
“Nothing can add to it,” was his low reply.
“ And yet I thank you for the warning.”
Encouraged by his manner, which had become
strangely self-possessed, I immediately began, and
told him of the visit of this bridal party at your
inn; then as I saw that he had judged himself
correctly, and that he was duly prepared for all I
.1


192 THE FORSAKEN INN.
could reveal,I added first your suspicions, and
then a full account of our fatal discovery in the
secret chamber.
He bore it like a man upon whom emotion has
spent all its force; only, when I had finished, he
gave one groan, and then, as if he feared I would
mistake the meaning of this evidence of suffering,
he made haste to exclaim:
“ Poor Honora ! My heart owes her one cry of
pity, one tear of grief. I shall never weep for
any one else ; thOugh, if I could, it would be for
myself and the wasted years with which I have-
mocked God’s providence.”
Relieved to find him in this mood, I rose and
shook his hand cordially.
“You will come back to Albany with me ?" I
entreated. “ We have need of you, and this spot
will never be a home to you again.”
“ Never l”
The echo was unexpected, but welcome. I led
the way out of the cave.
“ See! it is late," I urged. v
He shook his head and cast one prolonged look
around him.
“ What do I not leave behind me here ? Love,


A DREAM ENDED. 193
grief, dreams. And to what do I go forward?
Can you tell me? Has the future in it anything
for a man like me?”
“ It has vengeance !”
He gave a short cry.
“ In which she is involved. Talk to me not of
that! And yet,” he presently added, “ what it is
my duty to do, I shall do. It is all that is left to
me now. But Iwill do nothing for vengeance.
That would be to make a slave of myself again.”
I had no answer for this, and therefore gave
none. Insteadl shouted to my guide, and after
receiving from him such refreshments as my weary
condition demanded, I gave notice that I was
ready to descend, and asked the recluse if he was
ready to accompany me.
He signified an instant acquiescence, and before
the sun had quite finished its course in the west
we found ourselves at the foot of the mountains.
As civilization broke upon us Mr. Felt drew him-
self up, and began to question me about the
changes which the revolution had made in our
noble country.
I will not weary you, my dear Mrs. Truax,with


194 THE FORSAKEN INN.
the formalities which followed upon our return to
Albany. Iwill merely add that you may expect
a duly authorized person to come to you presently
for such testimony in this matter as it may be in
y0ur power to give ; after which a suitable person
will proceed to France with such papers as may
lead to the delivering up of these guilty persons
to the United States authorities; in which case
justice must follow, and your inn will be avenged
for the most hideous crime which has ever been
perpetrated within our borders.
Most respectfully,
ANTHONY TAMWORTH.


STRANGE GUESTS. 195
PART III.
RETRIBUTION.
CHAPTER XVII.
sTRANGE GUESTS.
SEPTEMBER 29, I791.
TWO excitements to-day. First, the appearance
at my doors of the person of whose coming I
was advised by Mr. Tamworth. He'came in his
own carriage, and is a meager, hatchet-faced man,
whose eye makes me restless, but has not succeed-
ed in making me lose my self-possession. He
stayed three hours, all of which he made me
spend-with him in the oak parlor, and when he
had finished with me and got my signature to a
long and complicated aflidavit, I felt that I would
rather sell my house and flee the place than go
through such another experience. Happily it is
likely to be a long time before I shall be called
upon to do so. A voyage to France and back is


196 THE FORSAKEN INN.
no light matter; and what with complications
and delays. a year or more is likely to elapse be-
fore the subject need be opened again in my hear-
ing.~ I thank God for this. For not only shall I
thus have the opportunity of regaining my equa-
nimity, which has been sorely shaken by these
late events, but I shall have the chance of adding
a few more dollars to my store, against the time
when scandal will be busy with this spot, and pub-
lic reprobation ruin its excellent character and
custom. I
The oak parlor I have shut and locked. It
will not be soon entered again by me.
The other excitement to which I referred was
the coming of two new guests from New York,
elegant ladies, whose appearance and manners
quite overpowered me in the few minutes of con-
versationl held with them when they first entered
my house.
Good God! what is that? I thought I felt
something brush my sleeve. Yet there is no one
near me, and nothing astir in the room! And
why should such a sudden vision of the old oak
parlor rise before my eyes? And why, if I must


STRANGE GUESTS. 197
see it, should it be the room as it looked to me on
that night when the two Urquharts sat within it,
and not the room as I saw it to-day !
Positively I must throw away the key of that
room ; its very presence in my desk makes me the
victim of visions.
OCTOBER 5, 1791.
Why is it that we promise ourselves certain
things, even swear that we will. perform such and
such acts, and yet never keep our promises or hold
to our oaths? Sixteen years ago I expressed a
determination to refit the oak parlor and make it I
look more attractive to the eye; I never did it. A
year since I declared in language as strong as I
knew how to employ, not that I would refit the
oak parlor, but that I would tear it from the house,
even at the cost of demolishing the whole struc-
ture.
And now, only a week since, I promised myself,
as my diary will testify, that I would throw away
the key of this place, if only to rid myself of un-
pleasant reminders. But the key is still with me,
and the room intact. I have neither the power
nor the inclination to touch it. The ghost of the


198 THE FORSAKEN INN.
woman who perished there restrains me. Why?
Because we are not done with that room. The
end of its story is not yet. This I feel; and I feel
something further; Ifeel that it will be entered
soon, and that the person who is to enter it is al-
ready in my house.
I have spoken of two ladies—God knows with
but little realization of the fatal interest they
would soon possess for me. They came without
servants some four days ago, and saying they
wished to remain fOr a short time in this beautiful
spot, at once accepted the cheerful south room
which I reserve for such guests as these. As they
are very handsome and distinguished-looking, I
felt highly gratified at their patronage, and was
settling down to a state of complacency over
the prospects of a profitable week, when some-
thing, I cannot tell What, roused in me a spirit of
suspicion, and Ibegan to notice that the elder lady
was of a very uneasy disposition, exhibiting a
proneness to wander about the house and glide
through its passages, especially those on the
ground floor, which at first made me question her
sanity, and then led me to wonder if through some
means unknown to me she had not received a hint


STRANGE GUEsTs. 199
as to our secret chamber. I watch, but cannot yet
make out. Meanwhile a description of these wo-
men may not come amiss.
They are both beautiful, the younger especially.
When I first saw them seated in my humble par-
lor, I thought them the wife and daughter of one
of our great generals, they looked so handsome
and carried themselves so proudly. But I was
presently undeceived, for the name they gave was
a foreign one, which my English tongue finds it
very hard even yet to pronounce. It is written
Letellier, with a simple Madame before it for the
mother, and Mademoiselle for the daughter, but
how to speak it—well, that is a small matter. I do
speak it and they never smile, though the daugh-
ter’s eye lights up at times with a spark of what I
should call mirth, if her lips were not so grave and
her brow so troubled.
Yes; troubled is the word, though she is so
young. I find it difficult to regard her in any
other light than that of a child. Though she
endeavors to appear indifferent and has a way of
carrying herself that is almost noble, there is cer-
tainly grief in her eye and care on her brow. I
see it when she is alone, or rather before she be-


200 THE FORSAKEN INN.
comes aware of another’s presence; I see it when
she is with her mother; but when strangers come
in or she assembles with the rest of the household
in the parlor or at the table, then it vanishes, and
a sweet charm comes that reminds me— ,
But this is folly, sheer folly. How could she
look like Mrs. Urquhart? Imagination carries
me too far. Equal innocence and a like gentle
temper have produced a like result in sweetening
the expression. That is all, and yet I remember
the one woman when Ilook at the other, and
shudder; for the woman who calls this child
daughter has her eye on the oak parlor, and may
meditate evil—must, if she knows its secret and
yet wishes to enter it. But my imagination is
carrying me too far again. This woman, what-
ever her faults, loves her daughter, and where
love is there cannot be danger. Yet I shudder.
Madame Letellier merits the description of an
abler pen than mine. I like her, and I hate her.
I admire her, and I fear her. I obey her, and yet
hold myself in readiness for rebellion, if only to
prove to myself that I will be strong when the
time comes; that no influence, however exerted,
or however hidden under winning smiles or


202 THE FORSAKEN INN.
perfect. But it is in the expression of her mouth
that her fascination lies. _ Without sweetness,
except when it smiles upon her daughter, without
mirth, without any expression speaking of good-
will or tenderness, there is yet a turn to the lips
that moves the gazer peculiarly, making it dan-
gerous to watch her long unless you are hardened
by doubts, as I am. Her hands are qxquisite, and
her form beauty itself.
The daughter is statuesque ; not in the sense of
coldness or immobility, but in the regularity of
her features and the absence of any coloring in
her cheeks. She is lovely, and there breathes
through every trait a gentle soul that ro'os my ad-
miration of all awe and makes my old and empty
heart long to serve her. Her eyes are gray and
her hair a reddish brown, with kinks and curls in
it like— But, pshaw! there comes that dream
again ! Was Honora Urquhart's hair so very
unique that a head of wavy brown liair should
bring her up so startlingly to my mind?
They are stopping here on their way to Albany
—.so the elder lady says. They came from New
York. So they did, but if my intuitions are not
greatly at fault, the place they started from was


STRANGE GUESTS. 203
The fact that the marks and labels have
all been effaced from their baggage is suspiciOus in
itself.
wretches who dishonored my house with a ghastly
France.
Can they be friends of the two miserable
crime? Is it from them that madame’s knowledge
comes, if she has any knowledge? The thought
awakens my profoundest distrust. Would that
Mr. Tamworth were within reach! I’think I will
write him. But what could I write that wOuld
I had better wait
a while till I see something or hear something
not look foolish on paper?
more definite.


204 THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MRS. TRUAX TALK-S.
OCTOBER 7, 1791.
HIS morning I was exceed-
ingly startled by one of
‘ my guests suddenly ask-
ing me before several of
the others, if my inn had


a ghost.
7 __ n “ A ghost !” I cried, for
' ‘ ' the moment quite aghast.
“ Yes," was the reply; “it has the look of a
house which could boast of such a luxury. Don’t
you think so, Mr. Westgate ?" _
This is a newcomer who had just been intro-
duced.
“Well,” observed the latter, “as I have seen
only this room, and as this room is anything but
ghostlike at the present moment, I hardly consider
myself competent to judge.”
“ But the exterior! Surely you noticedthe ex-
terior. Such a rambling old structure; such a


MRS. TRUAX TALKS. 205
beetling top to it, as if it had settled down here
to brood over a mysterious past. I never see it,
especially at twilight, that I don’t wonder what
hes so heavily upon its conscience. Is it a crime?
There would be nothing strange about it if it was.
Such old houses rarely have a clean past.”
It was nonchalantly said, but it sank deep into
my heart. Not that I felt that he had any motive
in saying it—I knew the young scapegrace too
well—but that I was conscious from his first word
of two eyes burning on my face, which robbed me
of all self-possession, though I think I sat without
movement, and only paled the slightest in the
world.
“A house that dates back to a time when the
white men and the red. fought every inch of the
territory on which it stands would be an anomaly
if it did not have some drops of blood upon it,” I
ventured to say, as soon as I could command my
emotions.
“ True," broke in a low, slow Voice—that of Ma-
dame Letellier. “DO you know of any especial
tragedy that makes the house memorable?”
Iturned and gave her a look before replying.
She was seated in the shadows of a. remote corner,


206 THE FORSAKEN iNN.
and had so withdrawn herself behind her daugh-
ter that I could see nothing of her face. But her
hands were visible, and from the force with which
she held them clasped in her lap I perceived that
the subject we were discussing possessed agreater
interest for her than for any one else in the room.
“ She has heard something of the tragedy con-
nected with this house,” was my inward comment,
as I prepared to answer her.
“ There is one,” I began, and paused. Some-
thing of the instinct of the cat with the mouse had
entered into me. I felt like playing with her sus-
pense, cruel as it may seem.
“ Oh, tell us !” broke in the daughter, a sudden
flush of interest suffusing for a moment her white
cheek. “ That is, if it is not too horrible. I never
like horrible stories; they frighten me. And as
for a ghost—if I thought you kept such a creature
about your house, I should leave it at once."
“ We have no ghosts,” I answered, with a gravity
that struck even 'myself unpleasantly, it was in
such contrast to her mellow and playful tones.
“ Ghosts are commonplace. We countenance
nothing commonplace here.”
“Good!” broke in a voice from the crowd of


MRS. TRUAX TALKS. 207
young men. “ The house is above such follies. It
must have some wonderful secret, then. What is
it, Mrs. Truax? - Do you own a banshee? Have
you a—" p
“ Mamma, you hurt me!”
The cry was involuntary. ’ Madame had caught
her daughter by the hand and was probably un-
aware what passion she had put into her clasp.
Mademoiselle Letellier blushed again at the sound
of her own voice, and prayed her mother's pardon
with the most engaging of smiles. As she did so,
I caught a glimpse of that mother's face. It was
white as death. “ Decidedly, She knows more than
she ought to,” thought I. “ And yet she wants to
know more. Why?” _
“The Happy-Go-Lucky Inn," I observed, as
soon as the flutter caused by this incident had
Subsided, “is no more haunted by a banshee than
by a ghost. But that is not saying it should not
be. It is old enough, it is respectable enough ; it
has traditions enough. I could tell you tales of
its owners, and incidents connected with the com-
ing and going of the innumerable guests who have
frequented it both before and during the revolu-
tion, that would keep you here till morning. But


208 THE FORSAKEN INN.
the one story I will tell must suflice. We should
lose our character of mystery if I told you all.
Besides, how could I tell all? Who could ever tell
the complete story of such a house as this?”
“ Hear! hear I" cried another young man.
“ Years ago—" I stopped again, wickedly stop_
ped. “ Madame, will you not come forward where
it is lighter?”
“ I thank you,” Madame Letellier responded.
She rose deliberately and came forward, tall,
mute and commanding. She sat down in the light;
she looked me in the face; she robbed me even of
my doubts. I felt my heart turn over in my breast
and wondered.
“ You do not proceed," she murmured.
“Pardon me,” said I; and assuming a noncha-
lance I was far from feeling, I commenced again.
I had played with her fears. I would play with
them further. I would see how much she could
bear. I resumed:
“ Years ago, when I was younger and had been
mistress of this place but a short time, there en-
tered this place one evening, at nightfall, a young
couple. Did you speak, madame? Excuse me,
it was your daughter, then ?”


MRS. 'I'RUAX TALKS. 209
“ Yes," chimed in the latter, coming forward
and taking her stand by the mother, greatly to the
delight of the young gentlemen present, who ask-
ed for nothing better than an opportunity to gaze
upon her modest but exquisite face. “ Yes; it was
I. I am interested, that is all."
I began to hate my role, but went on stolidly.
“ They were a handsome pair, and I felt an in-
terest in them at once. But this interesc immea-
surably heightened when the young man, almost
before the door had closed upon them, drew me
apart and said: ‘ Madame, we are an unhappy
couple. We have been married just four
hours.’ ”
Here I paused for breath, and to take a good
look at madame.
She was fixed as a stone, but her eyes were
burning. Evidently she expected the relation of
a story which she knew. I would disappoint her.
Iwould cause in her first a shock of relief, and
then I would reawaken her fears and prObe her
very soul. Slowly, and as if it were a matter of
course, I proceeded to say :
“It was a run-away match, and as the young
husband remarked, ‘ a great disappointment to my


MRS. TRUAX TALKS. 211
pated clattering of hoofs, and Simultaneously with
it, the unclosing of this door and the cry of the
young wife to her husband:
“ ‘I cannot bear it. At his first words I should
fall in a faint; and how could I resist him then?
No; let me fly; let me hide myself; and when
he comes in, swear that you are here alone; that
you brought no bride; that she left you at the
altar—anything to baflie his rage and give us
time. And the young thing sprang out before
me, and lifting her hands, prayed with great
!
wide-open eyes that I would assist the lie, and
swear to her father, when he came in, that her
husband had ridden up alone.
“I was not as old then as I am now, I say, .
and I was very tender toward youthful lovers.
Though I thought the scheme a wild one and
totally impracticable, she so governed me by her
looks and tones that I promised to do what she
asked, saying, however, that if she hid herself
she must do it well, for if she were found my
reputation for reliability would be ruined. And
standing there where you see that jog in the
wall, she promised, and giving just one look of
love to her _companion, who stood white but


212 THE FORSAKEN INN.
firm on the threshold, she sped from our sight
down the hall.
“A moment later the general's foot was where
hers had been, and the general's voice was fill-
ing the house, asking for his daughter.
“‘She is not here,’ came from the young man
in firm and stern accents. ‘You have been
pleased to think she was with me all these miles,
but you will not find her. You can search if you
please. I have nothing to say against that. But
it will be time wasted.’
“ ‘ We will see about that. The girl is here, is
she not?’ the father asked, turning to me.
“ ‘ No,’ was my firm reply; ‘ she is not.
“I do not know how I managed the lie, but I
did. Something in the young man’s aspect had
nerved me. I began to think she would not be
found, though I could see no good reason for this
conclusion.
“‘Scatter!’ he now shouted to his followers.
‘ Search the house well. Do not leave a nook or
cranny unpenetrated. I am not General B— for
nothing.’ And turning to me, he added: ‘You
have brought this on yourself by a lie. I saw my
daughter in this fellow’s arms as they passed over


MRS. TRUAX TALKS. 213
the ridge of the hill. She is here, and in half an
hour will be in my hands.’
“ But the clock on the staircase struck not only
the half hour, but the hour, and yet, though every
room and corridor, the cellar and the garret, were
searched, no token was found of the young wife’s
presence. Meanwhile the husband stood like a
statue on the threshold, waiting with what seemed
to me a strange certitude for. the return of the
father from his fruitless search.
“ ‘ Has she escaped from one of the windows?’
I asked, moved myself to a strange curiosity.
“ He looked at me, but made no reply.
“ ‘ It is dark; it is late. If the general chooses
to remain here to-night—’
“ ‘ He will not find her,’ was the reply.
“I was frightened—I know not why, but I was
frightened. The young man had a supernatural air.
I began to think of dembn lovers, and was glad when
the general finally appeared, storming and raving.
“ ‘ It is a conspiracy !’ was his cry. ‘ You are
all in league to deceive me. Where is my daugh-
ter, Mrs. Truax? I ask you because you have a
character to lose.’ ’
“ ‘ It is impossible for me to tell you,’ was my


214 THE FORSAKEN INN.
reply. ‘If she was to be found in my house, you
must have found her. As you have not, there is
but one conclusion to draw. She is not within
these walls.’
“‘She is not outside of them. Iset a watch
in the beginning, at the four corners of the house.
None of my men have seen so much as a flutter
of her dress. She is here, I say, and I ask you to
give her up.’ ' ~
“ ‘ This I am perfectly willing to do,’ I rejoined,
‘but I do not know where to find her. Let that
but once be done, and I shall not stand in the way
of your rights.’
“ ‘ Very well,’ he cried. ‘ I will not search further
to-night; but to-morrow—’ A meaning gesture fin-
ished his sentence; he turned to the young man.
‘As for you,’ he cried, ‘ you will remain here. Un-
pleasant as it may be for us both, we will keep
each other’s company till 'morning. I do not in-
sist upon conversation.’ And withOut waiting for
a reply, the sturdy old soldier took up his station
in the doorway, by which action he not only shut
the young man in, but gave himself a position of
vantage from which he could survey the main hall
and the most prominent passages.


216 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“He was no sooner gone, and the dust from his
horse’s hoofs lost in the distance, than I turned to
the young husband, and cried:
“ ‘And now where is she ? Let us have her here
at once. She must be hungry, and she must be
cold. Bring her, my good sir.’
“ ‘ I do not know where she is. We must be
patient. She will return herself as soon as she
thinks it safe.’
“I could not believe my ears.
“‘ You do not know where she is ?’ I repeated.
‘ How could you be so self-possessed through all
these hours and all this maddened searching if you
did not know she was safe?’ ‘
“ ‘ I did know she was safe. She swore to me
before she set foot on your doorstep that she could
so hide herself in these walls that no one could
- ever find her till she chose to reveal herself; and
I believed her, and felt secure.’
“ I did not know what to say.
“ ‘ But she is a stranger,’ I murmured. ‘ What
does she know about my house?’
“‘ She is a stranger to you,’ he retorted, ‘but
she may not be a stranger to the house. How
long have you lived here?’


MRS. TRUAx TALKS. 217
“ I could not say long. It was at the most but
a year; so I merely shook my head, but I felt
strangely nonplussed.
“This feeling, however, soon gave way to one
much more serious as the moments fled by and
presently the hours, and she did_not come. We
tried to curb' our impatience, tried to believe that
her delay was only owing to extra caution; but as
morning waxed to noon, alarm took the place of
satisfaction in our breasts, and we began to search
the house ourselves, calling her name up and
down the halls and through the empty rooms, till
it seemed as if the very walls must open and re-
veal us the being so frantically desired.
“ ‘ She is not in the house,’ I now asserted to
the almost frenzied bridegroom. ‘Our lies have
come back upon our heads, and it is in the river
we must look for her.’ ‘
“But he would not agree with me in this, and
repeated again and again: ‘ She said she would
hide here. She would not deceive me, nor would
she have sought death alone. Leave me to look
for her another hour. I must, I can, I will find her
yet !’
“But he never did. After that last fond look
1,.


218 THE FORSAKEN INN.
with which she turned down that very hall you
see before you, we saw her no more; and if my
house owns no ghost and never echoes to the
sound of a banshee’s warning, it is not because it
does not Own a mystery which is certainly thrill-
ing enough to give us either.” ’
“Oh!” cried out several voices, as'I ceased, “is
that all? And what became of the poor bride-
groom? And did the father ever come back? And
haven’t you ever really found out where the poor
thing went to? And do you think she died?”
For reply I rose. I had never taken my eye
off madame, and the strain upon us both had
been terrible; but I let my glance wander now,
and smiling genially into the eager faces which
had crowded around me, Iremarked:
“I never spoil a good story by too many ex-
planations. You have heard all you will from
me to-night. So do not question me further.
Am I not right, madame ?"
“ Perfectly,” came in her even tones. “And I
am sure we are all very much obliged to you."
I bowed and slipped away into the background.
I was worn out.
An hour later I was passing through the hall
\“s


MRS. TRUAX TALKS. 2I9
Q
above on my way to my own room. As I passed
madame’s door, I saw it open, and before I had
taken three steps away I felt her soft hand on my
arm.
“Your pardon, Mrs. Truax,” were her words;
“ but my daughter has been peculiarly affected by
the story you related to us below. She says it is
worse than any ghost story, and that she cannot
rid herself of the picture of the young wife flit-
ting out of sight down the hall. I am really
afraid it has produced a very bad effect upon her,
and that she will-not sleep. Is it—was it a true
story, Mrs. Truax, or were you merely weaving
fancies out of a too fertile brain?”
Ismiled, for she was smiling, and shook my
head, looking directly into her eyes. \
“ Your daughter need not lose her sleep,” I said,
“on account of any story of mine. Isaw they
wanted something blood-curdling, so I made up
a tale tO please them. It was all imagination,
madame; all imagination. I should not have told
it if it had been otherwise. 'I think too much of
my house."
“ And you had nothing to found it upon? Just
drew upon your fancy?”


220 THE FORSAKEN INN.
I smiled. Her light tone did not deceive me as
to the anxiety underlying all this; but it was not
in my plan to betray my powers of penetra-
tion. I preferred that she should think me her
dupe.
“Oh,” I returned, as ingenuously as if I had
never had a suspicious thought, “ Ido not find it
difficult to weave a tale. Of course such a story
could not be true. Why, I should be afraid to stay
in the inn myself if it were. I could never abide
anything mysterious. Everything with me must
be as open as the day.”
“And with me,” she laughed; but there was a
false note in her mirth, though I did not appear
to notice it. “I did not suppose the story was
real, but I thought you must have some old
tradition to found it upon; some old wife’s tale
or some secret history which is a part and par-
cel of the house, and came to you with it.”
But I shook my head, still smiling, and answer-
ed, quite at my ease: v
“No old wife’s tale that I have ever heard
amounts to much. I can make up a better story
any day than those which come down with a house
like this. It was all the work of my imagination,


MRS. TRUAX TALKS. 22 I
I assure you. I tried to please them, and I hope
I did it.” .
Her face changed at once. It was as if a black
veil had been drawn away from it.
“ My daughter will be so relieved,” she affirm-
ed. “I don’t mind such lugubrious tales myself,
but she is young and sensitive, and so tender-
hearted. I am sure I thank you, Mrs. Truax, for
your consideration, and beg leave to wish you a
good-night."
I returned her civility, and we passed into our
several rooms. Would I could know with what
thoughts, for my own were as much a mystery to
me as were hers.
OCTOBER 9, 1791.
Madame never addresses her daughter by her
first name. Consequently we do not know it.
This is a matter of surprise to the whole house,
and many are the conjectures uttered by the
young men as to what it can be. I have no
especial curiosity about it—I would much rather
know the mother’s, and yet I frequently wonder;
for it seems unnatural for a mother always to ad-
dress her child as mademoiselle. Is she her mo-


222 THE FORSAKEN INN.
ther? I sometimes think she is not. If the inter-
est in the oak parlor is what I think it is, then she
cannot be, for what mother would wish to bring
peril to her child? And peril lies at the bottom
of all interest there; peril to the helpless, the
trustng and the ignorant. But is she as interest-
ed there as I thought her? I have observed no-
thing lately to assure me of it. Perhaps, after all,
I have been mistaken.


224 THE FORSAKEN INN.
and though I have waited for her a long time, she
does not return. I am not well, and easily fright-
ened I Oh, how cold it is.”
I drew her in,‘wrapped a shawl about her, and
led her back to her room.
“ Your mother will return speedily,” I promised.
“ Doubtless she felt restless, and is taking a turn
or two up and down the hall.”
“Perhaps; for her dressing gown and slippers
are gone. But she never did anything like this
before, and in a strange house—”
A slight trembling stopped the young lady from
continuing.
Urging her to get into bed, I spoke one or two
further words of a comforting nature, at which
the lovely girl seemed to forget her pride, for she
threw her arms about my neck with a low sigh,
and then, pushing me softly from her, observed:
“ You are a kind woman; you make me feel
happier whenever you speak to me.”
Touched, I made some loving reply, and with-
drew. I longed to linger, longed to tell her how
truly I was her friend; but I feared the mother's
return——feared to miss the knowledge of madame’s
whereabouts, which my secret suspicion made im-


IN THE HALLS AT MIDNIGHT. 225
portant; so I subdued my feelings and hastened
quickly to my room, where I wrapped myself in
a long, dark cloak. Thus equipped, I stole back
again to the hall, and gliding with as noiseless a
step as possible, found my way to the back stairs,
down which I crept, holding my breath, and listen-
ing intently. '
To many who read these words the situation of-
those back stairs is well known; but there may be
others who will not understand that they lead
directly, after a couple of turns, to that hall upon
which opens the oak parlor. Five steps from the
lower floor there is a landing, and upon this land-
ing there is a tall Dutch clock, so placed as to offer
a very good hiding place behind it to any one
anxious to gaze unobserved down the hall. But
to reach the clock one has to pass a window, and
as this looks south, and was upon this. night open
to the moonlight, I felt that the situation demand-
ed circumspection.
I, therefore, paused when I reached the last
step above the platform, and listened intently be-
fore proceeding further. There was no noise ;
all was quiet, as a respectable house should be at
two o’clock in the morning. Yet from the hall be-'


226 ' THE FORSAKEN INN.
low came an undefinable something which made
me feel that she was there; a breathing influence
that woke every nervous sensibility within me,
and made my heart-beats so irregular that I tried
to stop them lest my own presence should be be-
trayed. She was there, a creeping, baleful figure,
blotting the moonshine with her tall shadow, as
she passed, panther-like, to and fro before that
closed door, or crouched against the wall in the
same attitude of listening which I myself assumed.
Or so I pictured her as I clung to the balustrade
above, asking myself how I could cross that strip
of moonlight separating me from that vantage-
point I longed to gain. For that I knew her to
be there was not enough. Imust see her, and
learn, if possible, what the attraction was which
drew her to this fatal door. But how, how, how?
If she were Watching, as secrecy ever watches, I
could not take a step upon that platform without
being discerned. Not even if a friendly cloud
' came to obscure the brightness of the moon, could
I hope to project my dark figure into that belt
of light without discovery. I must see What was
to be seen from the step Where I stood, and to do
‘ this I knew but one Way. Taking up the end of my


228 THE FORSAKEN INN.
There she was, standing before the door of the
oak parlor, fitting keys. I knew it at my first
glimpse, both from her attitude and the slight
noise which the keys made. Taken aback, for I
had not expected this, I sank out of sight, cloak
and all, asking myself whatI should do. I finally
decided to do nothing. I would listen, and if the
least intimation came to prove that she had suc-
ceeded in her endeavor, I would then spring down
the steps that separated us and hold her back by
the hair of her head. Meanwhile I congratulated
myself that the lock of that room was a peculiar
one, and that the only key I knew of that would
unlock it was under the pillow of the bed I had
just left. ‘
She worked several minutes; then the moon
came out. Instantly all was still. I knew whither
she had gone. Near the door she was tampering
with is a short passageway leading to another
Window. Into this she had slipped, and I could
look out now with impunity, sure that she would
not see me.
But I remained immovable. There was another
cloud rushing up from the south, and in another
moment I was confident that I should hear again


IN THE HALLS AT MIDNIGHT. 229
the slight clatter 0f the key against the look.
And I did, and not only once, but several times,
which fact assured me that she had not only
brought a handful of keys with her, but that
these keys must have come from some more distant
quarter than the town ; that indeed she had come
provided to the Happy-Go-Lucky for this noc-
turnal visit, and that any doubts I might cherish
were likely to have a better foundation in fact than
is usual with women circumstanced like myself.
She did not succeed in her efforts. Had she
brought burglar’s tools I hardly think she would
have been able to open that look ; as it was, there
was no hope for her, and presently she seemed to
comprehend this, for the slight soundsceased and,
presently,l heard a step, and peering recklessly
from my corner, I perceived her gliding away to-
ward the front stairs. I smiled, but it could not
have been in a way She would have enjoyed see-
ing, and crept noiselessly to my own room, and
our doors closed simultaneously.
This morning I watched with some anxiety for
her first look. It was slightly inquiring. Sum-
moning up my best smile, I gave her a cheerful
good-morning, and then observed:


230 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“I am glad to see you look so well this morning!
Your daughter seemed to be concerned about you
in the night because you had left your bed. But
I told her I was sure all was right, that you were
feeling nervous, and only wanted a breath of the
fresh air you would find in the halls.” And my
‘ glance did not flinch, nor my mouth lose its smile,
though she surveyed me keenly with eyes whose
look might penetrate a stone.
“ YOu understand your own sex," was her light
reply, after this short study of my face. “ Yes; I
was very nervous. I have cares on my mind, and,
though my daughter does not realize it, I Often
lie awake at her side, longing for space to breathe
in and freedom to move as freely as my uneasiness
demands. Last night my feelings were too much
for my self-control, and I arose. I hope I did not
seriously disturb you, or awaken anybody, with
my restless pacing up and down the hall.”
I assured her that it took more than this to dis-
turb me, and that after quieting her daughter I
had immediately fallen asleep ; all of which she
may have believed or may not; I had no means
of reading her mind, as she had no means of read-
ing mine.


232 THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER XX.
THE STONE IN THE GARDEN.
OCTOBER II, 1791.
This morning the post brought two letters for
my strange guests. Being anxious to see how
they would be received, I carried them up to
Madame Letellier’s room myself.
The ladies were sitting together, the daughter
embroidering. At the sight of the letters in my
hand they both rose, the daughter reaching me first.
“ Let me have them!” she cried, a glad, bright
color showing for a moment on her cheek.
“From your father?” asked the mother, in a
tone of nonchalance that did not deceive me.
The girl shook her head. A smile as exqui-
site as it was sad made her mouth beautiful.
“ From—" She began, but stopped, whether from
. an instinct of maidenly shame or some secret sig-
nal from her mother, I cannot say.
“ Well, never mind,” the mother exclaimed, and
turned away toward the window in a manner that
gave me my dismissal.


THE STONE IN THE GARDEN. 233
So I went out, having learned nothing, save the
fact that mademoiselle had a lover, and that her ‘
lips could smile.
They did not smile again, however. Next day
she looked whiter than ever, and languid as a
broken blossom.
“She is ill,” declared madame. “The stairs
she has to climb are too much for her.’
“Ah, ha!" thought Ito myself. “ That is the
first move,” and waited for the next development.
It has not come as soon as I expected. Two
days have passed, and though Mademoiselle Le-
tellier grows paler and thinner, nothing more has
been said about the stairs. But the time has not
passed without its incident, and a serious enough .
one, too, if these women are, as I fear, in the se-
cret of the hidden chamber.
It is this: In the garden is a white stone. It is
plain-finished but unlettered. It marks the resting-
place of Honora Urquhart. For reasons which
we all thought good, we have taken no un-
interested person into the secret of this grave,
any more than we have into that of the hidden
chamber.
Consequently no one in the house but myself


234 THE FORSAKEN INN.
could answer Madame Letellier, when, stopping
in her short walk up and down the garden path,
she asked what the white stone meant and what
it marked. I would not answer her. I had seen
from the window where I stood the quick sur-
prise with which she had come to a standstill at
the sight of this stone, and I had caught the trem-
ble in her usually steady voice as she made the
inquiry I have mentioned above. I therefore has-
tened down and joined her before she had left the
spot.
“ You are wondering what this stone means,” I
observed, with an indifferent tone calculated to
set her at her ease. Then suddenly, and with a
changed voice and a secret look into her face, I ad-
ded: “ It is a headstone; a dead body lies here.”
She quivered, and her lids fell. For all her
self-possession—and she is the most self-possessed
person I ever saw in my life—she showed a change
that gave me new thoughts and made me sum-
mon up all the strength I am mistress of, in or_
der to preserve the composure which her agita-
tion had so deeply shaken.
“ You shock me,” were her first words, uttered
very slowly, and with a transparent Show of .in-





THE STONE IN THE GARDEN. 237
difference. “ It is not usual to find a garden used
for a burial place. May I ask whose body lies
here? That of some faithful black or of a favor-
ite horse?”
“ It is not that of a horse,” I returned, calmly.
And greatly pleased to find that I had placed her
in a position where she would be obliged to press.
the question if she would learn anything more,
I walked slowly on, convinced that she would
follow me. ' .
She did, giving me short side glances, which I
bore with an equanimity that much belied the
tempest of doubt, repugnance and horror that
were struggling blindly in my breast. But she
did not renew the subject of the grave. Instead
of that, she opened one of her most fascinating
conversations, endeavoring by her wiles and
graces to get at my confidence and insure my
good will.
And I was hypocrite enough to deceive her
into thinking she had done so. Though I showed
her no great warmth, I carefully restrained my-
self from betraying my real feelings, allowing her
to talk on, and giving her now and then an en-
couraging word or an inviting smile.


238 THE FORSAKEN INN.
For I felt that she was a serpent and must be
met as such. If she were the woman Ithought
her, I should gain nothing and lose all by betray-
ing my distrust, while if she felt me to be her dupe
I might yet light upon the secret of her interest in
the oak parlor. I
Her daughter was waiting for us in the doorway
when we reached the house. At the sight of her
pure face, with its tender gray eyes and faultless
features, a strong revulsion seized me, and I found
it difficult not to raise my arms in protest between
her beauty and winning womanliness and the sub-
,tile and treacherous-hearted being who glided so
smoothly toward her. But the movement, had I
made it, would have been in vain. At the sight of
each other’s faces a lovely smile arose on the
daughter’s lips, while on the mother's flashed a
look of love which would be unmistakable even
on the countenance of a tiger, and which was at
this moment so vivid and so real that I never
doubted again, if I had ever doubted before,
that mademoiselle was her own child—flesh of
her flesh, and bone of her bone.
“Ah, mamma," cried one soft voice, “I have
been so lonesome!”


THE STONE IN THE GARDEN. 239
“ Darling,” returned the other, in tones as true
and caressing, “I will not leave you again, even
for a walk, till you are quite well.” And taking
her by the waist, she led her down the hall to_
ward the Stairs, looking back _at me as she did so,
and saying: “Icannot take her to Albany until
she is better. You must think what we can do to
make her strong again, Mrs. Truax.” And she,
sighed as She looked up the short flight of stairs
her daughter had to climb.

OCTOBER 15, 1791.
That stone in the garden seems to possess a
magnetic attraction for madame. She is over it
or near it half the time. If I go out in the early
morning to gather grapes for dinner, there she is
before me, pacing up and down the paths converg-
ing to that spot, and gazing with eager eyes at
that simple stone, as if by the force of her will she
would extract its secret and make it tell her what
she evidently burns to know. If I want flowers
for the parlor mantel, and hurry into the garden.
during the heat of the day, there is madame with
a huge hat on her head, plucking asters or pulling
down apples from the low-hanging branches of


240 THE FORSAKEN INN.
the trees. It is the same at nightfall.‘ Suspicious,
always suspicious now, I frequently stop, in pass-
ing through the upper western hall, to take a peep
from the one window that overlooks this part
of the garden. I invariably see her there; and
remembering that her daughter is ill, remember-
ing that ‘in my hearing She promised that daughter
that she would not leave her again, I feel impelled
at times to remind her of the fact, and see what re-
ply will follow. But I know. She will say that
she is not well herself; that the breeze from the
river does her good; that she loves nature, and
sleeps better after a ramble under the stars. I
cannot disconcert her—not for long—and I cannot
compete with her in volubility and conversational
address, so I will continue to play a discreet part
and wait.
OCTOBER I7, 1791.
Madame has become bolder, or her curiosity
more. impatient. Hitherto she has been content
with haunting the garden, and walking over and
about that one place in it which possesses peculiar
interest for her and me. But this evening, when
she thought no one was looking, when after a hur-


THE STONE IN THE GARDEN. 241
I , ,
ried survey of the house and grounds she failed
to detect my sharp eyes behind the curtain of the
upper window, she threw aside discretion, knelt
down on the sod of that grave, and pushed aside
tfe grass that grows about the stone, doubtless to
see if there was any marks or inscription upon it.
There are none, but I determined she should not
be sure of this, so before she could satisfy herself,
I threw up the window behind which I stood,
making so much noise that it alarmed her, and she
hastily rose. '
I met her hasty look with a smile which it was
too dark for her to see, and a cheerful good evening
which I presume fell with anything but a cheerful
sound upon her ears.
“It is a lovely evening,” Icried. “ Have you
been admiring the sunset?”
“ Ah, so much !” was her quick reply, and she be-
gan to saunter in slowly. But I knew she left her
thoughts out there with that mysterious grave.

I2 M.
Another midnight adventure! Late as it is,
I must put it down, for I cannot sleep, and to-
morrow will bring its own story.


242 THE FORSAKEN INN.
I had gone to bed, but not to sleep. The anxi_
eties under which I now labor, the sense of mys-
tery which pervades the whole house, and the
secret but ever-present apprehension of some im-
pending catastrophe, which has followed me ever
since these women came into the house, lay hea-
vily on my mind, and prevented all rest. The
change of room may also have added to my dis-
turbance. I am wedded to old things, old ways,
and habitual surroundings. I was not at home in
this small and stuffy apartment, with its one nar-
row window and wretched accommodations. Nor
could I forget near what it lay, nor rid myself
of the horror which its walls gave me whenever
I realized, as I invariably did at night, that only
a Slight partition separated me from the secret
chamber, with its ghastly memories and ever to
be remembered horrors.
I was lying, then, awake, when some impulse—-
was it a magnetic one ?—caused me to rise and
look out of the window. Idid not see anything
unusual—not at first—and I drew back._ But the
impulse returned, and I looked again, and this
time perceived among the Shadows of the trees
something stirring in the garden, though what I


244 THE FORSAKEN INN.
But should I ? I know what she is doing in the
garden. She is wandering round and round that
grave. If I saw her'l could not be any surer of
the fact, and I w0uld but reveal my own suspicions
to her by showing myself as a spy. No; [Will
remain here in the shadows of the kitchen, and '
wait for her to return. The watch may be weird,
but no weirder than that of aprevious night. Be-
sides, it will not be a long one; the air is too
chilly outside for her to risk a lengthy stay in it.
I shall soon perceive her dark figure glide in
through the door-way.
And I did. Almost before I had withdrawn
into my cornerI heard the faint fall of feet on
the stone without, then the subdued but unmis-
takable sound of the opening door, and lastly the
locking of it and the hasty tread of footsteps as
she glided across the brick flagging and disap-
peared into the hall beyond.
“She has laid the ghost of her unrest for to-
night,” thought I. “To-morrow it will rise
again.” And I felt my first movement of pity for
her. _
Alas ! does that unrest spring from premeditated
or already accomplished guilt? Whichever it


THE STONE IN THE GARDEN. 245
may be—and I am ready to believe in either or
both—she is a burdened creature, and the weight
of her fears or her intentions lies heavily upon her.
But she hides the fact with consummate address,
and when under the eyes of people smiles so
brightly and conducts herself with such a charm-
ing grace that half the guests that come and
go consider her as lovely and more captivating
than her daughter. What would they think if
they could see her as I do rising in the night to
roam about a grave, the unmarked head-stone of
which baflIes her scrutiny?

OCTOBER 18, I791.
This morning I rOse at daybreak, and going
into the garden, surveyed the spot which I had
imagined traversed by Madame Letellier the night
before. I fOund it slightly trampled, but what
interested me a great deal more than this was the
fact that, on a certain portion of the surface of the
stone I have so often mentioned, there were to be
seen small particles of a white substance, which I
soon discovered to be wax.
Thus the mystery of her midnight visit is
solved. She has been taking an impression of


246 THE FORSAKEN INN.
What, in her one short glimpse of yesterday
evening, she had thought to be an inscription.
What a wonderful woman she is! What skill she
shows; what secrecy and what purpose. If she
cannot compass her end in one way, she will in
another; and I begin to have, notwithstanding
my repugnance and fear, a wholesome respect
for her ability and the relentless determination
which she shows in every action she performs.
When she finds that her wax shows her nothing
but the natural excrescences and roughnesses of
an unhewn stone, will she persist in her visits to
the garden? I think not.

OCTOBER 19, 1791.
My last surmise was a true one. Madame has
not spent a half hour all told in the garden since
that night. She has turned her attention again to
the oak parlor, and soon we shall see her make
some decided move in regard to it.


IN THE OAK PARLOR. 247
CHAPTER XXI.
IN THE OAK PARLOR.


OCTOBER 20, I 791.
. HE long expected move has
been made. This morning madame asked me if
I had not some room on the ground floor which I
could give to her daughter and her in exchange
for the one they now occupy. Her daughter had
been accustomed to living on one floor, and felt
the stairs keenly.
I answered at first—“No.” Then I appeared to
bethink me, and told her, with seeming reluctance,
that there was one room below which I sometimes


248 THE FORSAKEN INN.
opened to guests, but that just now it was in
such a state of dilapidation Ihad shut it up till
I could find the opportunity of repairing it.
“Oh!” she replied, subduing her eagerness to
the proper point, “ you need not wait for that.
\Ve are not particular persons. Only let me see
the roses come back to my daughter’s cheeks, and
I can bear any amount of discomfort. Where is
this room?”
I pretended not to hear her.
“It would take two days to get it into any sort
of condition fit for sleeping in," I murmured re-
flectively. “ The floor is so loose in places that
you cannot walk across it without danger of fall-
ing through. Then there is the chimney—”
She was standing near me and I heard her draw
her breath quickly, but she gave no other sign of
emotion, not even in the sound of her voice as
she interrupted me with the words:
“Oh! if you have got to make the room all
over, we might as well not consider the subject.
But I am sure it is not necessary. Do let me see
it, and I can soon tell you whether we can be
comfortable there or not.”
I had sworn to myself never to enter that room


IN THE OAK PARLOR. 249
again, but such oaths are easily broken. Leaving
her for a moment, I procured my key, and taking
her with me down the west hall, I unlocked the
fatal door and bade her enter.
She hesitated for an instant, but only for an
instant. Then she walked coolly in, and stood
waiting while I crossed the floor to the window
and threw it open. Her first glance flashed to the
mantel and its adjacent wainscoting; then, find-
ing everything satisfactory in that direction, it
flew over the desolate walls and stiff, high-backed
chairs, till it rested on the bare four-poster, de-
nuded of its curtains and coverlets. -
“A gloomy place!” she declared; “ but you can
easily make it look inviting with fresh curtains
and a cheerful fire. I am sure that, dismal as it
is, it will be more welcome to my daughter than
the sunny room up stairs. Besides, the window
looks out on the river, and that is always interest-
ing. You will let us come here, will you not P I
am sure, if we are Willing, you ought to be."
I gasped inwardly, and agreed with her. Yet I
made a few more objections. But as I intended
that she should sleep in this room, I finally cleared
my brow, and annOunced that the room should be


250 THE FORSAKEN INN.
ready for her occupancy on Friday; and with this
she had to be content.
_ OCTOBER 21.
Bless God that I am mistress in my own house !
I can order,I can have performed whateverl
choose, without fuss, without noise, and without
gossip. This is very fortunate just now, for while
I am openly having the floor mended in the oak
parlor,l am secretly having another piece of work
done, which, if once known, would arouse sus_
picions and awaken conjectures that would de-
stroy all my plans concerning the mysterious
guests who insist upon inhabiting the accursed
oak parlor.
What this work is can be best understood by a
glance at the accompanying diagram, which is a
copy of the one drawn up by the Englishman for
Mr. Tamworth.
Here you see that the secret chamber lies
between the rooms A and B. A is the parlor and
B is the small room in which I had put up my
bed after the nocturnal adventure of October 10.
It has always been used as a store room until
now, and as no one handles the keys of this


IN THE OAK PARLOR. 253
their new apartment, I informed them that I would
have to say good-by for a season, as I had an affec-
tion of the eyes—which was true enough—which
at times compelled me to shut myself up in a dark
room and forego all company. That I felt one of
these spells coming on—which was not true—and
that by a speedy resort to darkness and quiet, I
hoped to prevent the attack from reaching its
usual point of distress. Mademoiselle Letellier
looked disappointed, but madame ill disguised her
relief and satisfaction. Convinced now beyond all
doubt that she had some plan in mind which made
her dread my watchfulness, I made such final ar-
rangements as were necessary, and betook myself
at once to my new room. Once there, I moved
immediately into the dark chamber, and walking
with the utmost circumspection, crossed to the
wall adjoining the oak parlor, and laying my ear
against the opening into that room, I listened.
At first I heard nothing, probably because its
inmates were still. Then I caught an exclamation
of weariness, and soon some words of deSultory
conversation. Relieved beyond expression, not
only because I could hear, but because they talked
in English, I withdrew again into my own room.


254 THE FORSAKEN INN.
The most difficult problem in the world was solved.
I had found the means by which I could insinuate
myself, unseen and unsuspected, into the secret
confidences of two women, at moments when they
felt themselves alone and at the mercy of no judg-
ment but that of God. Should I learn enough to
pay me for the humiliation of my position? I did
not weary myself by questioning. I knew my mo-
tive was pure, and fixed my mind upon that.
Several times before the day was over did I re-
turn to the secret chamber and bend my ear to the
I wall. But in no instance did I linger long, for if
the two ladies spoke at all it was on trivial sub-
jects, and in such tones as indicated that neither
their passions nor any particular interests were
engaged. For such talk I had no car. _
“ It will not be always so," I thought to myself.
“When night comes and the heart opens, they will
speak of what lies upon their minds."
And so it happened. As the inn grew quiet and
the lights began to disappear from the windows,
Icrept again to my station against the partition,
and in a darkness and atmosphere that at any other
time in my life would have completely unnerved
me, hearkened to the conversation within.


IN THE OAK PARLoR. 255
“Oh, mamma,” were the first words I heard,
uttered in English, as all their talk was when they
were moved or excited, “if you would only ex--
plain ! If you would only tell me why you do
not wish me to receive letters from him! But this
silence—this love and this silence are killing me.
I cannot bear it. I feel like a lost child who hears
its mother’s voice in the darkness, but does not
know how to follow that voice to the refuge it be-
speaks.”
“ Time was when daughters found it suflicient
to know that their parents disapproved of an act,
withOut inquiring into their reasons for it. Your
father has told you that the marquis is not eligible
as a husband for you, and he expects this. to con-
tent you. Have I the right to say more than he ?”
“ Not the right, perhaps, mamma. I do not ap-
peal to yOur sense of right, but to your love. I
am very unhappy. My whole life’s peace is trem-
bling in the balance. You ought to see it—you
do see it—yet you let me suffer Without giving
me one reason why I Should do so.”
The mother’s voice was still.
“ You see!" the daughter went on again, after
what seemed like a moment of helpless waiting.


256 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ Though my arms are about you, and my cheek
pressed close to yours, you will not speak. , Do
you wonder that I am heart-broken—that I feel
like turning my face to the wall and never look-
ing up again ?”
“ I wonder at nothing."
Was that madame's voice ? What boundless
misery! what unfathomable passion! what hope-
less despair!
“ If he were unworthy!” her daughter here ex-
claimed.
“If you could point to anything he lacks. But
he has wealth, a noble name, a face so handsome
that I have seen both you and papa look at him in
admiration; and as for his mind and attainments,
are they not superior to those of all the young
men who have ever visited us? Mamma, mamma,
you are so good that you require perfection in a
son-in-law. But is he not as near it as a man may
be? Tell me, darling, for in my dreams he always
seems so.”
I heard the answer, though it came slowly. and
with apparent effort.
“ The marquis is an. admirable young man, but
we have another suitor in mind whose cause we


IN THE OAK PARLOR. 257
more favor. We wish you to marry Armand
Thierry.”
“A shop-keeper and a revolutionist! Oh, mam-
ma!”
" That is why we brought you away. That is
why you are here—that you might have oppor-
tunity to bethink yourself, and learn that the
parents’ views in these matters are the truest
ones, and that where we make choice, there you
must plight your troth. I assure you that our
reasons are good ones, if we do not give them. It
is not from tyranny—”
Here the set, strained voice stopped, and a sud-
den movement in the room beyond showed that
the mother had risen. In fact, I presently heard
her steps pacing up and down the floor.
“ I know it is not tyranny,” the daughter finish-
ed, in the soft tones that were so great a contrast
to her mother’s. “ Tyranny I could have under-
stood ; but it is mystery, and that is not so easily
comprehended. Why should you and papa be
mysterious? What is there in our simple life to
create secrecy between persons who love each'
other so dearly? Isee nothing, know nothing;
and yet—”


258 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ Honora l”
The word struck me like a blow. “ Honora!”
Great heaven! was that the name of this young
girl?
“You are giving too free range to your imagi_
nation. You—” .
I did not hear the rest. I was thinking of the
name I had just heard, and wondering if my sus-
picions were at fault. They would never have
called their child Honora. Who were these
women, then? Friends of the Dudleighs? Aven-
gers of the dead? I glued my ear still closer to
the wall.
“We have cherished you.” The mother was
still speaking. “\Ve have given you all you
craved, and more than you asked. From the
moment you were born we have both lavished
all the tenderness of our hearts upon you. And
all we ask in return is trust.” The hard voice,
hard because of emotion, I truly believe, quaver-
ed a little over that word, but spoke it and went
on. “What we do for you now, as always, is
for your best good. Will you not believe it,
Honora ?”‘
The last appeal was uttered in a passionate tone.


IN THE OAK PARLOR. 259
It seemed to move the daughter, for hervoice had
a sob in it as she replied:
“ Yes, yes; but why not enlighten me as to your
reasons for a course so remarkable? Most parents
desire their daughters to do well, but you, on the
contrary, not only wish, but urge me to do ill. A
noble lover sues for my hand, and his cause is
slighted; an ignoble one requests the same favor,
and you run to grant it. Is there love in this?
Is there consideration? Perhaps; but if so, you
should be able to show where it lies. I am not a
child, young as I am; I will understand any rea-
sons you may advance. Then let me have your
confidence; it is all I ask, and surely it is not
much, when you see how I suffer from my disap-
pointment.” ‘
The restless steps ceased. I heard a groan close
to my ear; the mother was evidently suflering
frightfully.
“ Papa is prosperous," the daughter pleadingly
continued. “ I know your decision cannot be the
result of financial difficulties. And then, if it were,
the marquis is rich, and—”
“ Honoral”—the mother had turned. I heard
her advance toward her daughter—“ do you real-


260 THE FORSAKEN INN.
Iy love the marquis? You have seen him but a
few times, have held hardly any intercourse with
him, and at your age fancy often takes the place of
love. You do not love him, Honora, my child;
you cannot ; you will forget—"
“ Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma !”
The tone was enough. Silence reigned, broken
at last by Mademoiselle Letellier saying: “ It is
not necessary to see such a man as he is very
many times in order to adjudge him to be the
best and'noblest that the world contains. But,
mamma, you are not correct in saying that I
scarcely know him. Though yOu will not be frank
with me, I am going to be frank with you and tell
you something that I have hitherto kept closely
buried in my breast. I'did not think I should ever
speak of it to any one, not even to you. Some
dreams are so sweet to brood upon alone. But
the shadow which your silence has caused to fall
between us has taught me the value of openness
and truth. I shall never hide anything from you
again; so listen, sweet mamma, while I open to
you my heart, and learn, as you can only learn
from me, how your Honora first came to know
and appreciate the Marquis de la Roche-Guyon.”


IN THE oAx PARLOR. 261
“ Was it not,” interrupted the mother, “ at the
great ball where he was formally introduced to
us ?”
“ No, mamma.”
Madame sighed.
“ Girls are all alike,” she cried. “You think
you know them, and lo! there comes a day when
you find that it is in a stranger’s hand you must
look for a key to their natures.”
“And is not this what God wills ?” suggested
the child. “ Indeed, indeed, you must blame na-
ture and not me. I did not want to deceive you.
I only found it impossible to speak. Besides, if
you had looked at me closely enough, you
would have seen yourself that I had met the mar-
quis before. Such blushes do not come with a
first introduction. I remember their burning heat
yet. Are my cheeks warm now? I feel as if they
ought to be. But there is nothing to grieve you
in these blushes. It is only the Way a loving heart
takes to speak. There is no wicked shame in them ;
none, none.”
“ Oh, God !”
Did the daughter hear that bitter exclamation?
She did not appear to; for her voice was quite


264 THE FORSAKEN INN.
out a reflected brightness on every face he
chanced to pass, I was assured that he was happy
and that he was good. And what does a girl’s
fancy need more? Still a glimpse so short might
not have had such deep consequences if it had not
been followed by an event which rendered those
first impressions indelible."
“ An event, Honora ?"
“ Yes, mamma. You remember the day you
sent me with Cecile to take my first lessons in
tambour work of Madame Douay?”
“ Remember? Oh, my child, that awful day
when you came near losing your life ! When the
house fell with you in it, and—”
“ Yes, yes, mamma, and I came home looking
so pale you thought I was hurt, and fainted away,
and would have died yourself if 1 had not kissed
y0u back to life. Well, mamma, dear, I was hurt,
but not in my body. It was my heart that had
received a wound—a wound from which I never
shall recover, for it was made by the greatness,
the goodness, the noble self-sacrifice of the mar-
quis.”
“ Honora! And you never mentioned his name
-never!”


IN THE OAK PARLOR._ 265
“ I know, I know, mamma; but you have al~
ready forgiven me for that. You know it was
from no unworthy motive. Think how you felt
when you first saw papa. Think-—-”
A hurried movement from the mother inter-
rupted her.
“ Do not keep me in suspense,” she pleaded;
“let me hear what you have to tell.”
‘ But you are cold ; you shudder. Let me get
a shawl.” ,
“ No, no, child, I am not cold, only impatient.
Go on with your story-—go on. How came you
to meet the marquis in that place ?” .
“Ah,” cried the daughter, “it was a strange oc-
currence. It all came about through a mistake of
Cecile’s. Madame Douay, as we were told by the
concierge, lived on the fourth floor, but Cecile
made a miscount and we went up to the fifth, and
as there was a Madame Douay there also, we did
not detect our error, but went into her apartments
and were seated in the small salon to await ma~
dame’s presence. We had not told our errand, so
we could not blame the maid who admitted us,
nor, though madame failed to appear, did we ever
- remember to blame any one, for presently through


266 THE FORSAKEN INN.
the open window near which we sat there came
the sound of voices from the room above, and a
drama' began of such startling interest that we
could think of nothing else.
“ Two men were talking. Young men they
seemed, and though I could not see them, I could
tell from the fresh, fine voice of the one that he
was a true man, and from the sneering, smothered
tones of the other that he was not only a cynic,
but of vicious tendencies. The first one was say-
ing, ‘1 never suspected this,’ when my attention
was first called to their words, and the answer
which came was as follows: ‘ If you had, I should
not have had the pleasure of seeing you here.
Men are not apt to rush voluntarily upon their
deaths, and that you are a dead man you already
know; for I have sworn to kill you as the clock
strikes three, and it is but ten minutes of that
time, and you have not a weapon with which to
defend yourself.’
“ Mamma, you can imagine my feelings at hear-
ing these words, though they were uttered by a
person I could not see, to another person equally
unknown to me ? I looked at Cecile and she look_
ed at me, but we could neither of us move. Every


IN THE OAK PARLOR. 267
faculty seemed paralyzed save thatof hearing. We
held our breaths and listened for the reply. It came
instantly and without a thrill in its clear accents.
“ ‘ You are a gentleman, and no common assas-
sin. How can you reconcile such an act as this
with your honor, or with what sophistries quiet the
stings of your conscience when time shall have
shown you the sin of so unprovoked an on-
slaught ?’
“ ‘ It is not unprovoked,’ was the harsh and bit-
ter reply. ‘ You promised to marry Mademoiselle
de F ontaine, and yesterday, at three o’clock—ah,
I was there !— you formally renounced your
claims. This is an insult that calls for blood,
and blood it shall have. Twenty-four hours have
elapsed less ten minutes, since you cast this slur
upon a noble lady’s good name. When the hour
is ripe, you will pay the penalty it requires with
your life.’
i “‘ But,’ urged his young companion, ‘Made-
moiselle de Fontaine had herself requested the
breaking off of this contract. I am but following
the lady's behests in withdrawing from a position
forced upon us against our will, and in direct op-
position to her happiness.’


268 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ ‘And by what right do you presume to follow
the behests of a lady still under age? Has she
not guardians to consult? Should not I—’
“ ‘ You?’ ‘
“‘ Pardon me, I have not introduced myself, it
seems. I am the Marquis de la Roche-Guyon.’ ”
Honora paused; her mother’s exclamation had
stopped her: ~
“The marquis ! Oh ! Honora, and you have al-
ways said he was so good !"
“ Wait, mamma; remember it is the cynical
voice which is speaking, and the marquis’s voice
is not cynical. The words, however, are what I
have told you ; ‘ I am the Marquis de la Roche-
Guyon.’
“ Of course, not knowing either party, nor this
name, least of all realizing that it was the one by .
which the gentleman addressed was himself known,
I did not understand why it should create so great
an impression. But that it did was evident, not
only from the momentary hush that followed, but
from the violent exclamation that burst from the
young man’s lips. ‘ You scoundrel !’ was his cry.
But instantly he seemed to regret the word, for he
said almost with the same breath: ‘ Your pardon,


IN THE OAK PARLOR. 269
'but there is but one man in the world besides my-
self who COuld, under any circumstances, have a
right to that name.’
“ ‘And that man ?’
“ ‘ Is my cousin, the deceased marquis's son, long
esteemed dead also, and now legally accepted as
such.’
“ ‘And what assures you that I am not he? Your
eyes? Well, I am changed, Louis, but not so
changed that a good look should not satisfy you
that I am the man I claim to be. Besides, you
should know this mark on my forehead. You
gave it to me—’
“ ‘ Isidor !’
“I could not comprehend it then, but I have
learned since that the marquis—our marquis, I
mean—had only just come into his title; that
the son of the preceding Marquis de la Roche-
Guyon had been so long missing that the c0urts had
finally adjudged him dead, and given up his inheri-
tance to his cousin; that the first act of the new
marquis was to liberate the Demoiselle de Fon-
taine from an engagement that stood in the way
of her marriage with one more desirable to her;
and that the unexpected appearance of the real


270 THE FORSAKEN INN.
heir in this sudden and mysterious manner was
as great a surprise to him as any mortal circum-
stance could be. Yet to me, who waited with pal_
pitating heart and anxious ears for What should
be said next, there was no evidence of this in
his tone. With the politeness we are accustomed
to in Frenchmen he observed: -
“‘You are welcome, Isidor;’ and then, as if
struck himself by the incongruity between this
phrase and the look and manner of his companion,
he added, in slow tones—‘ even if you do bring a
sword with you.’
“The other, the real marquis, as I suppose,
seemed to hesitate at this, and I began to hope
he was ashamed of his dreadful threats and w0ulcl
speedily beg the other’s pardon. But I did not
know the man, or realize the determination which
lay at the bottom of his furious and uncompro-
mising words. But he soon made it evident to us.
“ ‘ Louis,’ he exclaimed, ‘you have always been
my evil genius. From our childhood you have
stood in my way with your superior strength,
beauty, prowess and address. When I was young
I simply shrank from you in shame and distaste,
but as I grew older I learned to detest you; and


272 THE FORSAKEN INN.
I found myself thrown into an Eastern dungeon,
half my misery and all my rage were in the
thought that he would not consider my loss a mis-
fortune, but die in greater peace and hope from
knowing that his family honors would devolve
upon one more after his own heart than myself.
Oh! I have had cause, and l have had time to ~
nourish my hate. Five years in a dungeon affords
one leisure, and on every square stone of that
wall, and upon every inch of its relentless pave-
ment, I have beaten out this determination with my
bare hands and manacled feet, that if I ever did
escape, and ever did return to the home of my
fathers, I would have full pay for the suffering
you have caused me, even if I had it in your blood.
I have returned, and I find my father dead, and
in his place yourself, happy, insolent, and trium-
phant. Can you blame me for remembering my
vows, for resenting what will ever seem an insult
to my sister, and for wishing to hurry the time
that moves so slowly toward the fatal stroke of
three?’
“ ‘ I do not blame you, because you are a mad-
man. I do not fear you, because, having no one
in the world to love, I do not greatly dread a


276 THE FORSAKEN INN.
' save him.
was so much more terrible, especially that of the
man whose straining arm clung so frantically to a
support that threatened every moment to slip from
his grasp. I could not look at him, and scarcely
'could I look at the other. But I did, for in his
face there was such a high and noble resolve that
it made me forget his danger, till suddenly I
heard him speak high above the sounds that arose
in a tempest from the street:
“ ‘ Do not despair, Isidor. I think I can reach
y0u and pull you up upon the beam. You shall
not die a dog’s death if Ican help it. Hold on
and I will come.’ And he began to moVe and
raise himself upon the narrow platform on which
he stood, and I saw that he meant what he said, and
involuntarily and with but little reason I cried:
“ ‘ Don’t do it!
self; he is but a murderer; let him go.’
_ “ I said that; I who never had a cruel thought
But he, Without looking to
He is your enemy. Save your-
before in my life.
see whence this voice came, answered boldly-z
“It is because he is my enemy that I wish to
I could never enjoy a safety won at
the expense of his death. Isidor, you must live!
So hold on, my cousin.’



. .1, .wV///





28o TIIE FORSAKEN INN.
that last terrible moment when his cousin, reach-
ing down, was able to sustain him under the arm
till he could get his other hand up and clasp it
around the beam. Then it all looked well, and we
began to hope, when suddenly and without warn-
ing the nearly rescued man gave a great shriek,
and crying, ‘ You have conquered!’ unloosed his
grasp, and fell headlong into the abyss.
“ Mamma, I did not faint. An unnatural strength
seemed given to me. But I looked at the mar-
quis, and for the first time he looked at me, and I
saw the expression of horrified amaze with which
he had beheld his cousin disappear gradually
change to one of the softest and divinest
looks that ever visited a noble visage, and knew
that even out of that pit of death love had arisen
for us two, and that henceforth we belonged to
each other, whether our span of life should be cut
short in a moment or extended into an eternity of
years. His own heart seemed to assure him of the
same sweet fact, for the next moment he was re-
newing his superhuman efforts, but this time for
our rescue and his own. He worked himself along
that beam; he gave another leap; he landed at
our side, and tore away for us through that closed


IN THE OAK PARLOR. 28x
door. In another five minutes we were in the
street, with half Paris surging about us, but be-
fore the crowd had quite seized upon me, he had
found time to whisper in my ear :
“‘I am the Marquis de la Roche-Guyon. It will
always be a matter of thankfulness to me that I was
not left to sacrifice the fairest woman in the world
to the rescue of a thankless coward.’
“ Mamma, do you blame me for giving such a
man my heart, and do you wonder that what I
have dedicated to this hero I can never yield to
any other man?” '
The mother was silent—for a long time silent.
Was 'she horror-stricken at the story of a danger
she had never fully comprehended till now? Or
were her thoughts busy with her own past, andits
possible incommunicable secrets of blood and hor_
ror? The cry she gave at last betrayed anguish,
but did not answer this question.
“My child! my child! my child!” That was
all, but it seemed torn from her heart, that bled
after it.
“ He was not long in seeking me out, mamma,
dear. With grace and consideration he paid me
his court, and I was happy till I saw that you and


284 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ Honora, you hurt me." Another silence. “ You
make my task too hard. If I know what love
is—” She found it hard to go on; but she did—
“all the more anguish it must cost me to deny you
what is so deeply desired. I—I would make y0u
happy if I could. I will make you happy if it is
in my power to do so, but I can hold out no hope
—-none, none."
“Nor tell me why ?”
“ Nor tell you why.”
“ Mamma, you suffer. I see it now, and some-
how it makes it easier for me to bear my own suf-
fering. You do not willfully deny me what is as
much as my life to me.”
“ Willfully ! Honora! Listen.” The mother
had stopped in her walk, for I heard her restless
tread no more. “ You say that I sufler, child. I
have never had one happy day. Whatever ro-
mance you have woven about me, I have never
known, from the hour of my birth till now, one
moment of such delight as you experienced when
you saw the character of the marquis unfold before
you so grandly. The nearest I have ever come to
bliss was when you were first placed in my arms.
Then, indeed, for one wild moment, I felt the bap-


IN THE OAK PARLOR. 285
tism of true love. I looked at you, and my heart
opened. Alas! it was to take in pain as well as
joy. You had the face— Oh, Heaven! what am
I saying? This darkness unnerves me, Honora.
Let us have light, light, anything to keep my rea-
son from faltering.”
“ Mother, mother, you are ill!”
“ No. I am simply weak. I always am when I
recall your birth and the first few days that fol-
lowed it. I was so glad to have something I
could really love; so glad to feel that my heart
beat, and to know that it beat for one
so innocent, so sweet, so helpless as yourself.
What if I had pains and hours of darkness, did I
not have your smile, also, and, later on, yourlove?
Child, if there has been any good in my life—and
sometimes I have thought there was a little—it
came from you. So, never even question again if
I could hurt you willfully. I not only COuld not
do this and live, but to save you from pain I would
dare— What would I not dare? Let man or
angels say.”
Before such passion as this young Honora sank
helpless.
“ Oh, mamma, mamma,” She moaned, “forgive


288 THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER XXII.
A SURPRISE FOR HONORA.


OCTOBER 22, I791.

,__Q VENTS crowd. This morning the
one girl I have taken into my confidence came
to my room with a strange tale. A stranger had
arrived, an elegant young gentleman of foreign
appearance, who had not yet given his name, but
who must be aperson of importance, if bearing and
address go for anything. He came on horseback,


A SURPRISE FOR HONORA. 289
attended by his valet, and his first word, after
some directions in regard to his horse, was a re-
quest to see the landlady. When told she was
ill, he asked for the clerk, and to him was about
to put some question, when an exclamation from
the doorway interrupted them. Turning, they
saw madame standing there, her face petrified
into an expression of terrified surprise.
“ M rs.—”
“ Hush !" sprang from the lady’s lips before he
could finish his exclamation; and advancing, she
laid her hand on his arm, saying, in French,
which, by the way, my clerk understands : “ If you
hope anything from us, do not speak the name
that is faltering on your tongue. For reasons of
our own, for reasons of a purely domestic nature,
we are traveling incognito. Let me ask you as
a gentleman t0 humor our whim, and to know
us at present as Madame and Mademoiselle Letel-
lier.”
He bowed, but flushed with embarrassment.
“And mademoiselle? She is well, I trust ?"
“ Quite well.”
“And yourself ?”
“ Quite well, also. May I ask what has brought


v290 THE FORSAKEN INN.
you into, these parts, whom we thought in another
and somewhat distant country ?"
“ Need you ask ?”
They had drawn a little apart by this time, and
the clerk heard no more; but their manner—the
lady’s especially—was so singular that he thought
I ought to know that she was here under a false
name, and so had sent Margery to me with the
news. As for the gentleman and Madame LeteL
lier, they were still conversing in the lowest
tones together.
Interested intensely in this new development
in the drama hourly unfolding before my eyes, I
dismissed Margery with an instruction or two,
and passed into the hidden chamber, where I
again laid my ear to the wall. The mother would
have something to say when she returned, andl
determined to hear what it was.
I had to wait a long time, but was rewarded at
last by the sound of voices and the distinct ex-
clamation from the daughter’s lips :
“ Oh, mammal what has happened?"
The mother’s reply was delayed, but it came at
last:
“My face is becoming strangely communica-


A SURPRISE FOR HONORA. 29!
tive. You will read all my thoughts next. What
makes you think anything has happened? Is this ,
a place for occurrences ?"
“Oh, mamma! yOu cannot deceive me. Your
very limbs are trembling. See, you can hardly
stand ; and then, how you look at me! Oh,
mamma, dear! is it good news or bad? for from
your eyes it might be either. Has he—” i
“ He, he—always he !" the mother passionately
interrupted. “ You do not love your mother.
You are thinking always of one whom you never
Saw till a year ago. My doubts, my fears, my
sufferings are nothing to you. I might die—”
“Hush! hush! Whenever did you speak like
this before, mamma? Love you! Did ever a
child love her mother more ? But our affection is
sure, While that of him you do not like me to men-
tion is threatened, and its existence forbidden. I can-
not help but think, mamma, and of him. If I could,
I were a traitor to the noblest instincts that sway
a woman’s heart. I may not marry him—you say
I never will—but think of him I must, and pray
for him I will, till the last breath has left my lips.
So, what is your news, dear mamma? Has papa
written ?”


292 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“It is too early for'the mail."
“True, true. Some one has come, then; a mes-
senger, perhaps, from New York. M. Dubois—3’
“ Dubois is a traitor. He has'not kept the secret
of our whereabouts. We have to settle with Mon-
sieur and Madame Dubois, meanwhile—”
“ What ?”
“ Honora, can I trust you?”
“ Trust me?”
“ Ah ! who is trembling now ?”
“ I ! I ! But how can I help it ! You glance
toward the door; you seem afraid some one will
come. You—you—"
“ Tut! do not mind me ! Answer what I ask.
Could you see the marquis—talk to him, hear him
urge his love and plead for yours, without forget-
ting that your obedience is mine, and that you are
not to give him so much as the encouragement of
a glance, till I either give you permission to do so
or command from you his immediate and unquali-
fied dismissal ?”
“ See him?" It was all the poor girl had heard.
“Yes; see him. You have come from Paris—
why not he? Since Dubois has proved himself a
traitor—”


A SURPRISE FOR HONORA. - 293
“ Oh, mamma !” came now in great sobs, “you
are not playing with me. He has come; he is
here; the horse I heard stop at the door—”
“Was that of the marquis,” acknowledged the
mother. “ He is in the sitting room, child, but he
does not expect you at present. This evening you
shall see him if you will promise me what I have
asked. Otherwise he must go. I will have no
complications arising out of a secret betrothal. If
you have not sufficient strength—”
“ Oh, I have strength, mammal I have strength.
Only let me see him, and prove to myself that he
is not worn by trouble and suspense, and I will do
all you ask of me. Ah, how well I feel! What a
beautiful—what a lovely day this is ! Must I not
go out till evening? May I not take one wee walk
in the garden ?”
“Not one, my child. At nine o’clock you may
go to the sitting room for a half hour. Till then,
think over what I have said, and prepare yourlips
to be dumb and your eyes to remain downcast;
for I am firm in my demands, and nothing will
make me change them.”
“ You may trust me.” There was despair in the
tones now.


294 _ THE FORSAKEN INN.
As they talked but little after this, and as I was
greatly interested in seeing the young man who
had been heralded by such glowing descriptions,
I stole back to my room, and, putting on a green
shade, hastened to join my guests in the front part
of the house. One glance from beneath my hur-
riedly uplifted shade was sufficient to assure me as
to which of the gentlemen there assembled was
the one lsought. So frank a face, so fine a form,so
attractive a manner, were not often seen in my inn,
and prepossessed at once in his favor, I advanced
to the owner of all these graces, and, calling him
by name, bade him welcome to my house.
He must understand our language well, for he
immediately turned with gentle urbanity, and
discerning, perhaps, something in my face which
assured him of my sympathy and respect, entered
into a fluent conversation with me that at once in-
creased my admiration and awakened my pity.
For I saw that his nature was strong and his feel-
ings deep, and as the future could have nothing
but shame and misery, I instinctively felt oppress-
ed by the fate which awaited him.
He did not seem to feel any apprehension him-
self. His eyes were bright; his smile beaming;


A SURPRISE FOR HONORA. 295
his bearing full of hope. Now and then his glance
would steal toward the door or through the open
windows, as if he longed to catch a glimpse of
some passing face or form; and at last, swayed
by that sympathy which we women all feel fpr
true love in man or woman, I asked him to ac-
company me into the garden, promising him a
view that would certainly delight him. As the
garden was plainly visible from the oak parlor,
you can readily understand to what view I allud-
ed. But he had no suspicion of my meaning, and
followed me with some'reluctance.
But his aspect changed materially when, in
walking up and down the paths, I casually re-
marked:
“This is the least inhabited side of the inn.
Only one room is occupied, and that by two for-
eigners—Madame and Mademoiselle Letellier.
Yet it has a pleasant outlook, as you yourself can
see.”
“ IS She—are they behind those windows?” he
asked, with an impetuosity I could not but admire
in a man with so much to recommend him to the
consideration of Others. “I beg your pardon,”
he added, a moment later, after a stolen glance at


296 THE FORSAKEN INN.
the house. “I know those ladies, and anything
in connection with them is interesting to me.”
Ibelieved it, and had hard work to hide my
secret trouble. But his preoccupation assisted
me, and at length I found courage to- remark:
“ They are from Paris, I understand. A fine V
woman, Madame Letellier. Must be much admir-
ed in her own land ?”
He seemed to have no reason for resenting my
curiosity.
“She is,” was his quick reply. “ She is not only
admired, but respected. Ihave never heard her
name mentioned but with honor. I am happy to
be known as her friend.”
I gave him one quick look. Good God ! What
lay before this man! And he so unconscious! I
felt like wishing the inn would fall to atoms before
our eyes, crushing beneath it the sin of the past
and his false hopes for the future. He saw noth-
ing. He was smiling upon a rose which he had
plucked and was holding in his hand.
“This inn is one of the antiquities,” I now observ-
ed, anxious to know if any hint of its secrets had
ever reached his ears. “They say it is one of
the first structures reared on the river. Have


A SURPRISE FOR HONORA. 297
you ever heard any of the traditions connected
with it?”
“ Oh, no,” he smiled. “ The Happy-Go-Lucky
is quite a stranger to me. You cherish up all its
legends, though, I have no doubt. Are there any
tales of ghosts among them? I can easily imagine
certain disembodied spirits wandering through its
narrow halls and up and down its winding stair-
cases."
“ What spirits?” I asked, convinced, however,
by his manner that he was talking at random, With
the probable aim of prolonging Our walk within
view of the window behind which his darling
might stand concealed.
“ Madame must inform me. I have too little ac-
quaintance with this country to venture among its
traditions.”
“There is a story,” I began; but here a finely
modulated but piercing voice rang musically dOwn
the paths from the house, and we heard :
“ Your eyes will certainly suffer, Mrs. Truax, if ,
you let the hot sun glare upon them so merciless-
ly.” And, turning, we saw madame’s smiling face
looking from her casement with a meaning that
struck us both dumb and led me to shorten our


298 THE FORSAKEN INN.
walk lest my interest in the romance then going
on should be suspected and my usefulness thus
become abridged.
Was it to forestall my suspicions, rid herself of
my. vigilance, or to insure herself against any for-
getfulness on her daughter’s part, that madame,
some two hours later, sent me the following
note: I
“ DEAR MRS. TRUAX: I can imagine that after
your walk in the blazing sunlight you do not feel
very well this evening. I must nevertheless re-
quest of you a favor, my need being great and ou
being the only lperson who can assist me. he
Marquis de la oche-Guyon, with whom I saw
you promenading, has come to this place with the
express intention of payin court to my daughter.
As I am not prepared to rown upon his suit, and .
equally unprepared to favor it, I do not feel at
liberty to refuse him the pleasure of an interview
with my daughter, and yet do not desire them to
enjoy such an interview alone. As I am ill, quite
ill, with a sudden and excruciating attack of pain
in my right hip, may I ask if you will fulfill the
office of chaperon for me, and, without embarrass
ment to either party, take such measures as will
prevent an absolute confidence between them, till
I have obtained the sanction of my husband to an
intimacy which I myself dare not encourage?
“ Very truly your debtor, if you accomplish
this, MADAME LETELLIER.”





IN THE SECRET CHAMBER. 301'
CHAPTER XXIII.
IN THE SECRET CHAMBER.
Have only twenty-four hours elapsed? Is it but
yesternight that all the terrible events took place,
the memory of which are now making my frame
tremble? So the clock says, and yet how hard it
is to believe it. Madame Letellier— But I will
preserve my old method. I will not anticipate
events, but relate them as they occurred.
To go back then to the note which I received
from madame. I did not like it. I did not see its
consistency, and I did not mean to be its dupe. If
she intended remaining in the oak parlor, then
over the oak parlorl would keep watch; for from
her alone breathed whatever danger there might
be for any of us, and to her alone did I look for the
explanation of her mysterious presence in a spot
that should have held a thousand repellent forces
for her and hers. As for her sudden illness, that
was nonsense. She was as well as I was myself.
Had I not seen her standing at the window an
hour or two before?


IN THE SECRET CHAMBER. 303
like a pitying angel, and not till we had done all
we could to relieve her mother, and subdue her
pain, did she allow her longing eyes to turn to-
ward the clock that beat out the passing moments
with mechanical precision. It was just a quarter
to nine.
The mother saw that glance, and hid her face
for a moment ; then she took mademoiselle by the
hand, and drawing her down to her, whispered
audibly :
“ I expect you to keep your appointment. Mrs.
Truax will send one of the girls to sit with me.
Besides, I feel better, and as if I could sleep.
Only remember your promise, dear. No look, no
hint of your feelings.”
Mademoiselle flushed scarlet. Stealing a look
at me, she drew back embarrassed, but oh! how
joyous. I felt my old heart quiver as I surveyed
her, and in spite of the dread form of the redoubt-
able woman stretched before me, in spite of the
grewsome room and its more than grewsome se-
crets, something of the fairy light of love seemed
to fall upon my spirit and lift the darkness from
the place for one short and glowing moment.
“Look in the glass,” the mother now command-


304 THE FORSAKEN INN.
ed. “ You need to tie up your curls again and to
put a fresh flower at your throat. I do not wish
you to show weariness. Mrs. Truax "—these
words to me in low tones, as her daughter with-
drew to the other side of the room—“ you receiv-
ed my note ?”
I nodded.
“ You will do what I ask?"
I nodded again. Deliberate falsehood it was,
but I showed no faltering.
“ Then I will excuse you now.”
I rose.
“And do not send any one to me. I wish to
sleep, and another’s presence would disturb me.
See, the pain is almost gone.”
She did look better.
“ Your wishes shall be regarded,” I assured her.
“ If you do feel worse, ring this bell and Margery
will notify me.” And placing the bell rope near
her hand, I drew back and presently quitted the
room.
Lingering in the hall just long enough to see the
lovely Honora flit across the threshold of the sit-
ting-room which I had purposely ordered vacant
for her use, I hurried to my room.


IN THE SECRET CHAMBER. 305
It was dark, dark as the secret chamber into
which I now stole with the lightest and wariest of
steps. Horror, gloom, and apprehension were in
the air which brooded stiflingly in the narrow spot,
and had it not been for the righteous purpose suS-
taining me,I should have fallen at this critical
moment, crushed beneath the terrible weight Of
my own feelings.
But one who has to listen, straining every fac-
ulty to catch the purport of what is going on
behind an impenetrable wall, soon forgets himself
and his own sensations. As I pressed my ear to
the Wall and caught the sound of a prolonged and
painful stir within, I only thought of following the
movements of madame, who, I was now sure, had
left her bed and was dragging herself, with what
difliculty and distress I could but faintly judge by
the involuntary groans which now and then left
her, across the floor toward the door, the key of
which I presently heard turn.
This done, a heavy silence followed, then the
slow, dragging sound began again, interrupted
now by weary pants and heavy sobs that at first
chilled me and then shook me with such fear that
it was with difficulty that I could retain my place


IN THE SECRET CHAMBER. 307
you seek the bones of your victim ?" I flung open
the door against which I stood and let the light
from my own room stream in upon us two.
Her face as I saw it at that moment has never
left my memory. She had fallen in a heap at my
first move, and now lay crushed before me, with
only her wide-staring eyes and shaking lips to tell
me that she lived.
“ You thought I did not know you," I burst
forth. “You thought, because I had never seen
your face, you could come back here, bringing
your innocent daughter with you, and cast your-
self into the very atmosphere of yOur crime with-
out awakening the suspicion of the woman whose
house you had made a sepulcher of for so many
years. But crime was written too plainly on your
brow. The spirit of Honora Urquhart, breaking
the bounds of this room, has walked ever beside
you, and I knew you from the first moment that
you strayed down this hall.”
Broken sounds, unintelligible murmurings, were
all that greeted me.
“ You are punished,” I went on, “in the misery
of your daughter. Nemesis has reached you.
The blood of Honora Urquhart has called aloud


IN THE SECRET CHAMBER. 31(
ed upon her that she promised to do what I asked,
though I saw her cast longing glances through the
partly opened door toward the somber bed so like
a tomb, and which at that moment was a tomb,
had she known it—a tomb of hope, of joy, of
peace for evermore.
I was just going out,,when a slight stir de-
tained me. Looking back, I saw a hand thrust
out from between the falling curtains. Just a
hand, but how eloquent it was! Pointing it out
to mademoiselle, I said :
“Your mother’s hand. Give it a kiss, made-
moiselle, but do not part the curtains.”
She smiled and crossed to that ominous bed.
Kneeling, she kissed the hand, which thereupon
raised itself and rested on her head. In another
instant it was drawn slowly away, and, with a
startled look, the half-weeping daughter rose and
glided again to my side.
As I closed the door I thought of those words :
“And the sins of the father shall be visited upon
the children to the third and fourth generation.”


314 THE FORSAKEN INN.
He recoiled sharply, with a gesture of complete
disbelief.
“ How do y0u know?" he demanded. “ They
are strangers to you. I have known them in their
own home. All the world credits their marriage,
and—’~
“ All the world does not know what transpired
in this house sixteen years ago, when Edwin Urqu-
hart stopped here with his bride on his way to
France.”
He stared, seemed shaken, but presently hast-
ened to remark '.
“ Ah, madame, you acknowledge that she is his
wife. You said bride. One ,does not call a wo-
man by that name without acknowledging a mar-
riage service.” -
“The woman he brought here was his bride.
Edwin Urquhart is no common criminal, Marquis
de la Roche-Guyon.”
It was hard to make him understand. It was
hard to undermine his trust, step by step, inch by
inch, till he found no hope, no shred of doubt to
cling to. But it had to be done. If only to avert
worse calamities and more heart-rending scenes,
he must know at once, and before he took another


THE MARQUIS. 315
step in relation to Miss Urquhart, just what .her
position was, and to what shame and suffering he
was subjecting himself by accepting her love and
pledging his own.
The task was not done till I had shown him this
diary of mine, and related all that had just occur-
red in the room below. Then, indeed, he seemed
to comprehend his position, and completely crush-
ed and horror-stricken, subsided into a dreadful
silence before me, the lines of years coming into
his face as I watched him, till he became scarcely
recognizable for the lordly and light-hearted cava-
lier whose dreams of love I had so fearfully inter-
rupted some half hour or so before. From this
lethargy of despair Idid not seek to rouse him. I
knew when he :had anything to say he would speak,
and till he had faced the situation and had made
up his mind to his duty, I could wait his de-
cision with perfect confidence in his fine nature
and nice sense Of honor.
You may, therefore, imagine my feelings when,
aftera long delay—an hour at least—he suddenly
remarked :
“ We have been a proud family. From time
immemorial we have held ourselves aloof from


THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER XXV.
MARK FELT.
.._, UBJECTED as I have been
in the last three hours to
distress and turmoil, I was
delighted to find mademoi-
selle asleep, and to behold


her peaceful face.
Gazing
at it, and noting the happy smile which uncon-
sciously lingered on her lips, I could not but feel
that, despite the hideous revelations which lay
before her, her lot was an enviable one, allied as
it promised to be with that of one of such high
principles as the marquis. Though I am old now
and have had my day, the love of the innocent
and pure is sacred to me, and in this case it
certainly has the charm of a spotless lily bloom-
ing in the jaws of hell. i
As it was late and I was almost exhausted, I
began to think of rest. But my uneasiness in re-
.


320 THE FORSAKEN INN.
thoughts. Yet I could not speak his name, or put
into words the anticipations that vaguely agitated
me, and led him through the hall and into the
comfortable sitting room so lately vacated by the
marquis, with no more distinct impression in my
mind than that something was about to happen
which would complete rather than interrupt the
horrors of this eventful night.
And when the light fell full upon him, and I eculd
see his eager eyes, this feeling increased, and no
sooner had his cloak fallen from his shoulders and
his hat left his head, than I recognized the promi-
nent jaw and earnest face, and putting no curb on
my impetuosity, I exclaimed at once, and without
a doubt :
“ Mr. Felt !”
The utterance of this name seemed to cause no
surprise to my new guest. I
“ The same,” he replied; “and you are Mrs.
Truax, of course. Mr. Tamworth has described
you to me, also this inn, till I feel as if I knew its
every stone. I did not wish to visit it, but I c0uld
not help myself. An unknown influence has been
drawing me here for days, and though I resisted
it with all my strength, it finally became so
1A;


MARK FELT. 3'21
powerful that I rose from my bed at night, sad-
dled my horse, and started in this direction. I
have been twenty hours on the road, but part of
these I have spent in the thicket just over against
you on the opposite side of the road. For the
sight of the house awakened in my mind such a
disturbance that I feared to show myself at the
door. A voice out of the air seemed to cry, ‘ Not
yet! not yet!’ Nevertheless I could not go back
nor leave the spot, which, once seen, possessed for
me a fatal fascination.”
I was speechless. Good God! were the old
psychological influences at work, and had they
acted upon him at forty miles distance?
“ You come from Albany?” I at last stammered
forth. “ You must have had a wet time of it; it
storms heavily, I see.”
“ Storms?”he repeated, glancing at the cloak he
had thrown off. “Great Heaven! my cloak is
saturated, and I did not even know it rained. A
touch of the old spell," he murmured. “ Some-
thing is about to happen to me; something has
drawn me with purpose to this home."
I felt awe-struck. Would he guess next what
that something was?


326 THE FORSAKEN INN.
“ By settling the question which evidently tor-
tured her. By determining once for all whether
the crime of sixteen years back had ever been
discovered, and if she found it had not, to satisfy
at once her own pride and her daughter's heart
by giving that daughter to as noble a gentleman
as ever carried a sword.”
“And they are here now ?”
“ They are here.”
"‘And she has discovered—”
“ The futility of all her hopes.”
He drew back, and his heavy breath echoed in
deep pants through the room.
“ What an end for Marah Leighton !” he gasped.
“ What an end! And she is here !" he went on,
after a moment of silent emotion—“under this
roof ! No wonder I felt myself called hither.
And she knows her crime is detected? How came
she to know this? Did you recognize her and tell
her ?“
“ I recognized her and told her. There was
no other course. We met in the secret chamber,
whither she had come to make her own terrible
investigations; and the sight of her there, on the
spot where she had left the innocent to die, was
m_.


328 THE FORSAKEN INN.
shame may follow his loyalty. Ihave his word
for that.”
“ Then the earth holds two lovers," was Mark
Felt’s rejoinder. “I thought it held but one.”
And with a sigh he let go my arm and turned to
the window, with its background of driving rain
and pitiless flashes of lightning.
I took the opportunity to excuse myself for
a few minutes, and hurrying again into the hall,
hastened, with nervous fear and an agitation
greatly heightened by the unexpected interview
I had just been through, to the now oft-opened
door leading into the oak parlor.
I found it closed but not locked, and pushing it
open, listened for a moment, then took a glance
within. All was quiet and ghostly. A single
candle 'guttering on the table at one end of the
room lent a partial light by which I could discern
the funereal bed and the other heavy and desolate-
looking articles of furniture with which the room
was encumbered. Honora’s flowers, withering
on the windowseat, spoke of tender hopes not
yet vanished from her tender dreams, but else-
where all was hard, all was dreary, all was inex_
orably forbidding and cold. I shuddered as I


MARK FELT. 329
looked, and shuddered still more as I approached
the bed and paused firmly before it.
“ Madame Letellier "—-it was the only name by
which I could bring myself to address her at that
instant—“ there is one gleam of brightness in your
sky. The marquis knows the story of your guilt,
yet consents to marry your daughter.”
I received no reply.
Shaken by fresh doubts, and moved by an inex-
plicable terror, I stood still for a moment gather-
ing up my strength, then Irepeated my words,
this time with sharp emphasis and scarcely con-
cealed importunity.
“ Madame,” said I, “ the marquis knows your
guilt, yet consents to marry your daughter.”
But the silence within remained unbroken, and
not a movement displaced the somber falling curs
tains.
Agitated beyond endurance, I stretched forth
my hands and drew those curtains aside. An un-
expected sight met my eyes. There was no ma-
dame there; the bed was empty.


FOR THE LAST TIME. 331
“You are right,” he hoarsely assented. “Let
us go; let us seek her; it may not be too late."
The entrance to this hidden room was closed,
as I have said, and as I had never assisted at its
opening, I did not know where to find the hidden
spring by means of which the panel was moved.
We had, therefore, to endure minutes of suspense
while Mr. Felt fumbled at the wainscoting. The
candle I held shook with my agitation, and though
I had heard nothing of the storm before, it seemed
now as if every gust which came swooping down
upon the house tore its way through my shrinking
consciousness with a force and menace that scat-
tered the last remnant of self-possession. Not an
instant in the whole terrible day had been more
frightful to me, no, not the moment when I first
heard the sliding of this very panel and the sound
of her crawling form approaching me through
the darkness. The vivid flashes of lightning that
shot every now and then through the cracks of
the closely shuttered window, making a skeleton
of its framework, added not a little to its terror,
there being no other light in the room save that
and the flickering, almost dying flame, with which
I strove to aid Mr. Felt’s endeavors and only suc-


334 THE FORSAKEN INN.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A LAST WORD.
Did Marah Leighton will the coming of her old
lover to my inn on that fatal night? That is the
question I asked, when, with the first breaking of
the morning light, I discovered lying on the table
under an empty phial, a letter addressed, not to
her husband, nor to her child, but to him, Mark
Felt. It is a question that will never be answered,
but I know that he comforts himself with the sup-
position, and allows the trembling hope to pass, at
times, across his troubled spirit, that in the bitter-
ness of those last hours some tOuch of the divine
mercy may have moved her soul and made her
fitter for his memory to dwell upon.
The letter I afterward read. It was as follows:
To THE MAN WHO GAVE ALL, BORE ALL, AND
REAPED NOTHING BUT SUFFERING:
I am not worthy to write you, even' with the
prospect of death before me. But an influence I
do not care to combat drives me to make you, of
all men, the confidant of my remorse.
I did not perish sixteen years ago in the Hud-
AAA
All
A'


A LAST WORD. 337
between me and the secret place of her entomb-
ment. And though it was but an optical delusion,
the panel being really closed, it might as well
have been the truth, for I have never been able
to rid myself of the sight of that chimerical strip
of darkness, with its suggestions of uilt and
death. It haunted my vision; it ruine my life;
it destro ed my peace. If I shut my eyes at night,
it opened, before me. If I arrayed myself in jew-
els and rich raiment, and paused to take but a
passing look at myself in the glass, this horror
Immediately came between me and my own im-
age, blotting the vision of wealth from my eyes;
so that I went into the homes of the noble or the
courts of the king a clouded, miserable thing,
seeing nothing but that black and narrow slit clos-
ing upon youth and beauty and innocence forever
and forever and forever.
My child came. Ah! that I should have to
mention her here! I do it in penance; I do it in
despair; Since with her my heart woke, and for
her that heart is now broken, never to be healed
again. Oh,if the knowledge of my misery wakens
in you one thought that is not of revenge, cast a
pitying eye upon this darling one, left in a hateful
country without friends, without lover, without
means. For friends and lover and means will all
leave her with the revelations which the morning
will bring, and unless Heaven is merciful to her
innocence as it has been just to my uilt, she will
have no other goal before her than t at which has
opened its refuge to me.
As for her father, let Heaven deal with him.
He gave me this darling child ; so I may not curse
him, even if I cannot bless. MARAH.


338 THE FORSAKEN INN.
OCTOBER 23, 1791.
I have seen one bright thing today, and that
was the faint and almost unearthly gleam which
shot for a moment from beneath Honora’s falling
lids as I told her what love was and how the man
quis only awaited her permission to speak to as-
sure her of his boundless affection and his un-
dying purpose to be true to her even to the point
of assuming her griefs and taking upon himself I
the protection of her innocence.
If it had not been for this, I should have felt that
the world was too dark to remain in, and life too
horrible to be endured.
NOVEMBER 30, 1791.
I thought that when Honora Urquhart left my
house to be married to M. De Fontaine, in the
church below the hill, peace would return to us
once more.
But there is no peace. This morning another
horrible tragedy defiled my doorstep.
I was sitting in the open porch waiting for the
mail coach, for it seemed to me that it was about
time I received some word from Mr. Tamworth.
It was yet some minutes before the time when the


CA
I."


344 THE FORSAKEN INN.
he is never seen at the President’s receptions, or
mingles his voice in the councils of his adopted
country, there are evidences constantly appearing
of the confidence reposed in him by this great
man, which cannot but add to the exile’s content-
ment and satisfaction.
Honora has developed into a grand beauty.
The melancholy which her unhappy memories
have necessarily infused into her countenance have
given depth to her expression, which was always
sweet, and frequently touching. She looks like a
queen, but like a queen who has known not only
grief, but love. There is nothing of despair in
herglance, rather a lofty hope, and when her
affections are touched, or her enthusiasm roused,
she smiles with such a heavenly brightness in her
countenance, that I think there is no fairer woman
in the world, as I am assured there is none wor-
thier.
Her husband agrees with me in this opinion,
and is so happy that she said to me one day:
“I sometimes wonder how my heart succeeds
in holding the joy which Heaven has seen fit to
grant me. In it I read the forgiveness of God for
the unutterable sins of my parents; and though


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