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BY MAY AGNES FLEMING. 1.— GUY EABLSCOURT'S WIFE. 2.— A WONDERFUL WOMAN. 8.— A TERRIBLE SECRET. 4.— NORINE'S REVENQB. 6— A MAD MARRIAGE. 6.— ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY. 7.— KATE DANTON. 8.— SILENT ANT) TRUE. 9.— nEIR OP CHARLTON. 10.— CARRIED BY STORM. 11.— LOST FOR A WOMAN. 12.— A WIFE'S TItVOEDY. 13.— A CHANGED HEART 14.— PRIDB AND PASSION (N«to). " Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popular every day. Their delineations of character, life-like conversations, flashes of wit, con- stantly varying scenes, and deeply inter- esting plots, combine to place their author in the very first rank of Modem Novelists." All pablished aniform with this volume. Price, $1.00 each, and sent free by mail on receipt of price, BT G. W. CABLETON & CO., Pablishers, New York. A WIFE'S Tragedy. ^ NoucL BY MAY AGNES FLEMING, AUTHOR OF • SILENT AND TRUE," " A MAD MARRIAGE," " A WONDERFUL WOMAN,' "GUY EARLSCOURT's WIFE," "ONE NIGHT's \. STERY," "A TERRIBLE SECRET," "LOST FOR A WOMAN," ETC., ETC., ETC. *' For aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history. The course of true love never did run smooth." Shaksheare's Mid. AHght's Dream, ««& G. W. NEW YORK : Copyrlpht, 1881, by Carle ton & Co., Publishers, LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO. MDCCCLXXXI. '^•<> y r ^ stereotyped by SAMirFX S'lODDER, ELECTKOTrPKR & StEREOTYPBR, 90 Ann Strkkt, N. Y. Trow Printing and Book-Binding Co. N. Y. CONTETfTTS. 4 OHAFTKB TAOM I. Arthur Sutherland -..,.. 7 n. Eulalie 27 III. Beginning of the Trouble 47 IV. Battling with Fate 66 V. Fate's Victory 83 VI. Told in the Twilight 101 VII. Struck by Lightning 116 VIII. Taken Away 134 IX. ♦♦ Come what Will, I have been Blessed." 151 X. The Lull before the Storm 163 XL At the Concert 177 XIL Mr. Gaston Benoir 194 XIIL Mr. Benoir's Letter , 205 XIV. Mr. Benoir's Shadow 216 XV. Rebecca, the housemaid 231 XVL A little Tangle in Mr. Benoir's Web 244 XVIL On the Scent 261 [V] vi CONTENTS. OBAFTBB PAOl XVIII. Brought to a Reckoning 283 XIX. At the Summer-house 297 XX. Confidential 313 XXI. Mr. Benoir's Dilemma 326 XXII. Deepening Mystery 347 XXIII. Eulalie's Flight 366 XXIV. After the Inquest 378 XXV. Dark Days 395 XXVI. Found and Lost 411 XXVn. After E'ght Years 420 A WIFE'S TRAGEDY. CnAPTER I. ARTHUR SUTHERLAND. K. ARTHUR SUTHERLAND sat by the open window of liis room, in the Metro- politan, smoking a cigar, and watching the ceaseless tide of humanity ebbing and flow- ing on Broadway. Three o'clock, and a sunshiny May afternoon — sillvs and satins and beautiful faces sweeping down to meet dress-coats, and switch canes, and mustached faces, sauntering up. An organ-grinder, right below, was playing a h'vely air, and it seemed to Arthur Sutherland that the men and women were keeping time to his/music, walking through the great quadrille of life^/For what is it all, this ceaseless glid- ing in and out, bowing and dipping, and forward and back, but a mighty quadrille that we dance every day, [7] / 8 AllTlWR SUTnERL^D. with the inusic in our own hcar^ whether that music be a jubihito or a dead march. Arthur feutlierland sat and watched the ever- shifting paiArama, with a faco as serene as the briglit May day. /Why not ? Ilo/Was young, and handsome, and rich, just returned fi*o.n making the grand Conti- nental tour, and disn^d to tliink there was no place like liomc after all. *^ Young, and handsome, and rich ; surely all that the world can give of happiness is con- tained in these three words ; and Arthur Sutherland was happy-T^ery happy indeed this pleasant May afternoon.^This bright little world of oui*s looked very much to him as Eden must have done to Adam on the first day of his life, and Eve — yes. Eve, was up- town, in a I own stone front, and only waiting the word to make him blessed for life, i/ There was a tap at his door. " Come in," said Mr. Sutherland, without looking round ; and some one obeyed and crossed the room, and struck him lightly on the shoulder with a kid- gloved hand. Mr. Sutherland turned round to see — not the waiter he had expected, but a gentlemanly young man, elabcrately attired, faultless, from the toes of his shiny boots to the crown of his silk hat. " Why, Phil, old fellow, is it you ?" said Arthur Siitherlandj grasping both his visitor's hands. "Here's AUTIlVn SUTUICRLAND. a 8uri)riso I "VVLero in the world did you coino from?" / " Where did I como fron. ]" exclaimed Mr. Sutherland's visitor, taking a seat, after a prolonged shake-hands. "I think it is I who should ask that question ! Where do you come from, and what do you mean hy being in New York a whole week and not in- forming your friends?" " How should I know my friends were here ? What are you doing in New York ? Practicing; your profession ?" " When I get any practicing to do ; but the people who know me are so confoundedly healthy, and the people who don't know me won't employ me ; so, be- tween both, I am in a state of genteel beggary. 1 wish," said Mr. Sutherland's visitor, vindictively, " the spotted- plague, or the yellow-fever, or the small- pox, would break out ! A man might have some chance of living then." " He would stand more chance of dying, I should think," said Arthur Sutherland, smiling. " Wliy don't you go down to St. Mary's, and hang out your shingle there ? This big city is surfeited with ambitious young doctors and well-established old ones. Physicians are few and far between and old-fogy ish la St. Mary's, and the people know you tlierc." " For which very reason," said the young doctor, 1* 10 AHTIIUi: SUTUEHLAND. dejectedly, " they wouldn't employ me. Do yon sup- pose the men and women who knew little Phil Sutherland when he wore petticoats, and got spankings, would employ Doctor Philip Sutherland to drag out their double teeth, or cure their colics or rheumatisms. No ; I might blue-mold in the grass-grown streets of St. Mary's before 1 sold sixpence-worth of physic." Arthur Sutherland laughed. There is no joke so good as the misfortunes of our friends, when we are beyond misfortune's reach ourselves. They were distant cousins, these young men, bearing the same good old English name ; but th(;re, all resemblance be- tween them ended. Arthur Sutherland was rich ; Philip Sutherland was poor. Arthur had a mother and sister, and a home ; Philip had no nearer kindred than this distant cousin, and no home but in swarming boarding-houses. He had been M. D. for about half a year, and found it terribly up-hill work. " All a chap can make," said Doctor Sutherland, moodily, " won't pay his board, and keep him in paper collars and cigars. As for the theater, or paying tailors, or bootmakers, that's out of the question. If they would take payment in blue-pills, and castor-oil, or blistering, or anything professional, I might manage somehow ; but they won't. Tailors and bootmakers never seem to be sick, or have their teeth drawn ; or, if they do, they won't come to me ! I wish I had li AllTIlUH iSUTUIiULAyD. 11 taken to tailoring niysulf — it's nioney-iiiakiiig, and it's lijimly to bo ablo to make your own coat and panta- loons. I liavc a strong mind sonietinios, aa it is, to throw physic to the dogs, and take to the needle and goose." "It's a harrowing cjise, certainly," said Arthur, laughing ; " but don't disgrace the name of Sutherland yet. You know my j^oor mother's proudest boast is, there never yet was a Sutherland in trade. Stick to the scalpel and lancet, dear boy, and marry aa heiress !" "That's easier said than d-mc," Doctor Sutherland replied, more moodily still. " I'd marry an heiress fafit enough if I could find one to have me, let her bo ugly as a Hottentot. But I never knew one heiress to speak to ; and if I did, she would treat me like the rest. She would sail past me with upturned nose, and plump into the arms of some fellow like yourself, with more money already than you know what to do with. Marry an heiress! I wish to Heaven I had the chance !" " I suppose it is only in novels that millionaires' daughters elope with grooms and fortunes," said Arthur ; " and yet there ought to be heiresses in Xew York in these days of commercial fortune-making ; and you are not such a bad-looking fellow in the main, '*i¥h ^: I 12 ARTHUR SUTHERLAND. Phil ! Hope on, hope ever, my boy ! there is no tell- ing what is in store for you yet." " Yes, there is the poorhouse," Dr. Sutlierland re- plied, glooinilj^ ; " unless I take to street-sweeping or some other useful avocation to prevent it. I think I'll emigrate to Mexico or Havana; they're nice un- healthy places in hot weather, and doctors ought to thrive there. And, by the bye, speaking of Havana," said Phil Sutlierland, rousing himself from his state of despondency, "are you aware your mother and sister spent January and February there this year «" " Yes, certainly. My mother wrote me from there, and went into rhapsodies over the beauties of Eden Lawn and its mistress. I was in Switzerland at the time, among the ice and snow, and it was rather odd to read that the weather was oppressively warm." " Your mother liked it," said Phil, " but yonr bl "♦'er Gusty didn't. You ought to hear her abusing the place and the people, the heat and the mosquitoes, the church-going bareheaded, and the two meals per day." " Poor little girl !" Arthur said, smiling ; " two meals per day I knew would not suit her. Who were the people, and how did my good mother make their acnow your inotlicr Bent Auijusta to the Convent of the Sacred Ileai't there, to be finished." Artliur nodded. "Well, among the pnpils there it seems was a lovely young Crc^ole, Mademoiselle Eulalie Kohan, English on the paternal side, French on the maternal, fabulously beautiful, and fabulously wealthy. Your mother saw her, and was enraptured. The liking, it appears, was mutual ; for a pressing invitation followed from the young lady and her grandfather to spend the winter in Cuba ; which invitation was accepted. Gusty told me in a letter, only on condition that Mr. and Miss Rohan should spend the ensuing summer at Maplewood." Arthur Sutherland looked surprised. " Indeed ! I was not aware of that. Has Made- moiselle no relative bat grandfather ? " " Not one, it appears. She has been an orphan from earliest childhood, and this old grandfathcir idolizes her. Her fortune is beyond computation, Gusty says. There is a princely estate in South America, another princely estate in Louisiana, and still another in Cuba. Except the Kothschilds, Mr. Holian and his pretty granddaughter are about the richest peo- ple in this lower world." Arthur Sutherland's small white hand fell liglitly 14 ARTUUR BUTUERLAND. on his cousin's shoulder, and his blue eyes lit up mis- chievously. " My dear fellow, the very thing. Nothing could fall out better. This heiress of fabulous wealth and beauty is to spend the summer at Maplewood. Dr. Phil Sutherland, young and good-looking and fascinating, shall spend the summer at Maplewood also. The beautiful heiress and the fascinating physician will be perpetually thrown together — riding, driving, walking, sailing. The result is apparent to the dullest compre- hension. Dr. Sutherland will leave Maplewood a married man and a millionaire." " Nothing of the sort," said Dr. Sutherland, in a hopeless tone, as he lit a cigar ; " no such luck for me ! It is for my dear cousin Arthur this golden trap is baited. You know the old proverb, ' He that has a goose will get a goose '." " For me ! Nonsense, Phil." "Is it nonsense ? It is a wonderful woman, that stately mamma of yours, old boy ; and this gold- bullion heiress is for her Arthur — her only one, and nobody else." " Then my stately mamma will have her trouble for her pains," said Arthur Sutherland, coolly ; " I have no fancy for gold-bullion heiresses, or for having the future Mrs. S. selected for me in this right royal ARTHUR SUTHERLAND. 15 ^t up mis. ^"'ng could vvealt]i and ^- Dr. Phil "ascinatinff. Iso. The in will be walking, conipre- lewood a f-nd, in a ^ for me ! ti trap is at Las a an, that s gold- ne, and trouble Y\ "I 'laving rojal fashion. No more have I for sWarthy skins or tornado- tempered Creoles." " No," said Phil, puffing away energetically. " No ; you like pink cheeks, alabaster brows, and pale auburn ringlets. Miss Isabel Yansell is a very pretty girl." Arthur Sutherland tried to look unconscious, but it would not do. The slight flush that reddened his handsome free ended in a laugh. " There you go again, talking more nonsense ! It is a lovely afternoon," said Mr. Sutherland, awakening suddenly to the fact ; " suppose we take a stroll down Broadway." " With all my heart. But, first, when is it to be ?" " When is what to be ?" "The wedding of Arthur Sutherland, Esquire, of Maplewood, Maine, to Miss Isabel Yansell, of New York City." i " As if I would put you au fait of my love- matters !" said Arthur, drawing on his gloves. " Who has been talking to you of Miss Yansell ?" "Oh, I happen to know the lady. She blushed beautifully yesterday when she asked me if I had seen my cousin, Mr. Sutherland, since his return to New York. Didn't I stare ! It was the first intimation I had of your return." " Which proves you don't read the papers ; my re- turn was duly chronicled." i ! ARramt sirrmsiAsj). " J^nt you have not seen her " ;;That«akesnotthesh-ghtesMifference.» -^li the better I T ah^nW i-i i-ve a handsome wife TI « I '"^ """"^ ^^ ^ P'-etty women." " ^"'J«^rfauds always marry "Humph I" muttered Dr Phil fl- • . «'t of the window, and risin.'to f""^'"^ '"'' '=^««'- fe"-l.a>red Isabel to ..! ^ ^' ' '""^ ^^^'"^ i« the 1 do, I will let you kno ''^^""^ ^''^'^n "when Here we are on tlfepav:" ''''"' '"^ *''° -'>J--*- and'madr: veT'prr Tr'^'^ ^-^' ---m. l-een boys to^tW TS't , ^'"" "' '*• ^'^^ ^^d together, and herLn? "^^ ""•°"^'' -"^ge >---otheyI:,' IrjTr^^^-^- dinod together some hours laf . '''"'*■ T'-^ i"to a fashionable theater totr '"'^'"' ^"-""ed -f-"aH.a„dhis^::ro;hrrrr tfiat was over, Arthur Snf. , f ^^"'- ^"d, when ^^fetropoHtan, and P^ h' c tf 'f "'^'" "-'< '« the -t-side boa;din,.ho.;;e ' '™' '■^'"^'''^ *<> '- I'i'e gas was burning low in a u „ ■•-" when heeateredit .7;° f""r '""'"''""^'^ ' ^'^ "* t'le obscurity he saw AliTIIUIi SUTUERLAND. 17 a wliite patch on the crimson tablecloth — a letter. He turned up tlie liglit and looked at it. The address was written in a delicate Italian running-hand, and the envelope smelt like a je&samine-blossom. " From my mother," thought the young man. " She reads the papers, if Phil does not. Arthur Sutherland, Esquire, Metropolitan Hotel, New York. Exactly ! Let us see what it says inside." He opened the envelope with care, and drew out four sheets of fine pink paper, closely written and crossed. There was a fifth sheet, much smaller, and in a different hand — careless and sprawling, and a trifle blotted. The young man smiled, as he laid it down to read his mother's first. "Poor little Gusty!" he thought. "That big slapdash-fist and these blots are so like you ! If you ever write love-letters, I hope you will have an open graiumar and dictionary before you ; for your spelling and composition would send Lindley Murray and John AValker into fits. The nuns of the Sacred Heart may bo very accomplished ladies, but they haven't succeeded ill drilling spelling and gi'ammar into the head of my only sister." Mrs. Sutherland's letter, dated Maplewood, was very long, very affectionate, and very entertaining. Her delight was boundless to know her darling was at home again ; her impatience indescribable to behold iW II > 18 ARTHUR SUTHERLAND. him. She and Augusta were well and happy. Maple- wood was looking lovely tliis charming May-weather, and Mr. and Miss Rohan were enraptured with it. And from this point all Mrs. Sutherland's letter was taken up in singing the praises of Miss Eulalie Rohan — her fascination, her grace, her wealth ; above all, her inconceivable beauty. Mrs. Sutherland could find no words strong enough to tell her son her admiration of this young lady. Her son took it very coolly, lying back in his arm- chair, and smoking as he read. When he read the finishing sentence — a strong appeal, that sounded like a command, to come home immediately, and immediately was underlined twice — he laid it do^vn, and took up the other. " Yery well, mother !" he said, half aloud, " I will go home ; but I won't fall in love with your Creole heiress, and so I give you warning " The second epistle was in a very different style. It was short and energetic, and to the point, and not very easy to decipher. Miss Augusta Sutherland told her brother she was glad he had come back from that horrid Europe, and she hoped he would come home at once, and stay at home, as he ought to do. They had Eulalie Rohan and her grandfather with them, and mamma was just bewitched about that Eulalie. 'ARTHUR SUTUERLAND. 10 y- Maplo- ij-wcather, Jd with it. Jetter was ^Jio Kohan ' e all, her find no liration of his arm- read the ied like a nediateJj took up yie. It ot very )Id her horrid i once, SulaJie amma " I dare Bay," wrote the young lady, " you will be had as the rest, and go stark, staring mad about her black eyes, and pale face, and long curls, the moment you see them. Every one does. Even at school it was just the sitme ; and I declare it turns me sick some- times. She has only been here a week, and not a soul of them in St. Mary's can talk of a single blessed thing but the black-eyed beauty up at Maplewood. Of course, I am nowhere. Even mamma scarcely takes any notice of me now. And when you return it will be the same, only more so. Of course, you will fall in love with Miss Rohan and her overgrown fortune, and there will be a wedding at Maplewood. At least, if there doesn't, I know mamma will have to be put in the nearest lunatic asylum. Come home as fast as you can. It is rather pleasant seeing one's fellow-beings making fools of themselves when one gets used to it ; and I know you will take the Cuban fever as badly as the rest. Your affectionate sister, " Augusta Sutherlaot). " P. S. — Phil Sutherland is knocking about New York somewhere in his usual good-for-nothing way, if the authorities have not send him to Blackwcll's Island as a vagrant. If you see him, you may feich him to Maplewood. If he is not blessed with the usual quantity of brains, he is at least harmless, and it will in 20 ARTHUR SUTUERLAND. be a sort of charity to keep iiim for the Buinmer. Tell him I said so. A. S." Mr. Sutherland's gold repeater pointed to half-past one as he finished the perusal of these letters. He rose, folded them up, thrust them into his coat-pocket, turned down the gas, and prepared to retire. " Poor little Gusty !" he said to himself, with a yawn. "I don't think her convent-life has changed her much. She does not seem to be so enraptured with this Creole belle as my mother; but, then, it never was the little girl's nature to go into raptures over anybody." Doctor Philip Sutherland presented himself next morning at his cousin's hotel in time for breakfast. Arthur showed him his sister's letter, while they lounged over their coffee and toast, which was served that morning in his room. " You had better run down with me, Phil," he said. "There used to be capital trout-streams about St. Mary's ; and when you're not angling for the silver- backs, you can angle for that golden prize — the Cuban heiress." " All right !" said Phil. " I have no objection to running wild for a couple of months at Maplewood ; and I do want to look at this bird of Paradise they hav^e caged in your Maine home. When do you go ?" ARTHUR SUTHERLAND. 21 amer. Tell A. S." to half-past ittcrs. He oat-pockct, If, with a 3 changed nraptiired > then, it raptures " At noon, in the 12.50 train ; so you had better bo off to your lodgings, and get your belongings together betimes. Fetch your cab here at twelve. I have an engagement in the interval." " Yes, up-town, in Forty-third street, of course I Are you going to ask Miss Isabel Yansell the moment- ous question before you s'lrt? The gods grant she may say, Yes! Some faint ray of hope where the heiress is concerned may glimmer for me then." Mr. Sutherland's reply to this was to take his cousin by the collar, and walk him out of the room, with an imperative order to be off and mind his own business, which Doctor Phil did, laughing as he ran down the hotel-steps, while Mr. Arthur Sutherland stood before the mirror making his toilet. A most elaborate toilet indeed. Arthur Sutherland was not a fop or a dandy, but no fop or dandy that ever lounged in the sunshine down Broadway could take more pains brushing hair or arranging his collar or cravat than he, this morning. He had every reason to be satisfied with the result; the glass gave back a strikingly-handsome face — a complexion of almost womanly fairness, large blue Saxon eyes, and profuse auburn hair. Yes, he looked handsome, and he knew it, still without being a fop or a dandy ; ana, the toilet completed, he ran down the hotel-steps, sprang into a passing stage, and was rattled up-town. His destina- 82 ARTHUR SUTHERLAND, \m\\ Hon was, as his cousin surmised, Forty-tliird street ; and ascending the marble steps of one of its long row of brown-stone palaces, he rang the bell and was ad- mitted by a maid-servant. It was not his first call evidently ; for the girl knew him, and returned his nod and smile of recognition. " Is Miss Yansell at home ?" Mr. Sutherland asked. Yes, Miss Yansell was at home and in the morning- room ; and Susan, as she spoke, threw open the door of the morning-room, announced Mr. Sutherland, and vanished. Arthur Sutherland had his own ideal of women, or at least of the woman he wanted to marry. A tall and slender angel robed in white book-muslin, with an aureole of pale gold hair, a broad white brow, and dove-like eyes of blue; a beautiful and perfect creature, excelling in all womanly virtue and sweet- ness ; her very presence breathing purity and holiness, and whose heart never was to enshine any image but his. ** A lovely being scarcely formed or molded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded," soft of voice, deft of touch, and free from every stain of earthly evil and passion : a woman and an angel blended in one, who would choose him out from all tlie world, and love him and cling to him in perfect ARTHUR SUTHERLAND. 28 faith and tnist until death : a perfect being, perfect in all feminine accomplishments, whose music would lull him to sleep in the twilight, and whose fair Madonna- face would always brighten with a smile when he came, and sadden with tender melancholy when he went away. This was the sort of woman he wanted to marry ; and perhaps he thought he saw his ideal, this bright May morning, when he entered the morning- room of the Yansell mansion. Isabel Vansell stood by the open window, the breeze lifting her pale tinseled hair, ai fluttering the azure ribbons at her waist, and the flowing skirt of her white muslin dress. She stood by the open window, among pots of tall rose-geraniums, whose perfume scented the air, placing bits of sugar between the gilded bars of a canary-bird's cage, with deft white taper fingers. Kobed in white, crowned with that aureole of golden ringlets, with as fair and sweet a face as ever the sun shone on — surely, in this graceful girl, whose blue eyes drooped, and whose pink clieeks deepened as she gave him her band, Arthur Sutherland had found his ideal. Long after, when the dark and stormy and tragical days that intervened were past, that picture came back to him witb a remorseful pang — this fair and graceful girl, with the sunlight making a halo round her drooping head. Mr. Sutherland sat down by the open window '^- 24 ARTHUR 8UTJERLAND. w^ among the rosc-geraniums and caTiary-birds, and talked to Miss Yanscll in very common-placo fasliion, indeed. He admired her very much ; she was his ideal, his perfect woman, and he loved her, or thought ho did ; but for all that he talked common-places, and never let drop one tender or admiring word. Isabel Vansell sat opposite him, with the breeze still stirring the lovely pale-gold hair, and the sunlight illuminating her deli- cate face. They talked of the old themes, they went over the old beaten ground — Miss Yansell had no striking or original ideas on any subject, but she talked on all with charming feminine grace. She was not voluble, and she was just a thought shy ; but Mr. Sutherland ad- mired her none the less for that. Yet still he never betrayed that admiration by one word, or look, or tone ; and it was only when he arose to go that he alluded to his departure at all. " It must be * good-bye ' this time, and not * good morning '," he said, smiling ; " I leave town at noon." " Leave town !" the young Ir.dy echoed, faintly, the rose-tint fading out of her sweet face ; " I did not know — I thought — " Arthur Sutherland saw and interpreted the signs, with a little thrill of delight. " I shall not be absent long," he said. " N'ew York Ji AIlTUUn aUTnEHLAND. 96 Jias iiTcsistihlo charms for mo just now. I ahull only run down to Miiplewood to see my mother imd sister, and return." The color came back to Miss Vansell's cheeks, and she held out her lily-leaf hand with a smile. " Boil voyage^'* sho said ; " after three years' absence, I wonder you could linger even a week id Kew York." " Home has its charms, and so has New York ; very powerful ones just at present. Shall I find you in the city when I return?" ho asked, holding the hand she had given him a moment. " Yes," said Miss Vansell, blushing beautifully ; " good-bye !" The momentous question, to which Phil had alluded, rose to the young man's lips, but he checked himself. " Time enough when I return," ho thought ; " it will be sweet to know it is for that I shall return." So the words were not spoken that would have sealed his fate — that would have changed the whole current of his life. Perhaps there is a Providence in these things ; and all tlie fever of love, and doubt, and anguish, and misery was to be undergone, to make him a better man, to try him as gold is tried in the crucil)le. Once he looked back, as he descended the stone 2 llj i:i I > I III hi I nil 20 ARTUUIi SUTUERLAND. steps, at tliG window of the morning-room. Hia ideal was there still, among the rose -geraniums and the birds, with the fair Madonna-face, and tender blue eyes. j It EULALIE. Vt CHAPTER II. EULALIE. T^ the purple twilight of the next evening the two young men drove, in a buggy hired at the railway-station, through tho one long, straggling street of the village of St. Mary's. I wonder if any one who reads this over was in St Mary's ; if not, I advise them to visit it as speedily as possible. That beautiful little city, Portland, is very near it ; and of all delightful villages on the rock- bound coast of Maine, I do not think there is one more delightful than St. Mary's. You walk down its chiet street^ between two rows of dear little white cottages, with green window-shutters and red doors, their snowy fronts all overrun with sweetbrier, and their windows looking into the Drettiest of flower-gardens. You walk down the long straggling street until it ceases to be a street, and you find yourself on a long white sandy beach, with the broad blue Atlantic spreading out be- fore you, and melting m the far-off purple horizon into the low blue sky. You see winding paths leading 28 EULALIE. here and tliere to beautiful villas and stately mansions, embosomed in towering trees ; and still further away, your view is bounded by black piny woods and the misty outline of hills. The salt breath of old ocean is in your lungs, its saline freshness in your face, its ceaseless roar in your ears, bat there is little of the strife and tumult and bustle and uproar of the big restless world in St. Mary's. In the purplish gloom of the May-twilight, Arthur Sutherland and his cousin drove slowly along the pleasant country-roads, with swelling meadows and dark woods, and peaceful-looking farmhouse's and stately homesteads on either hand. It was all very familiar and very dear to them both ; they had spent their bo}'- hood together here before they had gone forth to fight the battle of life ; and every green lane and upland meadow and forest arcade was as well known to tliem as their own faces in the glass. They drove along in the misty twilight, with the scented country air blow- ing in their faces, very silently — thinking of these bygone days, perhaps, and wondering if they had changed as little as the landscape in these intervening years. The twilight was deepening into starlit night as the home of Arthur Sutherland came in view. A pair of tall iron gates stood wide ; and you saw a spacious carriage-drive, winding away between two rows of giant maples and hemlocks, while miniature forests of EULALIE. 29 these same noble trees spread tliemoelves away on I cither hand. Embosomed among these glorious old ti-ecs stood a long, low, old-fashioned gray stone house, older than the Revolution, and built far more with a view to strength and durability than beauty or chastcncss of architecture. There were modern additions and re. I pairs ; but the old gray stone house, with its high narrow windows and stacks of chimneys and peaked gables stood much as it had stood when the first Sutherland who emigrated from England to the colonies built it, over one hundred years before. The Sutlier- lands were proud of their old mansion — very old as age goes in America — and only altered it to make unavoidable repairs. The long drawing-room and dining-room windows opened upon a sweep of grassy lawn, sloping down to the groves of maple and elm and hemlock hke a green velvet carpet ; a piazza run around the second story, in which the tall windows opened in the same fashion. Stables and out-houses, also of gray stone, were in the rear of the building, and beyond them stretched a delightful orchard, where apple and plum, and pear and cherry-trees scented the air with their blossoms in spring, and strewed the sward with their delicious ripe fruit in autumn. To the right, rolled away swelling meadows, ending where the pine woods began ; to the left, another long garden, all a«jlow in summer with rose-trees, and where littlo i '! li i r 80 EULALIE. "wildernesses of lilacs and laburnums, and cedar and tamarack, sloped down to the sea ; a glorious old garden, in whose green arcades and leafy aisles delicious silence and coolness ever reigned, wliere the singing of numbei less birds, the wash of the ceasf.less waves, or the sway- ing of the boughs in the breeze, made music all day long ; a di'eamy, delightful old garden, where every- thing grew or did not grow, as best pleased itself, end- ing in a grassy terrace, with a flight of stone steps leading down to the beach below. A magnificent place altogether, this ancestral home of the Suther- land's. There was not a tree or a stone inside the iron gates that was not dear to them, and of which they were not proud. ^ The round May moon was sailing over the dim, dark hill-tops as the two young men drove round to the stables and left their vehicle there. Two long lines of light glanced across the front of the old stone house ; and. in the blue, misty moonlight, it cast quaint and weird shadows athwart the turfy lawn. Arthur Sutlierland lifted the ponderous iron knocker and roused the silent echoes by a loud alarm. The man-servant who opened the door was a stranger to the returned heir, and stared at him, and informed him Mrs. Sutherland was engaged, and that there was a dinner party at the house. " Never mind," said Arthur, " I daro say she EULALIE. n ill see me. Just tell her two gentlemen await ler presence in the library, mj good f ellow 1 This [way, Phil !" He pushed past the man as he spoke, and opened a door to the left, with an air of one all at home. A shaded lamp burned on a round table in the center of the floor — they had no gas at Maplewood — and, by its subdued light, you saw a noble room, lined all round the four walls with books from floor to ceiling. A portrait of George "Washington hung above the low black marble mantel ; albeit traditions averred the Sutherlands had rather snubbed that hero in his life- time. Arm-chairs, cushioned in green billiard-cloth, to match the green carpet and curtains, stood around ; and just as the young gentlemen subsided into one apiece, a mighty rustling of silks resounded without, the door opened, and a lady entered ; a lady, fair and proud, and stately and handsome, and still youthful-looking, with fair, unsilvered hair, delicate, regular features, thin lips, and large light blue eyes ; a lady who would have told you she was five-and-forty, but who looked ten years younger, elegantly dressed, and redolent of pa- tcliouly. Arthur Sutherland rose up, the lady looked at him, gave a cry of delight, ran forward, and clasped him in her arms. " My darling boy ! My dearest Arthur ! and have you returned at last I" ^rl ^1 IL 82 EULALIB. " At last, my dear mother, and glad to be home again 5J They were very much alike, the mother and son ; the same tall statnre, the same blond type of Saxon beauty ; but the proud and somewhat severe look in the mother's blue eyes was a warm and more genial light in the son's. She held him off at arm's length, and looked at him with loving and delighted eye. " You have grown taller and stouter, I think," she said, while her son stood, laugliingly, to be inspected. "Your three years' travel has decidedly improved you ! My dearest boy, I cannot tell you how rejoiced I am to have you home once more !" " A thousand thanks, mother mine ! But have you no welcome for this other stranger ?" The lady turned round quickly. She had quite overlooked him in the happiness of seeing her boy. Doctor Sutherland came forward with a profound bow. "' Philip Sutherland !" she said, smilingly, holding out her ringed, white hand. " I am very glad to see you back again at IMaplewood !" Mr. Philip Sutherland expressed his thanks, and his pleasure at seeing her looking as young and hand- some as ever. " Pshiiw !" said the lady, smiling graciously, how- ever. " Have you not ceased that old habit of yours, EULALIE. 38 [of talking nonsense, Philip? Have you dined, Ar- thur ?" " Yes, mother. We dined in Portland. You are havitig a dinner-party, they tell me ?" " Only Colonel and Mrs. Madison and the Honor- able Mr. Long and his daughter. Will you go up to your room and dress, and join us in the drawing-room ? The gentlemen have not left their wine yet. You will find your room in as good order as if you had been ab- sent three days instead of three years ; and, Philip, you know your own old chamber." " Up in the cock-loft !" muttered Philip, sotto voce. " Yes, ma'am, I know." *' But I should like to see Augusta first, mother. Will 3'ou send her word ?" " I'm here !" screamed a shrill voice ; and the door was flung open, and a young lady bounced into the room and bounced up to the speaker, flinging her arms round his neciv, kissing him with sounding smacks: a young lady, inclined to emljoiipoint^ fair-haired and blue- eyed — as it was the nature of the Sutherlands to be ; but, unlike tlie Sutherlands, with a snub nose. Yos, tliis yoinii;' Lidv was a Sutlierland ; but i^lie had a snub- nose and a low foreliead, and ciieeks like a milkmaid in color and plumpness ; but, for all that, a very nice- looking and a very nice girl, indeed. "Now, there, Augusta, don't strangle me," said 2* lit I iili •«! ! I ! n i ' 1 84 EULALIE. Miss Augusta's brother, when ho thought he had been sufiicicntly kissed. " Stand off and let me look at you. IIow fat you have grown I" " Oil, have I ?" exclaimed Miss Sutherland, with sudden asperity. " I wonder you let me in the room before you told me that. Phil Sutherland, how do do you do ? I knew you were dying to be asked down here, and so I asked you !" Doctor Sutherland murmured his thanks in a sub- dued tone — he was always subdued in the presence of Uiis outspoken cousin ; but the young lady paid no attention to him. " Hadn't you better go back to the drawing-room, mamma ? That horrid old Colonel Madison will drink so much port wine, and come in and bore us all to death if you're not there to listen to him. I hate those stupid stories about Mexico, and all the valiant deeds he did there, and so does Enlalie ; and I gape in his face, and he goes off and tells liis wife I'm the most ill-bred girl he ever met. I know he tells her that, and I hate him !" Miss Sutherland bounced out of the room as she had bounced into it, and IV^rs. Sutherland turned to follow her. " Make your toilets, young gentlemen, and show yourselves in the drawing-room as quickly as possible. Your luggage is upstairs by this time, no doubt." /"'J EULALIE. 8ft She sailed out of the room ; and the two young men ran up-staii-s to their respective apartments — Mr. Philip Sutherland's being ratlier in the attic tlian otherwise. " My old roost looks much the same as ever," said the young doctor, glancing around. "I wonder if any one has courted the balmy up here since 1 left, or if it has been sacred to the memory of Philip Suther- land !" The young physician made a ratlier careful toilet with the memory of the Creole heiress in his mind, and descended presently in all the purple and fine linen proper for young men to wear, and tapped at his cousin's door. " Are you ready, old boy ?" he said, opening it and looking in. " Ah I I see you are, and most elaborately got up ! Now, then, for our dark-eyed heiress !" The long drawing-room was all ablaze with light from pendant chandeliers when they entered; and Augusta Sutherland, sitting at a grand piano, was sing- ing a Swiss song, that seemed more tra-la-las than any- thing else. The gentlemen had come in from the dining-room, it seemed ; for Mrs. Sutherland, lying back in a fauteuil, a la princesse, was listening with languid politeness to a stout military gentleman with a l)ig bald head, while she watched the door. A smiling motion brought the young men to her velvet throne ; 30 KULAUK (Itl trodi duo form to Colonel and and tiioy were nitroducod in Mrs. Mndison — the latter a pale-faced, insipid-looking little woman, with nothing at all to say. " Excuse nie one nu)inent, colonel," said Mrs. Sutherland, with her sweetest smile, "while 1 present my sou to Mi*, and Miss Hohan, neitlfcr of whom he has seen yet. I must hear the end of that Mexican adventure." She took her son's arm, and they walked the length of the apartment together, while Philip was taken by the button-hole, captive to the Mexican officer, sorely against his M'ill. In the shadowy recess of a deep, old-fashioned bay- window Arthur saw two people sitting. A tall, and stately, and handsome old man, with hair as white as silver, and a face deeply furrowed by time or trouble. The other, a tall and decidedly plain-looking girl, very stylishly dressed. There was a little low sofa between them that seemed only a mass of scarlet drapery and cushions, in the deep shadow cast by the heavy amber- colored curtains of the bay-window. "Is it ])Ossible," thought Arthur, "that this young lady, with the small eyes and wide mouth, is the beauty 1 have heard so much of ? They must look through a golden mist, indeed, who can discover loveliness in that face." The young lady's name was pr)nounced oven while EULALIE. 37 he was thinking this ; but the name was Miss Lonij:, and lie rcniomberod what his mother liad told luni of [\n Tlunorable Mr. Loiig and his daughter being there. The stately old gentleman was Mr. Kohan, of Eden Lawn, Cul)a, who bowed rather stilily as the son of his hostess was introduced. "Miss llohan, allow me to present my son ; Arthur, Miss Eulalie Rohan." The mass of scarlet drapery w^as pushed aside by a little hand all blazing w^ith rich rings, and from the v\vA(V^ of the yellow curtains a recumbent ligure rose, and a sweet voice, the sweetest he ever had heard, s])oke to him. There had been a greenish gleam as she lifted her head, and Arthur saw that she "wore a circlet of emeralds in her dense bLack hair ; but somehow he had thought of the fatal greenish glitter of a serpent's head, and he could not get rid of the idea. She rose up from the shadowy background, among the glowing red of tlie cushions, a scarlet shawl thrown lightly o^xr her shoulders ; and she looked like a picture starring vividly out from black gloom. Arthur Sutherland saw a face unlike any face he had ever seen before ; great bla':'k eyes of dusky splendor, lighting up gloriously a face of creamy pallor, and flashing white teeth, show- iwil tlirouMi vivid crimson lins. lie could not tell wliether she was beautiful or not ; he V\'as dazzled by the llashing splendor of those eyes and teeth, set in the 38 EULAHB. ^^ shadow of tliut rrvcn-black luiir. In far-oil eastern lands lie had seen such darkly-splendid faces, and it seemed to him for a moment that ho was back In the land of the date and the ])alm-tree, nnder a hiazin*;, troi)ical sun ; but how strangely out of j)la('e tliii^ glow- ing Assyrian's beauty seemed in his staid New England home I She had been resting lazily down among the crim- son-velvet cushions, talking in her sweet, foreign voice to lier grandfather and Miss Long; but she sat up now, lotting the scarlet shawl trail off her excpiisite shoulders. As she moved her little black head, all running <^ver with curls that hung below her taper waist, the green- ish glitter of the emeralds flashed and gleamed with a pale, sinister luster. Arthur Sutherland hated the gems. He could not get rid of the thought of the ser- pent while this pale, sickly flashing met ln,„ eye. IIo thought of Isabel Yansell, who wore Orient pearls as pale and pure as herself ; and thought how fortunate it was for hun that he had seen and loved her before he met this black-eyed houri, whose darkly-gorgeous beauty might have bewitched him else. Ho was safe now, with that counter-charm, his fair-haired ideal; and, being safe, it was only polite to sit down and talk to his mother's guests ; so he took a vacant chair near the low Bofa, and began to converse. Mr. Arthur Sutherland, among his other accomplish- EVLAUE. 89 incuts, was an adept in the art of " making conver- Bation." lie and Miss Long, who was rather a bhic- stocking and very strong-minded, had a discussion on the dil^erence of society in the Old AVurld and the Kew. This led him to speak of his travels, and ho grew eloquent over descri[)tions of Florence the beauti- ful, and the solemn grandeur of the Eternal City. He liad heard the wonderful " Miserere " in St. Peter's ; he had made the ascent of Mt. Blanc ; lie had seen the carnival in Venice, and he had performed the Via Crucis in the Holy Land. The great, solenm, black eyes of Eulalie Rohan fixed themselves on his face, as she listened in breathless, childlike delight ; and per- haps the consciousness of this made him yet more elo- quent, though he said very little to her. He had es- sayed some remarks to her grandfather, and received such brief replies as to nip the attempted conversation in the bud. But Eulalie could talk a^ well as listen ; and presently, when he asked her something about Cuba, the glorious black eyes lit up, the dark Creole face kindled with yet more vivid beauty, and she talked of her home under the orange and citron groves, until he could feel the scented breath of the Cuban breeze blowing in his face, and see the magnolia swaying over his liead. She talked watli the most charming infantile grace in the world, in that sweet, foreign-accented voice of hei^s — the small ringed hands fluttering in and out 40 EULALIE, the crimson drapery, and the serpent gleam of the emeralds ever displeasing tlic yoimg man's eyes. She was not eloquent or original ; she was only very sweet and charming, and innocently childlike — not a bit sti'ong-minded, like Miss Long — not at all given to bounce, like Miss Augusta Sutherland — and lier sweet- ness was something entirely different from that of his pale, golden-haii'ed saint and ideal, Isabel Yansell — this dark divinity, who was all jets and sparkles, all scarlet drapery and amber back-ground, and big black eyes, and emeralds and diamond rings. lie could see, while he sat gravely listening to her sweet, childish voice, Philip Sutherland, staring over at her with open-eyed admiration, and smiled to himself. " Poor Phil !" he thought ; " he is just the sort of fellow to be caught by this tropical butterfly, this gor- geous little flower of the sun. Those big, velvet-black eyes of hers, ancl this silvery prattle, so babyish and so sweet, and that feathery cloud of purple-black hair is just the sort of thing to fascinate him. Now I should like a woman, and this is only a lisping baby — a very charming baby, no doul)t, to people who admire olive s^:ins, and pretty little tattle, but not at all to my taste." Miss Rohan had one attentive auditor to evervthinc: bhesaid, besides Mr. Sutherland, and that washer grand- father. Arthur had been struck from the very first by the old maivs manner toward his child ; it was such a EULALIE. 41 . of tho ps. She y sweet t a bit IWQW to r sweet- ; of his 11— tliis scarlet ck eyes, e, while ih voice, >eii-eyed 5 sort of his gor- et-black 1 and feo hair is [ should -a very '0 olive ' taste." rythiiii^ r cfraiul- first by such a y m mixture of yearning, mournful tenderness, watchful care. He watched her every movement ; he listened to every word that was said to her, and every word she • uttered in reply. lie seemed to have eyes and ears only for her, and his gaze had something of unspeakable sadness in it. The prevailing expression of his whole face, indeed, was one of settled melancholy ; that fur- rowed countenance was a history of deepest trouble — past, perhaps, but whose memory darkened his whole life. Arthur Sutherland said all this, and wondered what that trouble could be, and what connection it could have with this bright young creatin-e, who seemed as inno- cently and childishly happy as if she were only a dozen instead of eighteen years old. Whatever it was, its blight had •not fallen c.i her — her langh was rnusic itself, her silvery prattle gay as a skylark's song. " Perhaps he loves her so well, and fears to lose her so much," bethought, "that the love and fear bring that look of unspeakable trouble with which he seems perpetually to regard her. Grandfathers have idolized before now granddaughters far less beautiful and ' hai'ni- ing tlian this dark-eyed siren." The little party gathered in the recess of the bay- window so comfortably was broken up at this moment. The Honorable Mr. Long, who had been turning Miss Sutherland's nnisic wdiilc she sang, came forward now If I l>l II 43 EULALIE. with that young lady on his arm, and begged Miss Rohan to favor them witli some music. Eulahc arc o pi'omptly, , and Artlmr saw for tlic first time what a tiny creature she was, with a waist he could have spanned like a doll's, and her flossy black ringlets hanging far below it. There was a general move. Mr. and Miss Long and Mr. Rohan all adjourned to the other end of the drawing-room, but Arthm* Sutherland remained, and his sister drojDped down on the sofa Miss Rohan had just vacated. " There they go !" was her resentful cry ; " the Longs and the grandfather, and now mamma and that stupid Mexican colonel and his automaton wife, and Phil Sutherland, all over to the piano to hear the millionaire's heiress sing. !N"obody paid any attention to my sing- ing, of course ; even Mr. Long was gaping behind the music when he thought I was not looking. I wonder, if I were a millionaire's granddaughter, if people would flock round to listen to every word I let fall, as if they were pearls and diamonds, or would my snub nose and one hundred and forty-tv/o pounds avoirdupois set them gaping when I open my mouth, as it does now." Arthur Sutherland smiled at his sister's tirade, but did not reply. He was listening to the grand, grateful notes of the instrument, swept by a master hand, and a rich contralto voice singing some mournful Spanish EULALIE. 43 ballad. The voice was full of pathos, the song sad aa a funeral dirge, with a wild, melancholy refrain. " There !" burst ont Augusta, " that's the sort of dismalness she sings all the time. It makes my flesh creep sometimes to hear her, and people go mad over her singing and playing. Nobody ever sees anything in mine, and I'm sure I play the hardest galops and polkas going ; but I dare say, if I had big black eyes like two full moons, and a grandfather with several millions of money, it would be dijQPerent !" "How very fond of her he seems to be!" said Arthur, looking over at the piano, where Mr. Rohan stood with his eyes on his granddaughter's face while she sang. "Who? Her grandfather? Grood gracious me!'* cried Miss Sutherland shrilly, " there never was any- thing like it! They talk about people adoring the ground other people walk on, but if they only could know how that Mr. Kohan admires Eulalie, they might talk. Of course it would be sinful idolatry in anybody but a ^nillionaire ; and I know if I was Eulalie I sliould not put up with it. He watches her as a cat watches a mouse ; he won't let her go to parties ; he won't let her go outside the door, unless he is tagging at her apron- strings. He wouldn't let her speak to a young man, or let one look at her, if he could help it ; and he would like to shut her up in a box and carry her round w 'i4 EUZALIE. 4 I ! i with him, like that princess in tho Arahian Kights. He wanted lier to take the veil when she was in the convent." " "Wanted lier to take the veil," echoed her brother, amazed. " Yes," said Augusta, " and my opinion is there is something wrong in the business, and Eulah'e doesn't know what. Slie says he has been like that ever since she can remember, loving her to absurdity, but always as if he pitied her or was afraid of her, or something. lie is a very nice old man, but I think he is a mono- maniac where his granddaughter is concerned — or would be, if he was not a millionaire." A monomaniac ! The words spoken so lightly struck strangely and harshly on the ear of Arthur Sutherland. He had heard of such things ! And was this the secret of those loving, anxious, watchful looks? Did he know he was mad, and did he fear the same fate for his beautiful child ? Was it hereditary in the family, yet a secret from her ? " Well !" exclaimed his sister, with her round, blme eyes fixed on his face. " I should like to know what that solemn countenance means ! If you were making yuur will you couldn't look more dismal; and as you seem to have lost your tongue since Eulalie went away, I'll go and fetch liei back to you." Off went Miss Augusta. Arthur shook away the EULALIE. 45 creeping feeling that had come over him, with a slight shudder. • " What an idiot I am !" he thought, " weaving such a web of horrible, improbable fancies out of a casual word let drop by my chattering sister. The old man dotes on his grandchild, and that ceaseless care and mournful tenderness of look and voice is only the effect of excessive love, and fear of losing her." Half an hour after the dinner-party broke up, and the guests went home. Miss Rohan bade them good- niglit, with one of her brilliant smiles, and went up stairs with Angnsta. As Arthur followed, and was entering his own room, Philip came along the hall, with a night-lamp in his hand. He had managed to get introduced to the heiress, and had been devouring her with his eyes ever since they had fallen on her first. " I say, Arthur," he cried, as he went back, " what a glorious little beauty she is !" Arthur Sutherland looked at his cousin with a pity- ing smile. " With what different eyes people see things !" he said. " You saw a glorious little beauty, and I saw — a dark fairy with a soft voice ! Good-night !" Arthur Sutherland's dreams were a little confused that night, and Eulalie Rohan and Isabel Vansoll got hopelessly mixed up in them. Once, in those uneasy ^reams, he was walking through the leafy arcades and f! • F ii 46 EULALIE, green aisles of Maplewood with blue-eyed Isabel, robed in White and illumined by the sunlight as he had seen her last, when, out of the black shadow of the trees a tall serpent reared itself upright with a hiss, and the sun- shine was suddenly darkened. The serpent had an emerald flashing in its head, and looked at him with the great black eyes of the Creole heiress; and then he awoke with a violent start, and the vision was gone. BEOINNINO OF THE TROUBLE. 47 CHAPTER III. BEGINNING OF THE TROUBLE. ARTHUR SUTIIERLAKD rose early the morning after his return home, despite the previous day's fatiguing journey, and made a hasty toilet. The house was as still as a tomb ; no one was stirring but the birds who chanted their matin-hymns in the glorious May sunshine, among tlie branches of the quaint hemlocks trailing against his chamber-window. It had been his custom from boy- hood to indulge himself in a long walk, a longer ride, or a sea-bath before breakfast. He chose to ride this morning ; and, mounting his horse, rode away, with all the old boyish light-heartedness back again. It was so pleasant to be at home after all these years of sight- seeing, and roaming up and down this big world ; and Maplewood, in the refulgent morning sunshine, was inexpressibly beautiful. Yes, Maplewood was beautiful, and Arthur's heart was in a glow of happy pride as he rode down the long graveled drive, through the tall iron gates, and out into the dusty highroad. He met the farm-laborers 48 BEGINNING OF TUB TROUBLE. going to tlicir work ; lie could see that St. Mary's was all astir, but lie did not ride tlirough St. Mary's. He galloped along the quiet roads, so tempted by the beauty of the morning that two hours had elapsed before he returned. Leaving his horse to the care ol the stable-boys, he came round by the back of tho house, humming a tune. As he turned a sharp angle of the building, the long grassy terrace overlooking the sea came in sight ; and he saw, to his surprise, a fairy form, in a white cashmere morning-dress, loitering to and fro, and dropping pebbles into the placid waters below. She wore a little straw hat on her black curls, its white feather drooping among them, and the scarlet shawl of last night drawn around her shoulders. Miss Rohan was not loitering alone either ; near her, leaning over the low iron railing, stood Philip Sutherland, talk- ing animatedly, and Arthur could hear her low, musical laugh where he stood. There was no earthly reason why this should annoy him — he would not for a moment have confessed, even to himself, that it did annoy him — but his brow contracted, and he felt, for the first time, that his cousin was an officious meddler, whom it would have been better to have left in New York. He had started forward impulsi^'ely to join them — was he not master here, and did ncit the laws of hospitality compel him to be attentive to his mother's gueet? — when he as impulsively stopped. Walking SE GINNING OF THE TROUBLE. 40 rapidly througli the chestnut-grove, leading from the lawn to this terrace, he saw Mr. Rohan, his aged face looking tenfold more troubled and anxious and care- worn in the garish sunshine than it had done in the lamplight. The trouble in his face was so very like terror, as he looked at his granddaughter loitering there with Philip Sutherland, that Arthur stared at him, amazed. He joined them, drawing his child's arm withm his own, and bowing coldly and distantly to her companion. Ten minutes after, he saw the old man lead her away, and Philip following in their wake, faithful as a needle to the North Star. Arthur did not join him ; he lingered on the terrace, smoking a cigar, and trying to puzzle out the riddle, and only mystify- ing himself by the effort. He flung his smoked-out cigar into the blue waves ; and seeing by his watch it was the breakfast-hour, he strolled back to the house, and into the breakfast-room. The breakfast-room at Maplewood was a very pretty apartment, with canary-birds and flower-pots in the window, and the fresh sea-breeze rustling the muslin curtains. Standing among these birds and flowers when he entered was Eulalie. That sunlit figure in the white dress, among the geraniums and canaries, reminded him of another picture he had looked at, just before leaving New York. But Eulalie turned round, and all 8 80 DEaiNNINO OF THE TROUBLE. I I I M Bimilitude vanished. The dusky splendor of her Soutliern beauty extinguished poor Isabel's pale pretti- nesS; as the sun might a penny candle. The flashing of those glorious eyes and those j^early teeth, the rosy, Bmiling mouth disclosed, blotted out even the memory of his flaxen-haired ideal. lie hated tarry tresses, and Bloe-black eyes, and dusky skins, and passionate dark daughters of the South ; but for all that he waa none the less dazzled by those wonderful Creole eyes now. The gleaming emeralds he had disliked so much glittered no longer amid the ebon waves of her hair — ^ome scarlet geranium-blossoms shone like red stars in their place, and were the only speck of color she wore. Mrs. Sutherland and Augusta and Philip were there, and Mr. Rohan was near his granddaughter, as usual. He sat beside her at table, too, and listened to her, and watched her, with the same jealous watchfulness as last night. Just as they sat down, a young lady entered the room, at sight of whom both young men started up with exclamations of surprise, shaking hands, and call- ing her familiarly by her Christian name. She was a tall, slim, pale girl, rather pretty, with the light hair, and blue eyes, and a look generally, of the Sutherlands. She was dressed in slight mourning, and looked four or five years the senior either of Augusta or Eulalie. " Why, Lucy," Arthur cried, " this is an astonisherl BEGINNING OF THE TROUBLE. 61 )r of her 'i )alc pretti- | le flasliing % , the rosy, | memory j resses, and i )nate dark | - waa none I ■J eyes now. j so mucli 1 her hair — d stars in J color she '^ vere there, | , as usnaL j ;o her, and 1 ness as last | dy entered | started up i , and call- 1 -'Ti She was a | ight hair, ^^ itherlands. j :ed four or J lalie. 1 istonisher I M I did not know you were here ! Mother said nothing ahont it." Lucy Sutherland — she was cousin to both young men, and poorer even than Philip — lifted her light eyebrows slightly as she took her place. " No," she said quietly ; " why should she mention so unimportant a matter. It was not worth mention- ing- j> Arthur smiled; perhaps the answer was charac- teristic. " Why were you not down last night ?" " Because she is an oddity," said his mother, taking it upon herself to reply ; " and as unsocial as that Black Dwarf in Sir Walter Scott's novel. I tell her she should liave been with Robinson Crusoe on his island, or go and be a nun at once." Miss Lucy Sutherland made no reply ; silence was another of her oddities, it seemed ; but Augusta and Eulalie chattered away like magpies. The whole party loitered a very unnecessary length of time over the breakfast-table ; and, when they arose, the young ladies adjourned to the drawing-room — Miss Rohan and Miss Augusta to practice some wonderful duet, and Miss Lucy to seat herself at another window, and stitch away industriously at some elaborate piece of em- broidery. Philip Sutherland hung devotedly over the piano, with rapt face ; the dragon — as he mentally n BEOTNNINQ OF THE TROUBLE. Btylcd tlic Cul)a!i inllllonairc — had gone to the library to write letters. Arthur seated hunself beside his cousin Lucy, to talk to her, and furtively watch the fairy ligure in white at the piano ; how well she played ; how those tin}', rinf^ed hands flew over the polished keys, and what wonderful power to fascinate the little dark witch had ! lie talked to Lucy Sutherland, snipping rcnioi-selessly at her silks, and listening to the music, and thinking what danger he might have been in of falling in love with a black-eyed girl if he had not been fortunate enough to first meet with Isabel Yansell. " How long have you been at Maplewood, Lucy ?" he asked his cousin. " Since my father's death — five months ago," she replied, in a grave but steady voice. " Your mother finds me useful, and desires me to stay ; and, being of use, I am quite willing." * Arthur smiled as he looked at her. " Proud Lucy ! You are the same as of old, I see. I am very glad you are here. You must never leave us, Lucy, imtil you leave us for a home of your own. » Lucy Sutherland was habitually pale, but two red spots came into her cheeks and slowly died out again. She did not reply ; she did not lift her eyes from her work, as her needle flashed in and out. ^'^•^'^.!,i; BtJG INNING OF THE TROUBLE. 53 " You were licrc when Mr. and Miss Rulum camo, of course ?" he said, after u pause. " Yes." " llow do you like Miss Rohan ?" " Very well." " Which means, I suppose, you do not like her at all r Lucy Sutherland looked up, calmly, as she threaded her needle. " Not at all ! Why should I dislike her ?" " Heaven knows ! For Bome inscnitable female reason ; but I am sure you do not like her." " I have seen very little of Miss Rohan," said Lucy, rather coldly. " I'm always busy ; and she could hardly be expected to trouble herself much about me. Even if I were her equal in social position, we are so mucili unlike, and have so few tastes and sympathies in common, that we should never care for each other's companionship. Miss Rohan never thought twice about me, and is supremely indifferent whether I like or dislike her." " There spoke the pride of all the Sutherlands !" ex- claimed Arthur, smiling. " Why, you foolish Lucy, what do you mean by talking of being beneath her ? Are you not a lady by birth and descent, and education, as much as she is ? As for her grandfather's millions, she can aHord to look down upon the whole of us, 54 BEOINNINO OF THE TROUBLE. "wliere Lliey arc concerned ; for, if report speaks truly, she will be rich enough to buy and sell all the Suther- Jands that ever existed." Here there was an interruption. Mrs. Sutherland came in to tell her son there were callers for him in tlie reception-room. The guests of last night had spread the report of his return, and his old friends were losing no time. " Mr. Synott asked for you, Philip," Mrs. Suther- land said. " I dare say you would prefer turning over the music, but you must go." "Oh, hang Mr. Synott!" muttered Philip; "I wish he was in Jericho !" There was no help for it, however ; he had to go ; and what was worse, lie and Arthur were kept there until the luncheon-bell rang, by a constant stream of troublesome old friends. There was a conservatory oil: this reception-room where the back-window com- manded a view of the long terrace, and they could see Mr. Rohan and his dark-eyed granddaughter lounging there, when the practicing and letter-writing were over. They disappeared before luncheon-hour, and were not present at that meal ; neither was Lucy. The Cuban grandee and his graudcliild had gone oil riding; and it was anotlier of Lucy's oddities never to eat luncheon. It was a far less pleasant meal than breakfast had been, although half a dozen of the old friends partook of it, BEOINNINQ OF TEE TROUBLE. 60 and talked a great deal ; but the dark, piquant face and wonderful black eyes were missing, and it was all vexa- tion of spirit. Arthur Sutherland found that afternoon very long. The troublesome friends went away at L^st, but not until ho was heartily sick of them ; and then he went up into his room to write letters. But, somehow, the great black eyes and entrancing Creole face came between him and the white paper, and sent him into long fits of musing that made him sadly neglect his writing. He tried to read; but his book seemed stupid, and he flung it aside and went out, in despera- tion, to smoke away the tedious hours. lie found Philip Sutherland pacing up and down the sunny kwn, with his cigar, and joined him. Augusta sat under a tree, r'^.ading a novel, with a big black Newfoundland dozing beside her ; and Lucy, in her own chamber- window, still bending over her embroidery, watched them, and guessed instinctively the cause of their rest- lessness. ^' When they were here before," she thought, with a contemptuous smile, "they were riding over the country, or off with their fishing-rods all day long. Now, they dare not stir outside the gates, lest they phould lose one glimpse of that sallow baby-face and those great, meaningless black eyes." The young men smoked a vast number of cigars nl 56 BEQIimiNG OF THE TROUBLE. under the waving arms of the old trees ; but they did not talk much, and Miss Rohan's name was not once mentioned. Yet both understood intuitively what the other waited for, and hated liim for it. Philip made some allusion once to Miss Yansell, and asked Arthur, carelessly, when he was going back to New York, and had met with a decided rebuff. It was nearly six o'clock, and the trees were fling- ing long, fantastic shado\7S on the cool, dark sward, whem Mr. and Miss Rohan returned. Beautiful she always was ; but in a side-saddle she was bewitching. She rode a spirited, flashing-eyed Arab, as dark and as daintily small as herself, and her long, green I'iding-skirt floated back in the breeze as she cantered up the avenue. Exercise could not flush the creamy pallor of her dark, Creole face ; but it made it radiant, and the black eyes were as bright a'i two sable stars. Both young men started forward to assist her, but, p^athering up her long train in one gloved hand, and laughing gay^ she sprang lightly out of the saddle unaided. " Thanks, Messieurs !" she said ; " but Arab and I understand each other. Grandpapa, I shall not wait for you. I must run away and dress." She tripped away as lightly as any other fairy, and the young men resumed their sauntering up and down the dai'keniug avenue until the dinner-bell rang. Then BEOINNING OF THE TROUBLE. «7 they returned to the house ; and presently the Ladies appeared, and Miss Kohan, as usual, elegantly dressed. She had a fancy very often for arraying her light, deli- cate little figure in rich silks and costly moire antiques, stiff enough to stand alone ; but this evening Arthur Sutherland could hardly tell what she wore. He only knew she came floating in in a cloud of gauzy amber drapery, like a mist of sunshine, with all her feathery, black ringlets hanging around her, and wearing no ornaments save a glittering opal cross attached to a slender gold chain. The yellow, sinister light of the opals was almost as distasteful to him as the greenish ffleam of the emeralds. " I wish she would not wear jewels," he thought. " At least, none bat diamonds. They are the only gems to bear comparison with such a pair of eyes." Miss Rohan was in high spirits, and chattered away in her sweet, soft voice about the delightful long ride she and grandpapa had had, and which she had enjoyed so much. The little heiress and the Sutherlands — mother, son, and daughter — had the conversation all to tlienisolves. The other three took little share in it. Lucy was silent, beciiuse it was Lucy's nature to be silent. Mr. Rohan was moodily distrait, but not too much so to keep that endless watch on his grand- daughter. And poor Philip sat staring at the beautiful brunette face across the table in speechless admiration, Ml 58 BEGIXXiyG OF THE TROUBLE. to the sad neglect of his dinner and the rules of polite- ness. But Miss Itolian took no notice. She was so accustomed to l)e stared at wherever she went that she had grown used to it, and took the unconscious hom- age paid lier beauty as a matter of course. Philip held open the dining-room door for the Lidics when dinner was over, and looked as if he would lika to follow thorn. The three gentlemen were not very sociable over their wine and walnuts. Arthur essayed conversation with the grandfather of Eulalie, but failed ; for Mr. Rohan only answered absently and in monosyllables. So there was no temptation to linger ; and they speedily made their appearance in the drawing-room, where they found Mrs. Sutherland in an after-dinner doze, and Lucy reading in a corner. The other two were nowhere visible, and Mrs. Suther- land opened her eyes to explain. " The girls have gone out, I believe, to look at tlui moonlight. Excuse me, Mr. Rohan, but may I ask you to remain a moment ? I wish to consult you on a little matter of business." Clever mamma! Her son smiled to himself as lie stepped through the open window out on the lawn. The moon was sailing up in a cloudless skv : the starg were numberless ; and Maplewood — its gray, old man- sion, its woods and shrubberies and groves, its vel- BEGINNING OF THE TROUBLE. 69 voty lawns and far-spreading meadows — looked beauti- ful enoui^li for faifv-land. Instinctively the young men turned their steps ter- raceward ; and there, leaning over the low iron railing, were the two girlish figures, the petite fairy in amber with a cloud of black lace haniirinii: around her ; the other in pink muslin. The wide sea lay as smooth as a polished mirror ; the moonlight shone upon it in one long, silvery track, in and out of which the boats ilitted, with their white wings spread. One gny boat- ful were singing, and the music came borne delight- fully to them on the low night-breeze. A woman's sweet voice was singing, " Kathleen Mavourneen," and neither of the cousins spoke as they joined the listening figures. The spell of the moonlit sea and the sad, sweet song was not to be broken ; but Eulalie's dark eyes and bright smile welcomed them. It wiia the first time Arthur had been near her without the Argus-eyes of the grandfather being upoTi them ; and just as the melody died out on the water, and he was thinkino; how best to take advantac^e of the situation, lo I there was that ubi(piitous grandfather emerging from the chestnut-walk. Had he cut short Mrs. Suth- erland's little business matter, or had he managed to escape ? " The deuce take him !" was, I am afraid, Arthur Sutherland's mental ejaculation. " If she were the 60 DEQINNINO OF THE TROUBLE. %' : if SHw !;! Koh-i-noor guarded I" itself she could not be more closely (( The dew is falling heavily, Eulalie," he said, drawing her hand within his arm ; " it is impinident of you to be out at this hour. Miss Sutherland, let me advise you to return to the house." He walked away with his granddaughter, but none of the others followed. There was no mistaking his coldly repellent manner, and Augusta apostrophized him as a " horrid old bear." " That's the way he tyrannizes over her all the time !" exclaimed Miss Sutherland ; " no old Turk could be woi'se. I've told Eulalie about a million times I wouldn't stand it, but then she has no spirit I I'd stay out, just for spite !" Was it tyranny ? Eulalie, looking up, saw her grandfather's face so full of distress and trouble that her tender anxiety v/as aroused. " What is it, grandpapa ?" she asked. " What is troubling you ? Something has happened." " No, my darling," he said, with a weary sigh, " nothing has happened, but the old trouble that never will end until I am in my grave ! Oh, my darling ! my darling ! I wish we were both there together !" "Grandpapa!" Eulalie cried, shocked and af- frighted. Again he sighed a long and heavy sigh. " Eulalie, Bl:^ INNING OF THE TROUBLE. 01 ■IL are you not tired of this place ? Would you not like to go home ?" " Home I Oh, dear no, grandpapa I I am very happy here, and it is not two weeks since we came. What would Mrs. Sutherland say ?" "Why should yoi^ care, Eulalie? Are we not happy enough together? Let us go back to Eden Lawn, and live quietly, as we did before I sent you to school. What do we want or care for these people ?" "Very well, grandpapa," But the sweet face darkened and saddened so, while she said it, that his heart smote him. " You don't want to go, my darling ?" " Dear grandpapa, I vt^ill go if you desire it, but it is very pleasant to be here." The troubled look grew deeper on his face than she had ever seen it, and his answer was something very like a groan. She clasped her little hands round his arm, and lifted her wistful dark eyes to his. " Oh, grandpapa, what is it ? What is this dread- ful trouble that is blighting your whole life ? When will you cease to treat me like a child — when will you tell me ? I know I am only a foolish little girl," she said, mth a rueful look at her diminutive proportions; " but indeed I atn not such a baby as you think ! I can bear to hear it, whatever it is, and you will feel happier frr telling." ' N tfi M G;i LEG HONING OF TUE THOUBLE. " Happier !" he cried out, passionately, " Eulalie, tlic day I tell you my lieart will break I Oh, my pet I my darling! God alone knows how I have loved you, and yet my only prayer for you, all your innocent life, has been, tliat he might bless you with an early death!" She clasped her hands in speechless affright, her great black eyes dilating as she listened to the appalling words. " When I placed you in the Sacred Heart," he went on, " it wns not so much that you might be educated — that could have been done at home ; it was in the hope that you might take the vail, that y/o\\ might become a nun. Hundreds as young and beautiful and rich as yourself renounce all this world can give, yearly, to become the bride of Heaven ; and 1 hoped you would do the same, and so escape the horrible fatfility that may come. You would have been safe, then ; they never could tear a nun from her convent." " Tear a nun from her convent ! Oh, grandpapa ! grandpapa ! what do you mean ?" " Not now, Eulalie — not now, but very soon yoi^ bhall know ! Yer\^ soon, because it is impos3ibjc for me longer to conceal the horrible truth. While you were a child, all was well, and I have tried to kocj^ you a child as long as I could. But ycu are a woman now, my little innocent lamb ! I never felt it so pLtirdy ae to-niglit." j^^'-t n KG INNING OF THE TIWUDLE. 68 " To-night ?" Slie corJd only echo his own wordg -she was too attcrly bcwil iercd and sliockcd to think. u Yes, these young men have made nic see it very plainly," he said, bitterly. " I might have known it was madness to try to keep lovers off, and you a beauty and an heiress. The convent was the only hope. Say, my child, is it too late yet ? do you not long to go back to the peace and holy calm of tho con- vent, out of this weary battle of life?" "Grandpapa, I Wiis very happy in the Sacred Heart with the dear, kind ladies, but 1 am also very happy here in this beautiful world, or would be, if your trouble did not make me so wretched ! Oh, grand- papa ! what is this dreadful secret ?" " Something too dreadful for my lips ever to tell you. I nuist say the horrible truth in writing, if my heavt breaks whilst doing it." Every trace of color had faded out of the dark face, and her black eyes were dilated in vague horror. " Is it any disgrace, grandpapa ? — my father — " she faltered and stopped. " Your father was the soul of honor. lie never wronged a human jreature in his life 1" " And my mother ? — I never knew^ cither of them, grandpapa !" " You mother was beautiful and pure as an angel I •■'■' !!■ Wt. !; ! Gi BE O INNING OF THE TUOUBLE. •ffli m As innocent as a baby of all the wickedness and misery of this big world I" She gave a little sigh of fervent thanksgiving. A great fear had been removed. " It cannot be anything so very terrible, then," sho said. " You magnify the danger, grandpapa. Only tell me, and see how bravely I will bear it !" They were ascending the portico-stups. lie looked down on her, and she saw what a haggard and wretched face iio wore. "My poor little girl!" he said mournfully, "you do not know what you are saying ! There are horrors in this great world that you never have dreamed of. Go to your room, my darling, and pray to Heaven to give you strength to bear the blow when it comes." " Only one word, grandpapa !" she cried, a wild idea flashing through her brain ; " is it some hereditary disease you fear — is it " — her very lips whitening as she pronounced the word — " is it insanity V The old man looked at he^ in unmistakable sur- prise. " My darling, what put such a revolting idea in your poor little head ! No, physically and mentally the race from which you have sprung is sound. There are worse thincjs even than madness !" He left her with the last dreadful words on his lips. ul BEG INNING OF THE TROUBLE. and went up stairs. Eulalie lingered a moment in the portico, shivering with a horrible vague fear. The two strolling bade from the terrace caught one glimpse of her, before ehe saw them and flitted in, but that glimpse was enough to reveal how sad and disheartened the bright face had become. " The old brute has been scolding her !" burst out Philip Sutherland ; " and choking would be too good for him — the old monster 1" GO BATTLING WITU FATE. CHAPTER IV. BATTLING WITH FATE. HERE was a perceptible change in the man- of Eulalie Rohan, after that night's inter- view. The vaguely-terrible things the old man had said could scarcely fail to affect his graTidauglitcr, and distuil) her greatly. She had been so bappy all her life — to her existence was one long holiday — this lower world was no place of exile, but a terrestrial Eden, and she had been as innocently and joyously happy as the wild birds warbling in the trees. But now some shadowy horror impended over her, all the more fearful for Ijeing shadowy, and the sunshine of her life was suddenly darkened. " I wonder what it all means," she thought, sadly. " If grandpapa would only speak out — I think I coulc bear it far better than this suspense. "What can this dark mystery be ? It is not disgrace, it is not disease, it is not poverty. What, then, is it that is worse than these? Poor dear grandpapa! he is very ■wretched, I know, but I am sure I shall not be half 60 ur happy when I know the truth, as I am now." BATTLING WITH FATK. 6T Tlic family at Maplcwoocl noticed the clianjijc, and wondered too. They saw tlie shadow tliat had fallen on the little Creole heiress, and how lovinjj^ly sorrowful the eyes with which she watched her grandfather. She devoted herself more to him than ever before, walked with him, rode with him, read to him, sang to him, and did all in her ])ower to divert him from his morhid melanclujly, with an earnest devotion that was touch- ing to see. " There is something wrong and abnormal about all this," thought Arthur Sutherland ; " there is some mystery here, or else Augusta was right, and the old man is a monouianiac, and she knows it. Poor little girl ! David never tried harder to win Saul from his gloomy melancholy than she does her grandfather. I must ask my mother what she knows of their history." It was one evening, in the long drawing-room, about a week after that moonlight night, that Arthur thought this. The windows were all wide open and the pale twilight stole in, fragrant with the perfume of the rose-trees. Eulalie Rohan sat on a low stool at one of these open casements, dressed in white ; and with no jewels, green or yellow, to offend his fastidious eye. The breeze lifted her feathery ebon curls, and fluttered back her flo,' ' g muslin sleeves, as her fingers lightly touched the strings of her guitar. Iler grandfather sat I'i m 68 BATTLING WITH FATE. I:< ll -V ill an arm-chair beside lier ; listening with closed eyes to the sweet old Spanish ballad she sang. There was no other light than the pale gloaming ; the song was low and wild, and mournful, and the singer's voice full of pathos, that went to his heart. Philip Sutherland was listening just outside the window with his heart in his eyes. Poor Philip was wildly, and hopolcssly, and deeply in love with the little Creole beauty, and made no secret of it ; and w is madly jealous of Arthur, and every other single man in the neighborhood, under forty, who spoke to her. Augusta and Lucy were spending the evening out — his motlier sat at the other extremity of the apartment, reading a magazine by the last rays of the daylight. Arthur went over and sat beside her, rnd plunged into the suljject head- foremost. "Mother," he said; "how long have you known Mr. Rohan ?" Mrs. Sutherland looked up and laid down her book. " How \^ti^^ have I known Mr. Rohan ? Not very long. When Augusta was at school in Montreal, I met him there. It is about three years since I saw him first." " Do you know anything of his history '{ I am curious to know the meaning of that settled melan- choly of his." tl dl t( \\ ' i BATTLING WITH FATE. 69 " I cannot tell you ; unless it be continued grief for the death of his only son." " His only son ! Enlalie's father ! But he has been dead for upward of eighteen years. A tolerable time to blunt the edge of any sorrow." " It has not blunted his, it seems ; and I am at a loss to account for his gloom in any other way. His son married very young, before he was twenty, and wrent with his bride from Louisiana to Cuba, and died there ten months after with yellow fever. Ilis wife, a poor little helpless thing of sixteen, wrote to Mr. Rohan, who went out there immediately, to find her utterly prostrated by the blow. She idolized her young husband, it seems, and never held up her head again. A few weeks after Eulalie's birth, she was laid beside Ir*'^ iu the ground ; and Mr. Rohan bought the estate there— -Eden Lawn — and devoted himself to the child she liad left. Eulalie grew up there, and never quitted it until three years ago, when she was fifteen ; and he placed her in the Sacred Heart at Montreal, to complete her very imperfect education. That is all I know of their histor)'^, and this much Mr. Kohan told me himself." " Poor little tiling !" said Arthur, looking pityingly over at the orphan heii'css. " She is poorer than other girls, notwj'jistanding her grandfather's millions. And i , 70 BATTLING WITH FATE. o you think the loss of his son has been prejmg on his spirits ever since ?" " It is the only way in which I can account for his singular gloom; and his continual watchful anxiety about Eulalie no doubt springs from excessive love. lie seems very unwilling to speak of himself or his family affairs at all — in fact, I believe he never would talk if he could hel]^ it." " The Itohans are English, you told me, by descent. Wliat was Eulalie's mother?" " A lovely French Creole, I have heard ; and Eulalie inherits all her gorgeous Southern beauty. She is like some Assyrian princess, with those luminous eyes and that wonderful fall of hair." The last cadence of the song died out as Mrs. Sutherland said this — died out as sadly as the last cadence of a funeral hymn. Arthur looked over at the twilight picture ; the old man was asleep in his chair, and the little white figure specking the blue dusk free from his surveillance for once. The opportunity was not to be lost. Arthur rose and crossed the room, and Eulalie's pensive face lit up with a beautiful, shy, wel- coming smile. " You song is a very sad one, Miss Kohan," he said ; " but all your songs are that Is it the old story of the nightingale with its breast against a thorn ?" B ATT LIN Q WITH FATE. 71 " ' The sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought,' " quoted Eulalie ; " grandpapa loves those old Spanish ballads, and at this hour so do I. I used to sit and sing to him by the hour, in the twilight, at dear old Eden Lawn." She struck a few plaintive chords of the air she had been singing, and looked up, dreamily, at the evening star, whose tremulous beauty she had often watched through the acacia leaves, at this hour, in her sunny Cuban home. " What a lovely night it is !" she said. "Yes," said Arthur; "too lovely to spend in the house. Will you not come down to the terrace, to see the moon rise ?" Philip Sutherland, watching them, jealously, in the shadow of the clematis vines, gnashed liis teeth at tin's rather sentimental request, but Eulalie only smiled and shook her head. " You forget, Mr. Sutherland, grandpapa objects to the night air for me. I don't think it does iiie any harm, but he does, and that settles the matter." " You are obedience itself. Miss Rohan." "Grandpapa loves me so very much," she said, simply ; " it is the least I can do, surely." There was a pause. Mrs. Sutherland was ring- ing for lights, but the moon streaming in through the waving foliage lit up this window with silvery 3H' < t i^f: ill dU ■ i llfc ml ft H I i^i 72 BATTLING WITH FATE. radiance. The little white figure, the tender, beantiftil face, the drooping head, with its cloud of shining tresses, made a very pretty picture, which stamped iteelf indelibly in the memory of the two young men, when the poor little beauty's tragic story was all over. " I thought you were to dine this evening at Colonel Madison's with Lucy and Augusta," he said, presently. " I was invited, but grandpapa did not wish me to go." " Your grandpapa is as surly an old Turk as ever I heard of!" thought Arthur; "his love is more like tyranny than anything else." " And I preferred staying home myself," said Eula- lie, lifting her earnest, dark eyes to his face, while the thought passed through his mind. " I am always hap- pier at home with grand — " She stopped and sprang to her feet. Arthur and Philip darted forward, and all stared at the old man. He was still asleep, but in his sleep he had screamed out — a scream so full of horror that it had thrilled through them all. His face was convulsed, his handi outstretched, and working in agony. " It is false !" he cried, in i voice between a gasp and a slirick. " She is mine, and you shall not take her from me ? Oh, Eulalie ! Eulalie ! Eulalie !" He awoke with that scream of agony on his lips, his BATTLING WITH FATE. 7» face still convulsed with the horror of his dream, hia fingers working, his ej^es wild. Eulalie knelt beside him, her face ashen white, and caught his haud in her own. " I am here," she said ; " dear, dear grandpapa, what is the matter ?" With an unnatural cry he caught her in his arms and strained her to him, his whole form quivering with convulsive emotion. " Thank God !" he cried ; " it was all a dream ! Oh, my darling ! my darling ! I thought they were going to tear you from rae !" He dropped his head on her shoulder, and burst out into a passion of hysterical sobbing, dreadful to hear, Eulalie looked up at Arthur with a face like marble, but trying bravely to be calm. " Will you help him up to his room, Mr. Sutheir- land ? Dear, dear, dear grandpapa, don't cry ! Yon are breaking my heart! Dearest grandpapa, don't. Eulalie is here — it was only a bad dream ! Nobody shall ever take me from you I" She kissed him, and caressed the poor old head ; and strove by every endearment to soothe him, her voice trembling sadly. The rest stood by, pale, startled, and wondering. The old man lifted his head at last, and saw them. The sight of those pale, grave faces seemed to restore 74 BATTLING WITH FaTE, him magically, and he arose, still sustaining his clasp of his granddaughter, the horror of his dream yet vibrat- ing through all his frame. " I have had a terrible dream !" he said ; " I fear I have startled you all. Eulalie, will you help me to my room ?" Arthur came forward. *'' Miss Rohan is not strong enough," he said ; " per- mit me to assist you up-stairs." But the old man would accept no assistance save his granddaughter's ; and Arthur had to stand and watch them toiling wearily up the great staircase, he leaning on her arm. Not one of the three spoke when tli(3y were gone. Mi's. Sutherland retreated to her sofa with a very grave face. Philip went up to his own chamber. The drawing-room was a dreary desert, now that slio was gone, and Arthur stepped out of the open window on the moonlit lawn to smoke, and cogitate over this queer business. " There is a screw loose somewhere," he thought ; " there is no effect without a cause. What, then, is the cause of this old man's morbid dread of losing his granddaughter ? It haunts him in his sleep^t makes his waking life a misery. There must be some cause for this fear — some grounds for this ceaseless terror ; or else, through sheer love, he is going mad. In either case, she is much to be pitied ; poor little thing ! How BATTLING WITU FATE. 75 white and terrified that pleading face was she turned to me. Poor child — she is only a child ! I pity her very muo h!" Yes; Mr. Sutherland pitied the black-eyed little heiress very much, forgetting how near akin pity is to that other feeling he was resolutely determined not to feel for her. lie pitied her very much, with this dreadful old grandfather, and paced up and down the lawn in the moonlight, thinking about her until the carriage that had been sent to Colonel Madison's re- turned with his sister and cousin. It was very late then — ^past midnight — but he could see the light burn- ing in Mr. Rohan's room ; and the shadow^s cast on the blind, the shadows of the old man and his grandchild, sitting there, talking still. Yes, they sat there talking still ; the terror of his dream so clinging to him that he seemed unable to let her out of his sight He sat in an arm-chair, she on a low stool at his feet, her hands clasped in his, her eyes uplifted anxiously to his disturbed face, her own quite colorless. " You are better now, grandpapa," she was saying. " Will you not tell me what that terrible dream was ?" The bare memory of the dream made him sliudder, and tighten his clasp until her little hands ached. " O my darling, it was only the great troubles of my life haunting me in my sleep. The horrible fear : !i. 70 BA TTLINQ WITH FA TE. i ; 111 •!i that never leaves me, niglit or day, realized in my dreams." " Tlie ]iorril>le fear ! Oh, grandpapa, what do you mean ? AVhat is it you are afraid of ?" "Don't ask nic !" exclaimed tlie old man, trembling at her words. " Don't ask me ! Yoi. will know it too Boon, aiiil it will riii;! \ai7 iiie ..>,■ it 'las mined mine." " Grandpapa, is it for • \g or for yourself you fear?'' " For mjself ?" he echoed. Do }o,i think any feai for myself could trouble me like this ? My life, at the best, is near its close. Could any fear for mj^i^lf, do you think, disturb the few days that are left like this ? No, it is for you — for you, my cherished darling — that I fear, and one of tlie greatest horrors of all is to have to tell 3'ou what that fear is !" There was a long pause. Eulalie's face could not grow whiter than it was, but the great black eyes were unnaturally dilated. Through it, all this dark, troubled mystery, she was trying to keep calm, all for his sake. " You spoke, grand^'apa," she said, " of my being torn from you. Could any one in the world do that ?" She glanced up at him, but his face was so full of anguish that she dared not look again. " Heaven pity you, my poor girl, they could I You are my dead son's only child, but I should bo powerless to prevent it ! If all the wealth I possess BAT T UNO WITH FATE. 77 could 5RVC you, I would opeu my hands and let it flow out liL'^ water. I could d'c lia}>py, leaving y( less, a: 1 knowing you were safe." g you peuni- " Siie ! Saf'^ from what ?" she repeated, in vague horroi "From a fato '^cadful to think of — from a f ato the fear of which is shortening my life." " G]'andpapa !" she broke out, passionately, " this is cruel ! You frighten me to death with vague terrors, wdien I could far better bear the truth ! Tell me what I have to dread — the truth will be easier to bear than this horrible suspense !" "Not now! Not now!" he cried out, imploring' •. " O my Eulalie ! I Co not mean to be cruel ! If 1 hav > said this much, it is only to prepare you for the truth. If this intolerable pum at the heart.and this blinding giddiness of the head mean what I think they do, my time is very short. Rest content, my darling, in a very few weeks you shall know all !" " Only tell me one thing," she pleaded, with new energy ; " have I enemies ? Is there any one in tho world I have cause to fear ?" She listened breathlessly for the answer, her great wild eyes fixed on his face. "Yes, there is one, a/ id only one, whom you liavo intenscst cause to fear. It is the dread of meeting this one enemy that has caused me to keep you secluded — f; (.■ ■v\ 78 BATTLING WITn FATE. that lias caused mo to wish you so ardently to bury yourself in a convent ! I have been battling with ft\te for the past eighteen years, and yet I know it is all iu vain. I may take what precautions I please ; I may seclude you in the farthest corner of the world ; and yet when the time comes you and that man will meet 1" " Hitherto I have never seen him, then ?" *'No — that is, since you were an infant." " Then, grandpapa, how should he ever know me ?" The old man looked at her with infinite pity in his eyes. " My poor child ! I will show you here !^' lie drew from around his ncclv a thin gold chain, with a locket attached. He touched the spring and handed her the locket. It contained two portraits — one of a bright, boyish handsome face ; the other, dark and beautiful, tho pictured image of the living face looking down npon it. Under each was a name, " Arthur — Eulalie." " It is your mother and father, my darling !" he said. " Look at your mother's face. Do you not think that any one who ever saw that face in life would recognize you, her living image ?" "And her name was Eulalie, too. I never knew that before. ' Eulalie — Arthur I' My father's name was Arthur ?" BATTLING WITH FATE. 79 " Yes," said Mr. Rohan, sorrowfully. " His name was Art! iiir jj (( Artliur ! — Arthur !" eho repeated softly. " I like 5> the name. " You like it, Eulalie. Is it for the sake of the father you have uever seen, or the young man down- stairs, whom you have seen ?" " Oh, grandpapa !" was Eulalie's reproachful cry. *' My dear little girl, I can read your heart plainer, perhaps, than you can yourself. Yon must not fall in with this young man, Eulalie. It will be folly — worse than folly — madness — for you ever to lot youreelf love him or any one else." " Grandpapa !" rather indignantly, " I never thought of falling in love with him !" " No, my poor dear, you never thought of it, I dare say. But it may happen for all that ; and you cannot prevent him from admiring and loving you. That is why I wished you to return to Eden Lawn the other night — that is why I wish you to gc still." "Would it be so very dreadful, then," Eulalie asked, a little embarrassed, and not looking up, " if he — if I — I mean if we did ?" " Yes," said Mr. Rohan, solemnly. " It would be dreadful, circumstanced as you are. I shall tell you all very soon ; until then, you must neither give nor take ' > 1 <ctn(illy to come and disturb aL his waking and sleep- ing dreams ? He battled conscientiously with his fate — or fancied he did — and the more he battled, the more and more he thou":ht of Eulalis 1 FATE'S VICTORY. 83 1' ^'■ CHAPTER Y. fate's victory. ISr the very plain parlor of a very unpretend- ing house, in a very quiet street of that lively little tree-shaded city, Portland, Maine, there sat, one lovely afternoon in June, a woman busily sewinf^. The woman sat at the open window, and the win- dow commanded an exquisite view of beautiful Casco Bay, but she never once stopped in her work to glance at it. Perhaps she had no time to spare, perhaps Casco Bay was a very old song, or perhaps its sunlit beauty was beyond the power of her soul to appreciate. She eat and stitched and stitched and stitched, with dull, monotonous rapidity, on the chiUFs dress she was mak- ing, a faded and fretted-looking creature, with pale hair and eyes, and shrunk, thin features. She was dressed in rusty bhiek, and wore a widow's cap, and her name was Mrs. Sutherland — Lucy Sutherland's mother. Two or three small child I'cn rolled over on the thread- bare carpet, playing noisily with rag dolls and with tops, and two or three more of a larger growth were down ' •■^■1 iMrfi ' If S . Bl .fflHs! m I i' ■*-' 1' . 'rjf» :■!,■ Hi. FAT ITS VICTORY. ¥%'■ II ill the Ivitclien, regaling themselves with bread and meat, tifter school. It needed no r.ccond glance at the worn-out carpet, the rheumatic cliairs, the sliabbj^ sofa, the cracked looking-glass, and tlie seedy garments, to tell you this family were very poor. They were very poor, and of that class of poor most to be pitied, wlio have seen " better days," poor souls ! and who struggle, and pinch, and tell lies, and eat their hearts out, trying to keep up appearances. They were in mourning for the husband and father, half-brother to tlie late James Sutherland, Esqnire, of Maplewood, as Mrs. Sutherland never wa. tired tellin»i: her neii^hbors. They had been very poor in his lifetime, for he was of dissipated habits ; but they were poorer now, and Mrs. Sutherland had no time to admire Oasco Bav, for patching and darning, and making and mending, from week's end to week's end. There were six besides Lucy ; and Lucy and her salary, as paid companion to the lady of Maplewood, was their chief support. Lucy Sutherland's life had been a hard one. Six years before this June afternoon she had gone first to live at Maplewood — gone to eat the bitter bread of de- pendence. But Lucy Sutherland was morbidly proud ; Mi's. Sutherland, of Maplewood, haughty and over- l>eiiring; and Augusta too much given to lly out into gusts of l>ad temper. Of course, the cold pride and t SI FATE'S VICTORY. 85 tlic liot temper clashed at once, and Mrs. SutlierLuid swept storniily in, boxed Augusta's cars. a scolded Lucy stoutly. Lucy retorted with flashing eyes, and l)anged the door in the great hidy's face, packed up her belongings, and was home before niglit. But tliere were too many at home ah-eady. Lucy went out once more as a nursery -governess ; and fo^' four yeai's led the wretched, shivish life that nursery-governesses mostly lead. She was perpetually losing her place, and perpetually trying the next one, and only seeming to find each worse than the last. Four years of this sort of life broke down and subdued Lucy Sutherland enough even to suit Mrs. James Sutherland, of Maplewood. That lady, linding herself very lonely when Augusta went away to school, and remembering how useful she had found Lucy, presented herself at the house in PortLmd on.:, day, and asked her to come back. Lucy was out of place, as usual. Mrs. Sutherland offered a higher figure than she liad ever received as nursery- governess, and Lucy, neither forgiving nor forgetting the past, took prudence for her counselor, and went back. ^Vhatever she had to endure, she did endure, with stony patience — her heart rebelling fiercely agaiyst destiny, but her lips never uttering one complaint. She had been the chief suppoi-t of the family since then, not through any very strong sisterly love, but because of that very pride that would have tliem keep up ap- 1 i ' m JiM' \ if- • i V % 86 FATE'S VICTORY. I pearances to the last gasp. She did not visit them very often ; slie wrote to lier mother once a month, a brief letter, inclosing a remittance ; and she endured her life with hard, icy coldness, that was any thing but the virtue of resignation. Mrs. Sutherland, sitting sewing this afternoon, wag lit^ toning for the postman's knock. It was the time for Lucy's letter, and the remittance was truly needed. Wliilc she watched, a cab drove up to the door ; a tall young lady, dressed in black, and wearing a black gauze vail over her face, alighted, and rang the bell. The next moment, there was a shout from the girls and boys below of — "Oh, mamma ! Here's Lucy !" Mrs. Sutherland, dropping her work, met her eldest daughter in the doorway, and kissed her. The children, playing on the floor, suspended their game to flock around their sister. Lucy l«ssed them one after the other, and then pushed them away. " There ! there !" she said, hnpatiently. " Run away, now. Bessy, don't stand on my dress. Franky, go along to your tops, and let me alone. I am hot, and tired to death !" She dropped into a seat, still pushing them away — her face looking pale, and haggard, and careworn. Mrs. SuthcriiUid saw Iier daughter was in no very sweet temper, ana hustled the noisy flock out of the FATE'S VICTORY. a? room, and came back and sat down with a face full of anxiety. " AVhat is it, Lucy dear ?" she asked. " Ilave you left your Aunt Anna's again ?" They were very much alike, this mother and daiigliter — alike outwardly and inwardly. Lucy Sutherland looked at her mother, and broke into a hard laugh. " Your welcome is not a very cordial one, mamma ! You ask me if I have lost my place — hasn't that a very pleasant housemaid-like sound? — l)eforc yon invite me to take off my bonnet. I suppose if I had lost my place you would find me another be- fore dark." Mrs. Sutherland took up her sewing and recom- menced. " Take off your bonnet, Lucy," she said. " We have not much ; but, whatever we have, you ari welcome to your sljare of it. iluve ycm quarreled wit i your Aunt Anna ?" " No, I have not <:\\\'Affdi^A Wi^ ray Aunt An'^. , ** replied Lucy, with sneering emp^^airijj ; ft>r Lucy i . f deigned to call her rich relative aurj^ ^ *' iy»*t my - mt Anna has sent me home on her service for f/m^*)t' / not to be had in St„ Mary's, and which it is not wo rb lile sending for to Boston. I think I will take oli' my bonnet, mother, since you otc so pressing 1" I i W Mf ■•J ! i ft } ; < ll ]. ^y Jvi 88 FATE' 8 VICTORY. Mrs. Sutlierland took no notice of her daughter's ill- tcnipcr. Slic was too much dependent on Lucy to afford the hixiiry of quarreling with her ; so she hiid aside her bonnet and mantle, and produced some crackers and a glass of wine. " I don't want anything," said Lucy, impatiently. " Drink the wine yourself, mamma, you look as if you needed it. AVliat arc you making there ?" " A ch'css for Fanny ! The child is in tattei's, and not fit to go to school. I had to get it on credit." "Pay for it with this," said Lucy, Mirowing her wallet into her mother's Lip. " Tlicre is fifty dollars. Mrs. Sutherland is charitable cnougli to give me all her old black silks that are too good to give to the cook, and I make tliem over and save my money." " IIow long are you going to stay with us, Lucy dear ?" " Yery delicately put, mamma ! But don't be afraid, I shall not trouble you long. I return to-morrow by the earliest train." " And what is the news fro2n Maplewood ?" inquired Mrs. Sutherland. " Has Arthur returned f " Yes, Arthur has returned." She spoke so sullenly, and with a face that dark- ened so ominously that her mother looked up from her work once more. FATE'S VICTORY, 89 ' f ^ " How long is it Bince he came ?" she asked, almost afraM to ask anything in her daughter's present frame of mind. " Not a month yet ; but long enough to make a fool of himself! lie and Phil Sutherland came together ; and Phil, perhaps, is the greatest fool of the two. lie is the noisiest, at least." " My dear Lucy ! how strangely you talk ! What do you mean ? In what manner are they making fools of themselves ?" Lucy Sutherland laughed a hard and bitter laugh ; but her eyes were flashing blue ilamc, and her li]3S were white with passion. '•' Oh, about a pretty little puppet they have thore, mother — a wax doll with a little waist, and dark skin, and big vacant black eyes — an insipid little nonentity, who can lisp puerile baby-talk about grandpapa and Cuba, and who is to be heiress of countless thousands. They are making fools of themselves about her, mamma. It is for this little foreign sim2:)leton that they are both going mad !" Mrs. Sutherland was a woman of penetration, but not of much tact. She saw at once that something more than mere feminine spleen was at the bottom of this bitter, reckless speech, and was unwise enough to utter her thoughts. " I know you always liked Arthur," she said. i ' V I,: t i R.-1 90 FATE'8 VICTORY. " And I hoped, when lie returned, and yon were thrown 60 much together, it might be a match. Lucy I Good IloavcTis !" She started \\\i suddenly in consternation ; for Lucy, at the words, had broken into a violent fit of hysterical Bobbing. It was so unexpected — so foreign to the nature of one so self -restrained and calm, tliis stormy gust of passionate weeping, that her mother could only Btand and look on in blank dismay. It did not last long, it was too violent to last. Lucy Sutherland looked up, and dashed the teai*s fiercely a^vay. '' '^herc!" she said. " It is all over, and you need not wear / t frightened face. It is not likely to happen again. I am a fool, I dare say ; but I think I Bhould go mad if I could not cry out sometimes like this. I am not madv of wood or stone, after all, though I gain credit for it ; and this is all that keeps me from going wdld." "My dear girl !" her mother anxiously said. "My dear Lucy, there is something more than common the cause of this. Tell mother !" "It is only this, then," cried Lucy, passionately, " that I hate Arthur Sutherland, and I hate Eulalie Bohan ; and I hate myself for being the wretched, pitiful fool I am !" Mrs, Sutherland listened to this wildly-desperate d tl 1 FATE'S VIC TORT. n ill epcecli in grave silence ; "nd, when it was over, sat down and resumed lier sewing, still in silence. Iler woman's penetration saw the truth — that her quiet daughter was furiously jealous of Ihis foreign beauty. " She always was more or less in love with Arthur," the mother mused. " And the ruling passion of her life was to be mistress of Maplewood. She has found out liow hopeless her dream has been, and this insane outcry is the natural result. It is not like Luny, and it will soon be over." Mrs. Sutherland was right. The first wild out- burst was over, and Lucy was becoming her old self again. " I suppose you think that I am going mad. mamma," she said, after a pause ; " and I think I should, if I could not cry out to some one. I wanted to be rich. I wanted to be Arthur Sutherland's wife, for your sake and the children's sake, as well as for my own. But that is all over now. He will marry this Creole heiress before long, if something does not occur to prevent it." " What should occur to prevent it ?" replied her mother. " Arthur Sutherhi d's own pride. There is some- thing very strange, to say the very least, and very suspicious, in the manner of tliis girl's grandfather, who seems to be her only living relative. There is w vu .. ( w ill ji. A ■\ i^ i ,.. i 13 . Vif'il 02 FATE'S VIC TORT, some mystery — some guilt, I :im 2)ositive — in his past history, wliicl I miiy Ije visited yet on liis ^nmddaugliter. He lives in constant dreud of something, and that something threatens her whom he iihjlizes as only tiieso old dotards overdo idolize. ]\Iy suspicions have been aroiised from tlie iirst ; and if I fail to find out what it means, it wjU be no fault of mine. I hate you, Eulalio Kolian" — she exclaimed, clenching her little hand, while her l)lue eyes Hashed — "I hate you, and Heaven lieln -"'ou if over you are in my p(jwer !" * -x- -X- -X- -x- -x- In the misty twilight of the evening following this, Lucy Sutherland returned to Maplewood. There was a dinner-party at tlie house, and the family and the guests were yet at table. Sarah, the liousemaid, told Miss Lucy this, while arranging a little repast of strong tea and toast in the young lady's room, and further in- formed her that Mr. Rohan was not yet well enough to appear in the dining-room, but that Miss Ilohan was down-stairs, and was looking beautiful. Even the very servants (she thought, bitterly) were bewitched by the black eyes and exquisite face of the Creole heiress ; while she was looked ujoon, perhaps, as almost one of themseb''es. Lucy drank her tea and ate her toast, and made her toilet, and descended to the drawing-room to report the success of her mission to the lady of the house. Eulalie \v la| m ell 1h FATE' 8 VICTORY. 93 was at tlie piano, looking beautiful indeed in amber Bilk, luid witli rlcli gems flashing tlirougli the misty lace on her neck and arms. There was a tinge of melancholy in the large dark eyes, that added the oidy charm her beauty lacked. And Lucy Suthorhmd hated her for that beauty, and that costly dress, and those rare gems, with tenfold intensity. She knew how her own commonplace prettinessof features and complexion paled into insignificance beside the tropical splendor of such dusky beauty as this ; and she envied her as only one jealous woman can envy another, with an envy all the more furious for every outward sign being sup pressed. Lucy reported her successful mission to Mrs. Sutherland, and then retired to a remote corner, as a discreet companion should. She saw the gentlemen enter the room presently, and flock about the piano, and press Miss Kolian to sing. Philip Sutherkmd was at their head ; but Arthur, seeing the instrument besieged, went and sat down by his mother. There were no lady-guests for him to devote himself to, and the gentlemen were all engrossed by the black-eyed pianiste. Lucy's remote corner was not so very far cU but that, by straining her ears, she could hear tlio con- versation between mother and son ; and Lucy did not scruple to listen. The talk at first was desultory enough. Mrs. Sutherland crocheted, and her son .'i !■, ■ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 IttlM |2.5 |50 *^~ ■■■ ■^ 1^ 12.2 III 1.8 ^1^ V] <^ /i V i? / -^^ Photographic Sdences Corporation 73 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4S03 %" ^ <^ o 94 FATE'S VIGT0R7. toyed with her colored silks and made rambling re- marks, but his gaze never wandered from the piano. " He is thinking about her," thought Lucy, " though he speaks of tlie heat and the dinner, and he will begin to talk of her presently." Lucy was right. Arthur was thinking of the Cuban beauty, as he seemed always to be doing of late. He had no idea of falling in love with her ; it was the very last thing he wanted to do. He had come home determined to dislike her — to have no yellow-skinned heiress forced upon him by his mother ; and yet here he was walking into the trap with his eyes wide open. He despised himself for his weakness, but that did not make him any stronger. He wished his mother would broach the match-making subject, that he might raise objections; but she never did. Ho wished now she would begin talking of her, but she crocheted away aa serenely as if match-making had never entered her head, and he had to start the subject himself. " How long before Mi . Rohan leaves here ?" he asked, carelessly. " Not for months yet, I trust," replied his mother ; "he promised to sj^end the summer with us. We should miss Eulalie sadly." " He will return to Cuba, I suppose, when he does leave here ?" " I presume so." sal bI FATE'S VICTORY. 05 " What a lonely life Miss Rohan must lead there !" said Arthur, thoughtfully. " Yes, it is lonely, poor child. Arthur," — looking np suddenly, and laying her hand on his arm — " why should Miss Rohan return to Cuba ?" " It is coming," thought Lucy Sutherland, setting her teeth. " Why should she return, mother ?" said Arthur, coloring, consciously, while he laughed. " Why should she not return ? It is her home." " I said why should Miss Rohqn return. I say so still. I have no objection to Eulaiie's going to Cuba — only let her go as Mi*s. Arthur Sutherland." " My dear mother !" Mrs. Sutherland smiled. " That astonished look is very well feigned, Arthur, but it does not deceive me. It is not the iiret time you have thought on this subject ; though why it should take you so long to debate, I confess, puzzles me. There never was such a prize so easily to be won before. If you do not bear it off, some one else will, and that speedily." "But, my dear match-making mamma," remon- strated her son, still laughing, " I do not like prizes too easily won. It is the grapes that hang above one's head, not those ready to drop into one's mouth, that we long for." 06 FATETS VICTORY, li I " Very well," said Mrs. Sutherland, gravely, " yon will please yourself. While you are struggling for the Bour grapes overhead, some wise man will stop in and bear off the prize within reach. It is your aifair, not mine." She closed her lips, and went industriously on with her work. Arthur looked over at Miss Rohan, the shimmer of whose amber silk dress and flashing orna- ments he could see between the dark garments of the men about her. "After all, mother," he said, "is not your castle built on very empty air? I may propose to Miss Rohan, and be refused for my pains. The heiress of a millionaire is not to be had for the asking." " Very true ! You must take your chance of that. But you know, Arthur, it is the grapes that hang highest you prefer. Perhaps you will find Miss llohan beyond your reach after all." Her son made no reply ; he had caught a glimpse of Lucy's black barege dress, and crossed over to where she sat at once. " Why, Lucy, I didn't know you had returned," he cried. " You come and go like a pale, noiseless shadow, apjDcaring and disappearing when wo least ex- pect you." A faint angry color flushed into the girl's pale face, but Arthur did not see it as he leaned over her chair. FATE'S VICTORY, 97 " When did you arrive ?" " About an hour ago." " And how did you find the good people of Port- land? Your mother and the little ones are well, I trust." " Quite well, thank you !" " You should have made them a longer visit, Lncy. It is rather unsatisfactory running home, and—" He stopped abruptly in the middle of his own sentence. He had been watcliing Eulalie and think- ing of Eulalie all the time he was talking. He had seen her leave the piano five minutes before, and cross to the open windows fronting the lawn, and his sister take her place. He saw lier now step through one of the windows, and disappear in the moonlight, and Philip Sutherland striding after her. Arthur's brow darkened, and his face flushed. In some strange, magnetic maimer the conviction flashed upon him that another was about to ask for the prize he would not seek. If Philip Sutherland should suc- ceed ! He turned sick and giddy at the thought, and in one instant the scales dropped from his eyes, and he saw the palpable truth. He loved Eulalie Rohan ; and what he felt for Isabel Vansell was only cahn, placid admiration. He loved this glorious little beauty ; and now he waa on the point of losing 6 ,>-'nr. ■^ wm n m m •tt 08 FATE'S VICTORY. her, perhaps forever! "How blessings brighten as they take their flight." In that moment he would liave given all the wealth of the Sutherlands and the Rohans combined to have forestalled his cousin Philip. " Lucy," he said, " will you come out for a walk ? The evening is too lovely to be lost here." Lucy Sutherland silently arose. She saw his ashen face, and read his thoughts like a printed book. She, too, by that mysterious rapport, guessed Philip's errand, and from her heart of hearts prayed he might succeed. The group gather^^d around the piano paid no at tention to them, as they went out through the open window, upon the lawn, where the moonlight lay in silvery sheets. Silently, and by the same impulse, they turned down the chestnut avenue- that led to the ter- race. Two minutes and it came in sight, and they saw Eulalie Rohan standing by the low iron railing, her silk dress and the brilliants she wore flashing in the moon's rays, and the tangled black ringlets fluttering in the breeze. She wore a large shawl, for she was a chilly litt.'.e creature ; and, even in that supreme moment, ^i^rthur could notice how gracefully she wore it, and how unspeakably lovely the dark face w^as in the pale moonlight. The lilacs waved their perfumed arms about her head, and she broke off fragrant purplo ^1 V FATSrS VICTORY. 00 bunches as she watched the phicid moonlit ocean. Ho saw all these minor details, while he looked at Philip Sutherland coming up to her, and breaking out vehemently and at once with the story he had to tell. Such an old, old story ; but heard for the first time, this June night, by those innocent cars. Arthur Sutherland set his teeth and clenched his fists, and felt a mad im- pulse to spring upon his cousin and hurl him over the iron-work into the sea. They both stood still — Lucy nearly as white as her companion, but as calm [is stone, and looked at tlie scene. They were too far off to hear what was said ; but in the bright moonlight they saw Eulalie turn away, and cover her face with her hands, and Philip fall down on his knees at her feet. There was white despair in every line of his face, and they knew what his answer had been. " She has refused him !" Arthur cried. " Thank God !" " Let us go back to the house," said Lucy, icily ; " Miss Rohan might take us for eavesdroj^pers if she saw us liex'e." She war deadly pale, and there was a strange, un- natural glitter in her blue eyes ; but Arthur never once looked at her or thought of her as they walked back to the house. " I will ask Eulalie Kohan to be m^ wife, before the li m ii^i m 100 FATETB VI0T0R7. BUTi goes down to-morrow," was his mental detennina- tion by tlio way. Miss Rohan returned to the house ten minutes after, lookini^ pale, and with a startled look in her great dark eyes tliat roniindcd Arthur of a frightened gazelle. She quitted tlie drawing-room almost imiTiediately after, to see if her grandfather had been made comfort- able for tlie night, and did not return ; and tlie long drawing-room became all at once to Arthur Sutherland as empty as a desert. It was late when the guests departed, althougli their host was the rcn-erse of entertaining, and he was free to go out and let the cold night-air blow away the fever in his veins. He felt no desire to sleep, and he wandered aimlessly through the far-spreading grounds of his ancestral liome, tormented by conflicting doubts, and hopes, and fears. About ten minutes' walk from the grassy terrace, half-buried in a jungle of tall fern and radc grass, and shaded by gloomy elm-trees, there was tie ruins of an old summer-house. A lonely and forsaken summer- house, where no one ever went now, but a chair of twisted branches and a rickety table showed that it once had its day. Lying on the damp, grass-grown floor of this old summer-house, his arms folded and his face resting on them, lay poor Philip Sutherland, doing battle with his despair. TOU) IN TUB TWILIGHT, lot CHAPTER VI. TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. m a WILL propose to Eiilalie to-morrow 1" was Arthur Sutherland's last thought, as soinetime in the small houra he laid his head upon his pillow, to toss about rest- lessly until daybreak. " I will ask her to be my wife to-day !'• was his first thought as he arose in the morning. " There is no use in stniggliiig against destiny ; and it is my destiny to love this beautiful, dark-eyed creature beyond anything in this lower world." The heir of Maplewood made a most careful toilet that morning, and never was so little pleased with his success. It was still early when he descended the stairs, and passed out of the hall-door to solace himself with a matutinal cigar, and think how he should say what he had to say. Conscience gave him some twinges still, and would not let him forgot that in some manner he stood pledged to Miss Yansell, and that it was hardly honorable to throw her over like this. Tho 'il *"l i-f ¥ 102 TOLD IN THE TWILIOUT. i!i Btill, small voice was so clamorous that lie turned suvaf^^c at last, and told Conscience to mind her own business and let him alone. After that Conscience had no more to say ; and he went off into long, delicious, day-dreams of the bright future, when this beautiful Creole girl should be his wife. The rini'ini^ of the breakfast bell awoke him from liis castle-building. lie flung away his cigar, and went into the house, expecting for certain to find Miss Ilohau in the breakfast-room. She had never been absent once since his return home. The sweet, dark face, shaded by that glorious fall of perfumed hair, and lit by those starry eyes, had always shone on him across the damask and china and silver of the breakfast service. But, do thin^^s ever turn out in this world as we plan them ? Eulalie was not there. His mother and sister and Lucy alone were in the room. As he entered, a housemaid came in at an opposite door, with Miss Rohan's compliments, and would they please not to wait breakfast ; she had a headache, and would not come down. Mrs. Sutherland dispatched a cup of strong tea and some toast to Miss Hohan's room by the housemaid, and the quartet sat down to the morning meal. A chill of disappointment had fallen upon Arthur. She had never been absent before. "VVas it an omen of evil ? lie had been s.o confident of meeting her, and he was TOLV m TUB 1 WILIOUT. 103 diHtippointed. Was this disappointment but tlio foro runner of a still greater ? The chill seemed contagious: all were silent and constrained; and the breakfast was unspeakably dismal. Mrs. Sutherland seemed absent and preoccupied ; Lucy sat frigidly mute ; and Augusta was, I regret to say, intens'^ly sulky. Poor Augusta ! She alone knew the secret motive prompting that postscript inviting Philip Sutherland down to Maplewood ; and she alone knew how cruelly that hidden hope had been disappointed. She had dressed prettily, and looked charming — or at least as charming as that snub nose of hers would per- mit ; and it had been all in vain. How could Philip Sutherland see her rosy cheeks, and dimples, and round blue eyes, while he was dazzled and blinded by the dark splendor of that Creole face ? She had not been a spectator of that moonlight scene on the grassy ter- race ; but she knew as well as Lucy or Arthur what had happened last night, and what had occasioned the absence of Eulalie and Philip this morning. There- fore, Miss Sutherland was in the sulks, and had red rims round her blue eyes, and that poor snub nose swollen, as people's will when they cry half the night. The meal was half over before Mrs. Sutherland, in her preoccupation, missed Philip, and inquired for him. J i' I'i-] i ! ' V f !.l ft 'V I'M 104 TOLD IN THE TWILIOUT. " Philip lias gone," said Lucy, quietly. " Gone 1 Gone where ?" demanded her aunt, staring. " Back to New York, I presiinno. He left very early this morning, hefore any of you were up." Mrs. Sutherland still stared. "Back to New York so suddenly I Arthur, did ho tell you he was going ?" " Not a word." "Where did you see him, Lucy?" inquired the astonished lady of the house. " Leaving his room about six o'clock. I generally come down-stairs about that time ; and, as I opened my door, I encountered him quitting his room, with his traveling-bag in his hand. I asked him where he was going, and he answered, * To perdition I Anywhere out of this place I' " Lucy repeated Philip Sutherland's forcible words as calmly as if it had been the most matter-of-fact answer in the world. She said nothing of the wildly- haggard face he had worn ; but a blank silence fell on all, and his name was not mentioned again until tho dreary meal was over. Arthur Sutherland passed the bright morning- hours in aimless wanderings in and out of the house, and under the green arcades of the leafy groves, wait- ing impatiently for Miss Eohan to appear. He waited hif El TVLD IN TUB! TWILIGHT. 103 for 801110 lionrs in vain ; and, wlien nt last slic did appear, it was only another diHaj)p()iiitment. lie had sauntered down tliroiigh tlie oUi orcliard, idly breakin*^ oil twi«jp, and trying to read the inornin<^ paper, when the sound of carriastuirs. "Mr. Masterson will have a dark night for hia homeward drive," Arthur was saying. " We will have the storm before morning." ! '^ 1 1 110 STRUCK BY LIOUTNINO, CHAPTER YII. STRUCK BY LIGHTNING. ULALIE EOHAN went to her room that hot Juno evening with a new and delicious sense of joy thrilling through every fibre of her heart. She had taken life all along as a bright summer-holiday, whose darkest cloud was a shadow of the past in her beloved grandfatlier's face ; but, to-night, the world was all Eden, and she the hap- piest Eve that ever danced in the sunshine. She had never known, until she stood listening to his avowal on the terrace, how much she had grown to love Arthur Sutherland. She never dreamed how near and dear he had become, or why she had rejected poor Philip ; but she passed from childhood to womanhood in one instant, and knew all now. The wax tapers, held up by fat Oui:)id8 in the frame of her mirror, were lit when she entered, and Made- moiselle Trinette, her maid, stood ready to make her young lady's night-toilet ; but Eulalie was not going to sleep just yet, and dismissed her with a emile. II STRUCK DY LIOUTNINa. 117 " It is too hot to go to bed, Trinotte," she Baid. " I filiall not retire for an hour or two, and you need not wait up. Good nic^ht." The femme-de-chamhre 'quitted the room, and Eulalie seated herself by the window. The niglit was moonless and starless, and would have l)een pitch-dark but for a lurid phosphorescent glare in the atmosphere. In the unnatural stilhiess of the night, she could hear the shivering of the trees, the slii)ping of a snake in the under-bmsh, or the uneasy fluttering of a bird in its nest. No breath of air came through the wid . ./pen casement, and the waves boomed dully on the shore below with an ominous roar. In her white dress and dark black ringlets, Eulalio eat by the window and thought how very happy she was, and how very happy she was going to be. She mused over the glorious pictu^*'^ of the future Arthur had painted while they stood in the red twilight of the terrace, the long continental tour through beautiful Italy, fair France, sunny Spain, and picturesque Switzerland ; of the winters spent in her Cuban home among the magnolia and the acacia groves, and tho summers passed hero at Maplewood. It was such a beautiful and happy life to look forw^ard to — almost too happy, she feared — too much of Heaven to be en- joyed on earth. An hour had passed — two hours — before Eulalio ■'■pii f;: ^ i !». li f-ii 118 STRUCK D7 LIOIITNINO. ill f 1 ■ i arose from tbo window and prepared to retire. As sho stood before the glass, conihing out lier niagniliccnt li;iir, lier eye fell on the little rosewood desk in which she had locked that mysterious letter given her by lier grandfather. She had forgotten all about it until now, and the memory sent a thrill of vague fear to her very heart. That mysterious secret that he told her would darken her whole life as it had darkened his — what could it be? She unlocked the desk — and took it out with fingers that trembled a little, and sat looking at it with a superstitious terror of opening it. " How foolish I am 1" she thought, at hast ; " it cannot be so very terrible after all. Poor grandpapa is morbid, and aggravates its importance. It is no record of crime, he says ; it is no hereditary disease, physical or mental ; and if it be the loss of wealth, even of ray whole fortune, I shall not regret tliat much. I often think I should like to be poor, and wear pretty print dresses and linen collars, and live in a little white cottage with green window-shutters, liko t.ose in St. Mary's, and take tea with Arthur every evening at six o'clock. I will say a prayer, as grand- papa told me, and read this letter, and go to bed." There was a lovely picture of the Mater Dolorosa hanging above her bed. Eulalic knelt down before it and murmured an Ave Maria, as she had been wont to do in her convent-days ; and then, drawing a low chair BTIWCK BY LIOIITNINO. tl9 close to tlio dressing-table, opened the letter. It was very long — half a dozen closely-written sheets — and signed, " Your heart-broken grandfather ;" and Enlalio, taking up the first sheet, began to read. Arthur Sutherland felt no more inclination for sleep this oppressive summer-night than Eulalie Rohan. The closeness of his chamber seemed to stifle him, and he stepped out of the open corridor to the piazza that ran round the second story. He could see the lights from the other chamber- windows glaring across tho dusky gloom, and he knew the others were as wakeful as himself. It was one of those abnormal nights — nut made for sleep — in which you lie awake and toss about frantically, as if your pillows were red-hot and your bed a rack. "I feel," he thought — as he leaned against a slender column overnin with clematis, and lit a cigar — • "I feel as though something were about to happen. I feel as though this intense happiness were too supreme to last — as though the tie that binds me and Eulalie were but a single hair. Good Heavens ! if I should lose her — if something should happen to take her from me !" He turned faint and giddy at the bare thought. Poor slighted Philip ! he could afford to pitv him now. Where was he this hot, dark night, and how was he i i ii 120 STRUCK BY LIQnTNING, bearing the blow he had received ? It was so impossi- ble not to love this beautiful black-eyed enchantress that Philip was not so much to blame after all. " I will rim up to New York when Mr. Rohan returns and I liave spoken to him, and hunt the poor lad up," mused Arthur. " I wish I had not brought him down. But how was I to know that my mother's heiress would turn out a little black-eyed angel !" He walked slowly up and down the piazza, smoking and thinking, for over two hours. One by one, the lighted windows darkened — Eulalie's alone shone bright still. He wondered what she could be doing to keep her up so long ; and while he watched her window, there shot athwart the sultry gloom a sheet of blue flame that almost blinded him. A moment's pause, and then a roll of thunder, as if the heavens were rending asunder. A great drop of rain fell on his face, then another and another, thick and fast ; and the storm threatening so long had burst in its might. Arthur stepped hastily through the window and closed it. A second sheet of lurid flame leaped out like a two-edged sword, and lit up, with an unearthly glare, the woods and meadows and gardens of Maple- wood. A second roll of thunder, nearer and more deafening than the first, and a deluge of rain. The sky had kept its promise, and the tempest of rain and lightning aud thunder was appalling in its fury. 8TRUCK BY LWHTNINQ. 121 the Arthur Sutherland put his hands over his dazzled eyes, feeling as though the incessant blaze of the lightning were striking him blind. Flash followed flash, almost without a second's intermission, blue, blinding, ghostly — the continual roll of the thunder was horrible, and the rain fell with a roar like a waterfall. " Good Heavens !" thought Arthur, " what awful lightning ! My poor little timid Eulalie will be fright- ened. I remember Augusta telling me once how ter- rified she was at thunder-storms." He opened his door, crossed the hall, and tapped at his sister's. It was opened immediately by Augusta, who looked like a picture of the tragic muse, with her hair all disheveled, and her white morning-dress hang- ing loose about her. " Have you not retired yet, Augusta ?" her brother asked. '' No, I staid up reading a novel until the lightning commenced ; and now it is of no use thinking of bed until this storm is over. Good Heaven ! what awful lifchtninf]^ !" A sheet of blue lambent flame that almost blinded them lit up, for nearly three minutes, the hall, followed by a thunder-clap that shook the house to its veiy foundation. Augusta clasped her hands over her daz- zled eyes, and her brother seized her wrist and drew her with him into the hall. 6 t. i ! I, -"^- 122 STRUCK BY LIQUTNINO. ii , " Augusta," lie said, hurriedly, " you told me Eulalie was afraid of lightning. I wish you would go in and stay with the poor child until this storm is past." Miss Sutherland, just at that particular time, had no very especial love for the black-eyed hearty who had w^on her cousin Philip from her ; but she tapped, nevertheless, at Miss Rohan's door. There was no reply ; Augusta rapped again, more loudly, but still no answer. She turned to her brother with a paling face. " Try the door," he said ; " open it yourself." Augusta turned the handle. The door was not locked, and she w^ent in. Went in, over the threshold, and recoiled an instant after, with a shrill and prolonged scream, that echoed from end to end of the house. Arthur Sutherland, lingering in the hall, was stand- ing in the doorway in a moment. In all the long years of his after-life he never forgot the picture on which he looked then. The tall candles flared around the mirror, but the perpetual flashing of the lightning lit the room with a blue ghasthness that quenched their pale light. There was a certain sulphurous smell in the chamber, too, that Arthur had perceived in the hall, but not half so strongly as here. Eulalie sat at the table, still in her dinner-dress, the shining skirt trailing the carpet, the jewelry she wore flashing wierdly in the unnatural light. She sat in an arm- chair, erect and rigid ; her hands clasping the last sheet '■ !■ STRUCK BY LIOnrNlNG. 133 of a letter, her largo black eyes staring wide open, with an awful, glazed, and sightless glare. Not one vestigo of color remained in the dead, white face; and with the staring, wide-open eyes, the marble stiffness of form and face, she looked like nothing on earth but a galvanized corpse. A terrible sight, sitting upright there, tricked out in satin and hice, and perhaps stone- dead. She had evidently but just finished reading her letter — the loose sheets lay at her feet, where they liad fluttered down. The horrible truth flaslied upon Ar- thur in a moment — she had been struck by lightning ! Witli the awful thought yet tlirilling to the core of his heart, he was bending over lier, holding both her hands clasped in his. These hands were ice-cold, and she sat, neither hearing nor seeing him, staring blankly at vacancy. " Eulalie !" he cried. " My darling ! speak to me I Enlalie ! Eulalie ! do you not know me ?" She might have been stone-deaf, for all the sign she made of hearing him — stone-blind, for all the sign she made of seeing him — stone-dead, for any proof of life or consciousness. There were others in the chamber now — looking on with pallid, awe-struck faces. Augusta's scream had aroused the house. Arthur Sutherland saw a mist of faces around him, without recognizing one of them ; i:p I m i m ' V' '1 In ill ! I) I hi , 11 :f 124 STRUCK BY LronTNING. he could sec notliiiii2^ but tliat one white, rigid face, with tlie stariiii^, wide-open ])l:ick eyes. " Arthur," ;i quiet voice said, iind a hand was laid lii^litly on Ids slioulder. He looked up, and saw his mother, in lier dressing-i^own, pale and composed. " Arthur, you had better ii;o for Doctor Denover at once. The storm is subsidinuc and there is no time to lose. I fear she has been stunned by the lightning." The words restored Arthur to himself. lie started to his feet, and was out of the room in a second. In another, he had donned hat and waterproof coat, and in live minutes was galloping, thi'ougli darkness and rain, and thunder and lightning, as he never had gallo]-)ed before. Mrs. Sutherland had sal-volatile, cologne, and other female restoratives for fainting brought, but in this case all proved useless. She chafed the cold hands and temples, but warmth was not to be restored. She strove by caresses and endearing words to restore some sign of life into that death-like face ; but all in vain ; all in vain. Augusta and Lucy stood silently near ; the servants were grouped in the hall, hushed and fright- ened ; and the ghastly blue glare of the lightning still lit up, at htful intervals, the room. Mrs. Sutherland desisted at length from her hope- less task, and rose up, very pale. " I can do no more,'^ she said. " It is the first case STRUCK BY LIOUTNINO. 135 of the kind that has ever come within my observation. I wisli Doctor Denovcr was here ! Lucy, what is that ?" Lucy had stooped to pick up the fallen sheets of tho letter; and slie looked up from sorting them at thig abru2:>t question. One sentence had caught her eye on the last sheet, and set lier curiosity ailanie. The sen- tence was this : " Beware of that man, my child ! I know not whether lie is living or dead, but the fear lias been the blight of my life, as it nuist be the banc of yours." Lucy Sutherland had time to see no more. Her aunt's hand was outstretched to receive the letter, her aunt's haughty voice was speaking. " That is Miss Ttohan's letter, Miss Sutherland. Give it to me !" Lucy silently obeyed. Mrs. Sutherland crossed to Eulalie's bm'eau, placed the letter in one of the drawers, without looking at it, locked the drawer, and put tho key in her pocket. There was a significance in the act that made Lucy's light-blue eyes flash, and she turned and walked out of the apartment, up-stairs, to her room. In her own room, she sat down by the open win- dow, and looked out at the black, blind night. Ghastly gleams of lightning quivered zig-zag in the air yet, tho rain still fell with an angry rush, and tho thunder boomed sullenly ; but the midnight storm was suljsid- iug. Lucy Sutherland, sitting there, felt a fiendish joy I I i2>i ti % !| isr !| ;' 11 jiii ,1 ! i I 126 STRUCK BY LIQUTNING. at iier heart — a demoniacal sense of triumph and de- , liglit. In all the pride of her beauty and her youth, the licry arrow from the clouds had struck her rival down. " She may die ! She may die !" was her in- ward thought ; " and he may be mine yet !" Slie sat there the livelong night, looking out at the black trees, listening to the liurrying of feet down stairs, the opening and shutting of doors ; careless what they thought of her absence, and thinking her own dark thoughts. Had Eulalie Rohan really been struck by lightning, or was it something in that letter that had struck her down, like a death-blow 1 " Beware of that man ! I know not whether he is living or dead ; but the fear has been the blight of my life, as it must bo the bane of yours." The strange words danced before lier eyes, as if the letter were yet in licr hands. She knew it was from Eulalie's grandfather. She had seen the signature on that same last sheet, "Your heart- broken grandfather, Gustavus Rohan." It sounded very melodramatic, but there miofht bo a terrible meaning in the words after all. " If I could only get that letter," she mused ; " if I could only get it for ten minutes. There is some secret in that old man's life, and that secret is to overshadow the life of his granddaughter. AYliat can it be? Who is this man of whom he warns her — who has her in his power— the fear of whom is to be the bane of her life, '/I STRUCK BY LIQUTNINa. 127 as it has been the blight of his? If I could only fathom this mystery, I miglit stop the marriage yet. Where there is secrecy there is apt to be guilt, and Arthur Sutherland would never ally himself with guilt. Oh ! if I could only get that letter !" She heard the return o.. Arthur and the physician, and stole on tiptoe to t)';^ head of the stairs to listen. Eulalic's room-door st'^'jd open this sultry night, and she could hear as plainly as if she were in the apart- ment. It was quite plain the doctor was as much puz- zled as the rest, and failed as entiiely to restore the stunned girl to consciousness. If sho had really been struck by lightning, the fiery shaft had left no trace ; it hac' benumbed her, as the whistliiig of a cannon-ball clos' to her head might have benumbed her. She sat th<' e before them, an awful sighf, in the. dismal gray of tlie coming morning, decked in satin and lace and jf irels, the white face stony and c«)rpse-like, the black, f iring e^^es awfully like the eyes of the dead. "It is a most remarkable case," Doctor Denover iid ; " a case such as has never come under my obser* ^ation before. I have known cases where intense feai )r sudden shocks have produced some such result. I cannot be certain that it was the lightning. Do you know if the young lady had received a shock of any kind ? There are finely -strung, sensitive organizations that sudden shocks of any kind stun into a state like this." M^ 128 STIiUGK BY LlOnTNING, \ '■ li if ' '■ i. " No," said Mrs. Sutherland, " I am not aware of uny. Miss Ttolian spent the evening with us, and retired to her room about two hours before we discov- ered lier, in excellent spirits. I am positive she re- ceived no shock." " Was she very much afraid of thunder-storms ?" inquired Doctor Denover ; " intense fear might have this effect." " Yes," answered Augusta, " Eulalie was always terribly f?'ightened by lightning, more frightened than any one I ever knew." " It may have been fear, then," said the doctor ; " as I said, I have known such things to occur, and the sufferers have been stunned into a state resembling death. Sometimes they have recovered, sometimes they have not. Sometimes physical animation returns, but the mind remains dead forever. In this case I camiot at present pronounce an" opinion. The poor young lady had better be undressed and placed in bed, my dear Mrs. Sutherland, and we will try what a little blood-letting will do for her." "I wonder how he is bearing all this?" thought Lucy, at the head of the stairs, with a sava_,e feeling of revengeful delight at her heart ; " I wonder whose is the trium2)li now ?" She passed the remainder of the long night, or rather dawn, between her own chamber and the head 8T11UCK BY LiailTNINO. 120 of the stairs, listening to what was going on below. She knew, with a horrible inward joy, that he had failed in every attempt to rouse her, and that he was going away in desjDair. " I can do nothing more at present," she heard him say, as he was leaving ; " it is an extraordinary case, and has had no jiarallcl in my practice. I will retin-n this afternoon, as you directed, Mrs. Sutherland, with Doctors Heachton and May, and we will have a consul- tation. Meantime, keep her (piiet, and force her to take the nourishment I mentioned. I think, ^Ir. Sutherland, you would do well to telegraph for her grandfather at once." " You think, then, doctor," Lucy heard Arthur say, in a voice that did not sound like the voice of Arthur, " that there is no hope ?" " By no means, ray dear sir, by no means ; whilo there is life there is hope." " AYliich is equivalent to saying that her doom is sealed," thought the listener at the head of the stairs. The doctor took his departure, in the dismal gray- ness of the rainy morning. A dull and hopeless day rose slowly out of the black and stormy night; a gloomy day at the best, depressing and ^vrctchod, even to the happy ; doubly depressing and ^^Tetchcd in the silent house. Drifts of sullen clouds darkened the leaden sky ; the rain fell with miserable persistence ; 0* IP 1:J0 STJtUGK BY LIOIITNINO. "II" tliu wIthI liowlcd in lon<^, lamentable blasts tlircuf^li the wet trees ; and the dull, ceaseless roar of the surf on the shore boomed over all. Inside the house, tlio silence of dcatli reigned now ; the noises of the ni^ht were rej)luced bj ominous calm. If tliat ])retty room bel(j\v Iiad (!ontained a corpse, the old mansion could not have l>oen huslied in nh)re profound stillness. A deep-vuiced clock, somewhere in the silent house, struck nine, and the strokes sounded like the tolling of a dcath-belK L^^^'V, hi a carefully arranged toilet, with neatly-braided hair, and spotless cuffs and collar, descended calmly to breakfast. The door of Miss Rohan's room stood ajar, and she caught a glimpse of her aunt, sitting by the bedside. She saw Arthur in his own room, too, as she passed the half-open door, pacing restlessly up and do\vn, looking worn and hag- gard in the dismal daylight. Augusta followed her into the breakfast-parlor, and they took their solitary meal together. When it was over — and a most silent and comfortless repast it was — • Augusta went up to Eulalie's room ; and Lucy, with her everlasting work-basket and embroidery, took hei seat near the window and calmly waited for events to take their course. It rained all day, ceaselessly, wretchedly. The melancholy wind tore through the trees, and beat the rain against the glass, and deepened the white rage of 8TRUCK BY LIGUTNINQ. 131 the surf on the shore. But througli it all, the telegram recalling Mr. Rohan to Maplewood went sliivcring along the wires to New York; and through it all the three doctors of St. Mary's drove np to the house in the afternoon. There was an examination of the patient. They found the death-like trance as death-like as ever ; and had a prolonged consultation afterward in the library. Lucy did not hear the result, but it was evident enough the case batiled the three. They staid for dinner, and talked learnedly of the eccen- tricities of the electric fluid ; of people struck blind, or dumb, or deaf, or dead, by lightning. But all the precedents they cited seemed to throw no light on the present case, and they went away in the gloomy twi- light, leaving matters much as they were. Three days passed and still no change. She lay in her little white bed, as a corpse might lie on its bier, cold and white as snow. The soul looking out of that white face might have fled forever, for all signs of life in the vacant black eyes. She lay without speak- ing or moving, or seeming to recognize any of them. At intervals they parted the locked teeth with a knife, and forced her to swallow tea-spoonfuls of port wine and essence of beef. They gave her powerful opiat(.'8, and drew the curtains, and darkened the room ; and perhaps in these intervals she slept ; but whenever they drew near the bed, they found the great dark eyes wido i.-i I n fr II' ii 'rl n II i 133 STltUCK D7 LIOUTNINQ. open and looking blankly at the wliito wall. They never left her, ni<;lit or day ; and Lucy, quietly obser- vant of all, wondered if Arthur ever me;mt to cat or sleep again. Those three days had made him pale, haggard, and hollow-eyed, and revealed his secret to every one in the house. On the fourth day there was a change. Some sign of recognizing Arthur had been given when he stooped over her, and she had articulated a word — "grand- father." But she had fallen off again, and they had failed to arouse her, as she lay vacantly looking at the blank wall. " It is very strange, Arthur," Mrs. Sutherland said, as she stood with her son for a moment on the piazza, before descending to dinner — " it is very strange Mr. Rohan does not return." " He may have left New York," said Arthur, " be- fore the telegram reached there. He will be witli us, no doubt, in a day or two." Even as he spoke, carriage- wheels rolled rapidly up along the drive ; and, an instant after, a conveyance from the railway emerged from the shadow of the trees, and they saw the Cuban millionaire sitting behind the driver. Mrs. Sutherland and Arthur hastened down at once, and met the old man on the portico steps. His face STRUCK BY LIOUTNINO. 133" was oslicii white, but there was a strange fire in his eyes, a strange and startling energy In liis voice. "Will she live?" he cried, grasping Mrs. Suther- land's hand, and looking at her with that startling tiro in his eyes. "" Will she live ?" "My dear Mr. Kolian," Mrs. Sutherland was hegin- ning, sadly ; but he cut her short, with a Hashing glanco and a stauij) of passionate impatience. " Will she live?" he cried out vehemently; " (juick I r es or no ?" " The doctors say no I" " Thank God !" Mother and son recoiled at that fearful thanksgiving, as if they had been struck. But he never looked at them as he strode straight on to his granddaughter's room. tn m i 'ill i. ^1 Ij II 'Hi li*1 § "I; ■ I :i I r i 134 TAKEN AWAY. CHAPTER YIII. TAKEN AWAY. ULALIE did not die. The doctors had said she could not recover, but, in spite of tlie doctors, she did. From that fourtli day, on wliicli she had spoken, vitality returned ; and in the brief struggle between life and death, life had gained the victory. But the recovery was wearily slow, and very trying to those who loved her. Sho knew her grandfather when he bent over lier, his tears streaming on her white face, but she knew him as if he litid not been absent at all. She seemed to have for- gotten that. Yery slowly the fair, frail body begar to recover, but the mind remained hopelessly benumbed. She knew them all when they spoke to her, but their presence seemed to convey no idea to her clouded brain. Slie had nothing to say to them; she had nothing to soy to any one, except to her grandfather, and her poor, plaintive, childish cry to him ever was, "Take me lionic, graTidpapa — take me home !" In her sleep she wandered deliriously, and talked ;!, !"t TAKEN AWAY. 135 of lier Cuban home, her convent-school, her lessons, her tasks, her girl friends, but she never by any chance came back to the present. Maplewood and its memo- ries seemed to have entirely faded out, and she was only tlie child Eulalie once more, crying out to be taken liome. During the three long weeks in which the poor little feet strayed wearily in the " valley of the shadow of death," Mr. llohan scarcely left her side, night or day. There was no mistaking the passionate love, the devoted tenderness, the sleepless anxiety, with which he watched over her. There was no mistaking that all-absorbing love for his grandchild — sinfal, beyond doubt, in its excess, despite that strange and unnatural " Thank God !" he had uttered so fervently when he heara she must die. It was wonderful inconsistency, surely, but so it was. He scare" ^.y left her long enough to take sufficient food or sleep to support nature ; his tears furrowed his aged cheeks as he watched that snowy face, so cold and deathlike, contrasting with the great, hollow black eyes and disheveled raven hair. Mrs. Sutherland had followed liim to his grand- daughter's chamber, on the evening of his arrival, and had been startled considerably by the vehemence with which he asked his first question. She had been nar- rating to hi.n, by the way, the circumstances attending Eulalie's misfortune. I- 'A ■ m ! >*' 130 TAKEN AWAY. "Madam !" lie'saifl, cutting her abniptly short ; " I sent my granddanglitcr a letter which she should have received on that day. "Where is that letter ?" Mrs. Sutherland produced the key of the bureau drawer. " AVe found the letter lying on the floor at her feet, as if she had just finished reading it, and I locked it in that drawer." Mr. Rohan crossed the room, opened the drawer, took out the letter, and j^laccd it carefully in his pocket- book, before he sat down by his grandchild's bedside. lie listened to what Mrs. Sutherland had to say, with his eyes fixed on that colorless face, and both wasted little hands clasped in his. lie listened without answering — without taking his eyes once off that dear face, his own drawn and quivering with suppressed ancfuish. " He is the strangest old man," Mrs. Sutherland said to her son, afterward ; " I sometimes think his mind is going. How extraordinary that he should utter that horrible thanksgiving when I told him Eula- lie must die ! and yet he loves her to idolatry." " Poor old man," Arthur said, sadly ; " how I pity , him." " That letter, too," his mother w^ent on, musingly ; " Why should he be f o anxious about it the first moment he aiTives ? It is absurd to suppose that ho TAKEN AWAY. 137 can have any secret to conceal ; and yet, dear me! it seems very much like it." Artluir did not reply ; lie scarcely heard her. He only feared that the life and the reason of the woman he loved were in danger, and that dreadful knowledge blotted out everything else. The silent agony of those long days and nights that had intervened since the fiery bolt had struck her down in the zenith of her beauty and youth, had left traces in his pale, worn face that no one could mistake. Perhaps even that devoted grandfather, watching over his one ewe-lamb, suffered less than the young lover, who had yielded his whole heart to the spell of the dark-eyed enchantress, hover- ing now between life and death. lie had spoken to that grandfather, or rather, his heart had broken out in spite of him, in his despair, and he had told the story of his love and his acceptance, and liis anguish, with a passionate abandonment of sorrow that could not fail to touch any heart that loved her. It was a silent, sultry summer evening, a week after the old man's return. The two went walking up and down the chestnut-grove, with the black shadows of the trees making flickering arabesques on the sward at his feet, and the yellow summer-moon flaming up in the low sky. lie could not tell how the silent and self- contained old millionaire might take his revelations — just at that moment he did not care ; but he was cer- ■ ti T'ill ' I'll M I I lit 11 i 138 TAKEN AWAY, tiiiiily unprepared for having his hand grasped, as a father might have grasped it. "My poor boy!" — the old man said, in a broken voice ; — " my poor boy, I have foreseen this ! I would have saved you — I would have saved her; but I could not ! I could not I There is a fate, I suppose, in these things ! May Heaven help you to bear your trial !" " Then you would not have withheld your consent ?" Arthur said. "I feared you would think me pre- sumptuous in asking for her hand. I feared you might have higlier views !" "No, no, no!" cried the old man, vehemently. " God knows how gladly I would give my darling to you, Arthur Sutherland, for I believe you to be a good and honorable man ; but there is an obstacle — an ob- obstacle that can never be surmounted — between you." " An obstacle I" Arthur repeated, in astonishment. " What is it ?" " I cannot tell you," said Mr. Rohan, turning his face away. " It is my secret and hers, poor child ! and I fear it is the knowledge of that secret, and no liglit- ning-ilash, that has struck her down. I cannot tell you wliat it is, Mr. Sutherland. I can only say I fear it will keep you apart forever. If my poor darling lives, it will keep her Eulalie Ilolian all her life." "This is very strange," said Arthur, slowly; "I li TAKEN AWAY. 139 have no claim to a knowledge of your secret^ Mr. Eolian ; but so far as it involves her who has promised to be my wife, I surely have some right to know why it is to keep ns apart, and to judge for myself whether it is sufficient. It nnist be a very powerful reason, in- deed " — with a tremor of the voice — " that will hold me for life from the woman I love." " This is a powerful reason," said Mr. Rohan ; " but not even so far as you ask have I a right to reveal this secret of my lift. I have not the right ; for it menaces Eulalie, not me." " Menaces Eulalie ! It is some danger, then ?" " It is some danger," " Perhaps it is the loss of wealth you fear," cried Arthur, brightening ; " if so — " "No, no, no!" interposed the old man, hastily; " would to Heaven the loss of every farthing I possess could free my poor child from her danger! Most gladly, most thankfully would I become a beggar to- morrow 1" Arthur Sutherland's brow contracted. Was there really some dark and hideous secret involving his plighted wife, or was all this strange talk but the lu- xaey of a monomaniac. There was a long and painful pause, hioken at last by the younger man. " You do not treat me well, Mr. Rohan," he said, the light of the yellow moon showing how pale his face I , ■^^: ■ It : m m 140 TAKEN AW AT. was. " You do not treat nic generously. Have you no trust in me ? Can you not rely upon my love for your granddaughter, to keep your secret and hers, and judge for myself whether it is sufficient to sever us for- ever. Is the whole happiness of my life to be lost, for a darkly mysterious hint that I cannot comprehend ? Oh, Mr. Kolian ! remember that I love her, that she loves me ; and pity us both !" They were standing on the terrace as he spoke, on the very spot where he had stood with Eulalie that fatal evening. The old man laid his hand kindly on his arm. " My dear boy," he said, " I have no wish to distress you. I am the last in the world who would make a mystery or raise an obstacle were it in my power to avoid it. Tt would be the proudest and happiest day of my life, the day on which I could see my child your wife, if this reason did not exist to render that happi- ness impossible." " AVhy impossible ?" cried Arthur, vehemently ; " why, if we love and trust each other? She has com- mitted no crime, Mr. E,ohan, that needs conceal- ment." " She ? My innocent darling ! who knows no more of the wickedness and misery of this big world than an infant! 01^ no !" " Then," cried Artlr.ir, still more vehemently, " she I iji!?^ 'i' TAKEN AWAY. 141 sliall not suffer for the crimes of others! Whatever your secret is, Mr. Rohan, keep it ! I don't ask to know it. She is innocent of all evil ; and, in spite of ten thousand secrets I claim her as my i">vomised wife !" Mr. Rohan caught none of his enthusiasm. His face only clouded the more. "Poor boy !" he said, " it is hard to dash such high hoj^cs. I shall not dash them — you shall take your answer from Eulalie, if she ever recovers sufficiently to give you an answer. When she promised to be 3^our wife, subject to my consent, Mr. Sutherland, she was as ignorant as you are now of this hidden spring in her life. She learned it that night ; and it was that knowl- edge, and not the lightning, that struck lier down. If she ever recovers, she shall decide your fate herself, unbiased by me, and you shall hear it from her own lips. If she thinks, in sjiite of everything, she can still be your wife, your wife she shall be, with my heart- felt blessing and prayeivs for you both." Arthur grasj^ed the old man's hand, and poured out such a flood of grateful acknowledgments as he never had listened to before. lie looked at the flushed, hand- some face, with a sad smile. "Ah ! it is very little, after all, that I am promis- iii": vou ; but Eulalie shall decide for herself. The poor child wants to go home. Let us take her home, Mr. Sutherland. Among the old scenes and the old, 1 1; i ■l^ 142 TAKEN AWAY. faitlifnl faces, slic may recover. Do not come to ns. Do Tiot write to licr. Give us time — say half a year ; and tlion, wliun only the memory of this sorrowful time reinains, come to our Cuban liome, and say to Eu- lalie what you have said to me. She shall do as she pleases — go with you as your bride, or remain with me, without my speaking one word to influence her. Will you do this, Mr. Sutherland ?" Poor Arthur ! Six months seemed a drearily long time. But what could he say, save yes? " Will you write to me ?" he said. " Will you not let me know how she is ?" " Most certainly ! And she shall write to you her- self, if she wishes it. As soon as she is strong enough to bear the journey, we shall start. The home air will restore her faster than anything else." So it was arranged. The matter ended with these words, and no more was said on the subject. The invalid still reiterated her mournful cry : " Take me home, grandpapa I Take me home !" And the old man's answer ever was : " Yes, dear, ^ve'll go home very soon now." But, in spite of the anxiety of both, it was nearly a month before the frail invalid could start on that home- ward journey. Before the expiration of a fortnight, she was able to rise and lie all day on the sofa, dozing the still, sultry hours away, or looking ^acantly, with TAKEN AWAY. 143 large, haggard eyes, at the purple, sunlit sky. In an- other week she could go down stairs, clinging to her grandfather's arm — a poor, pale shadow — and, wrapped in a large shawl, walk out feebly in the lovely green arcades of Maplewood. Yery slowly strength of body was returning to that delicate little frame ; but strength of mind came slower still. Nothing could arouse her from that slow torpor — that dull apathy to evci'ything aud everybody. Whether it was Mrs. Sutherland, or Augusta, or Lucy, or Arthur, it seemed much the same to her. She was restless, and silent, and uneasy with them all. Only with her grandfather was she at rest and content. At last came the day of departure. A very sad day in the Sutherland mansion, with none of the gay bustle, and pleasant confusion, and hurry, that usually attends departures. The trunks were packed and strapped in silence and gloom ; the last meal was eaten together in a dismal and comfortless way ; and Arthur lifted Eula- lie into the carriage with a face nearly as pale as her own, and a heart that lay like lead in his bosom. His mother and sister drove with them in the roomy car- riage to the depot, and he rode beside them at a fu- neral pace. Little more than a month ago, he had ridden beside them, as he was doing now, to see Mr. Rohan off on his journey ; and how his whole life seemed to have If j; 144 TAKEN AWAY. cliaiif]fC(l since then I How briglit the world liad looked tliiit dii)^, t{ikin<^ its color from liis own goodness of heart ! What Ji desolate, blank waste it seemed now — all things darkened by his own gloom ! He could see the frail little creature, who lay back among the silken cushions, languid, and wasted, and wan ; and he re- remembered how bright, and beautiful, and radiant she had been that day ! Only one month ago ! It seemed to him that he ha \ lived centuries since then. The last good-bye was said, the train went shrieking on its western way, and the Sutherlands returned home. How still, \.ow ghostly silent that home seemed? If a corpse had been carried out of the house and buried, the oppressive quietude and loneliness could not have been greater. They all felt it. There was so much to remind them of her — her empty and desolate-looking room, the music she loved scattered loose on the piano, the books she used to read, her vacant seat at the table, her empty sofa under the amber curtains of the bay-window — all telling of some one lost, and lost, perhaps, forever. Mrs. Sutherland, standing by the drawing-room- window, in the gray twilight of that same evening, was revolving a plan in her mind for changing all this. It was a dull, sunless, airless, oppressive evening, with a low-lying gray sky, from which all rosy and golden clouds had gone ; and the tall trees looked black against TAKEN AWAY. 145 tlie leaden baclsi^roiiiKl. Tlicrc was a rustic bench, under a clump uf bushes, visible from the window, and she could see her son lying, v\'ith his face on his arm, upon it, in a forlorn and hopeless sort of way. Augusta was gaping dismally in the ghostly twilight over a book ; and Lucy, at the i)iano, was playing some mournful air in a wailing minor key, that was desola- tion itself. "This won't do!" thought Mrs. Sutherland, de- cisively. " We must have a change. That 2)oor girl's memory is like a nightmare in this house, making us all melancholy and wretched. There is that boy gone to a shadow, and as pale, and haggard, and miserable as if he had lost every friend he had in the world. Augusta, too, whoso spirits used to be boisterous enough for anything, is moping herself to death ; and I believe I am catchina; the infection, for I am nervous and low-spirited, and out of sorts. I shall leave Maplewood before the week ends, and take them both with me." Mrs. Sutherland was as good as her word, and went to work with energy. The bustle and hurry of prepa- ration turned the quiet house topsy-turvy, and forced the most torpid of them into action. " I am going to Saratoga, Arthur," Mrs. Sutherland said, with calm delermination. "Augusta wants change ; and you are to accompany and remain with 7 ' m ''\ i! ji; H 'i; i'! 152 " COifiS TfiLir ir/z/v, was unspeiikal)ly lovely still, though its brightness had lied; the profuse raven curls as beautiful and silky as ever, and falling dank and divided over her shoulders, like an ebon vail. The book she held in her hand was half closed. She was not reading, but thinking very sadly — thinking of a pleasant Northern household around which the snowdrifts were Hying this efanuary evening, and the desolate wind howling up from the angry sea. She could sec the long drawing-room Avhere the coal fire blazed in tlie polished grates, the lighted lamps, and the drawn curtains. She saw a stately elderly lady, witii a face pale and })roud, lying back in an arm-chair luxuriously, " in after-dinner mood," with half-closed eyes. She saw a plum]-), fair-haired, rose- cheeked damsel sitting at the piano, dressed in violent pink, playing noisy polkas or stormy mazurkas. She saw another young lady, robed in nmi-like black, with a euppressed look in her pale face, and a clear, cold, fathondess light in her blue eyes. She saw these three wmen as she had often seen them ; and she saw, with rn ■•■ling sense of loss and desolation at her heart, a foucth form — a man's form — sitting reading by the light of h shaded lamp, as she had been wont to see him sit and read in the happy days gone by. Did they miss her at all ? Did he miss her ? In that New England mansion, on the stormy sea-coast, was even the memory in / HAVE IJEEN blessed:' 153 01 the Creole gii-l, who luid once been one of them, forgotten ? While she was thinkinfj all this, the fadiiiij sun- light was darkoncd, and a stranger stood before the window. lie liad to pass it to reach tlie door ; but the low cry the girl gave at sight of him reached his ear and stopped him. Slie liad started up in a violent tremor aiiroached the subject. ■^1; m jLltl •l»-i H \ w H '< i ' i K nifl 1 f:: l.-)3 " GOME WHAT WILL, i i I i I h . " You know, Mr. Rohan," lie said, with an agitation in his voice no effort could quite overcome ; " you know the object that has brought me here. 1 have not said one word to Eulalie yet. Have I your permission to 62")eak to her ?" Mr. Rohan looked kindly at the agitated face of the speaker. " Most certainly," he said. " Most certainly, my dear boy, I told you, when you spoke to me last, that my granddaughter should never be influenced one way or other by me in this matter. I told you this, and I have kjpt my word." Arthur grasped the old man's hand in his fervent gratitude. " Then I have your permission to speak to her at once, to end this suspense ?" " Yes," said Mr. Rohan ; " whatever Eulalie says, I agree to beforehand. You have acted nobly and self- denyingly, my dear boy, and you are worthy of her. Tell her what I have said ; that she is free to act as she pleases. Heaven knows, the oiny desire for which I live is to promote her happiness !" Arthur waited for no more. He knew where Eu- lalie was to be found, and he sought her out with a radiant face. She was reclining, as usual, on a lounge in the breakfast room, in a loose, white wrapper, read' ing from a volume of poems he hijnstilf had given her, 1 HAVE liEKN BLKSSED:'' 169 She dropped it suddenly, for Artliur was beside her, pouring out, with new-found elocpience, the words he liad come to say. " I have waited so long, Eulalie,'' he cried ; " I have remained away from ybur dear jiresence for six long months, at your grandfather's desire, and surely now I have some claim to speak. When will you keep your promise, Eulalie — when will you be my wife r She droppnd her book, and sat up, and looked at him with a frightened face. "Oh, Arthur!" she exclaimed, "you must never ask me that question again ! I can never be your wife !" Arthur Sutherland stood staring at her, utterly con- founded. " Oh, forgive me !" she said; " forgive* me, Arthur! It is breaking my heart, but I cannot help it ! When T made that promise, I did not know what T know now. I can never be your wife, Arthur — never, never !" " Never !" re]>cated Arthur, white co the very lips. " Have I thus been the dupe of a co(pictte from first to lust ? Was I only mocked when you told me at Maple- wood that you loved me ?" " No, no, no !" Ealalie cried out, vehemently. " I spoke the truth. It is because I love you that I cannot be your wife !" Hi n 1 t ■! i l! M n HH s 100 ''COME WUAT WILL Tliat (larlsly-iriystorions secret again I Tic knew bIic referred to tluit. Was it to bo a 6tiinil)ling-l)l(jck in liis way to the very end. "I cannot understand this, Enlalie. Wliat is to prevent your keeping your promise — what is to pre- vent your being my wife?" Slie turned away from liim, and liid her face in her 1 lands. '* J3ecausc — l)ecausc tliere is a secret I can never tell you — a secret of shame, and liorror, and humiliation. I cannot tell you what it is ; and you yourself must see that it is impossible for me ever to become your wife." "What if I do not see it?" "Arthur!" She dropped her hands, and sat looking at him, in wonder. " I do not know wdiat your secret is. I do not ask to know it," he said, resolutely. " I only know that I love you, and that you have never committed any crime to be afraid or ashamed of. The crime and shame of others, however near to you they may be, shall not wreck the happiness of our whole future lives. I hold you to your promise, Eulalie. I ask you again, when will you be my wife ?" Her breath came quick and short ; too amazed, too happy to speak. 11 / liAVfl: BEEy niJCSSED.'" 161 " Artlnir ! Arthur ! yon arc ppcakiiii^ hastily and iin])iil.siv('l)' now. You may repent your rashnesij hero- after." " I sliall never repent. I am not speaking liastily or i!n])ulsively. 1 am saying wliat I said six months ago. I am saying wliat I sliould say six ycare from now, if you kept nic v/aiting so h^ng. Kulalie, I ask you once more, when will you he my wife ?" " And you ean trust me still, in s])ite of this secret I can never tell f ' "I could trust you, my dearest, in spite of ten thousand secrets. I should never ask any woman to marry me whose truth and honor I could insult by a douht." *' And in the future," Eulalie said, pale and breath- less, " if any evil slioidd come, you will not forget that I have warned you, and that you take me in spite of everything." " I shall never forget, ^^o evil the future can havo in store for me can be half so terrible as losing you. I shall be able to meet the worst evil undauntedly, so that I have you by my side." Her dark eyes filled with tears as she laid both her hands in his. " You are very, very good," she said. " It shall bo the study of ni) ^'.''e to be worthy of such confidence as this. Does grandpapa know of this ?" t 'f ^ 1 Iff'f j ' ll i; it '" \ 1 i t 1 i i : '. 1 • i i i |B. 1 :J '' '*■ li 1- ' i 1G2 " COME WHAT WILL."" " I spoke to him before I came to you. Whatever you say, lie his promised to indorse. Dear Kttle hand," he said, hfting it to his lips with a radiant face ; " mine for life now I" TUE LULL BEFORE THE STORM, 103 CHAPTER X. THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. All away from the orange and citron groves of sunny Cuba, wltli its mellow sunshine and fragrant l^reezes, the snowdrifts were flying and the ^vind howling dismally this January month. At Maplewood, the tall trees rattled their skeleton arms, and the snow was piled high in the long meadows and spreading gardens. Fence and lawn were desertcu, the double windows made fast, heavy curtains shut ont the bleak daylight, and sparkling fires blazed in the polished grates. But life was very pleasant in-doors at Maplewood, this stormy iSTow-Year season ; for ]\[rs. Sutherland liad friends from the city spending the holidays under her hospitable roof ; and laughter and merry voices rang from early morning until late at night through the lately silent rooms. Half a dozen gay girls, with portly mammas and tall, mustached brothers, filled the empty chambers ; and it was noth- ing but party-going and party-giving, and general jolli- fication these merry New-Year times. p hv ■ t' 1 ' ' '■ 1 § 1 r i if' 1 I'll m i ir.4 27/A' ZCT:/. before the ST OEM. Tlicrc was one yonng lady at Maplewood v'lio took very little sliure in ^liese gay doings. If an extra partner ■was wanting to fill « qnadrille or cotillon, or a second needed in a dnet, or a snpcrnnnierary in a charade or tableau, her services were called into requisition ; and she always did what she was asked to do with the I'cadi- ness of an automaton or living machine. But she never joined them for all that. She mixed among them, and yet was as far aloof as though she dwelt in a desert. She was not of their kind, and they disliked her instinctively for it,.as cordially as she detested them in the de])ths of her hcar^. But her face — the rigidly pale face of Lucy Sutheiland — was too well trained to show au}^ of this detestation. The pnid companion knew her place a great deal too well for any such atrocity. She flitted in and out among them — a pale, silent, inscrutable shadow, puzzling to some, convenient to otliers, and liked by none. With the low, leaden winter twilight of a bleak January day darkening around her, Lucy Sutherland stood at the library window looking at the snow begin- ning to fall. A high gale surged through the maples and hemlocks with a roar that nearly drowned the roar of tlie surf on the sands. There was a sobbing cadence in the wind this wild winter evening, and the snow fluttered through the leaden air, faster and faster, as the darkness came on. A black sky frovmed over all, ■'!< THE LULL BEFORE TUB ST OHM. 165 and tlic scene \\ as tlic very dreariness of desolation ; but it suited the mood of the girl who watched it, far better than tlie liihirious gayety within. She coukl hear them in the drawing-room — some one at the piano sing- ing "Thou hast Learned to Love Another" — sweet girlish voces blending musically with men's deep tones, and their laughter coming softly in with the music. But wlia!: had she, the paid dependent, to do with music and laughter, and rich and happy people? She was not missed or wanted, and so she stood brooding darkly over her own morbid thoughts,^while the snow beat against the window glass, and the stormy night shut down in blackness. A servant came in and lit the gas. As she went out there was a rustle of silk, a waft of perfume, and Mrs. Sutherland swept in, an open letter in her hand, and her face radiant. "Augusta! are you here?" she cried. " Oh, it is only you, Lucy. Have you seen Augusta ?" " I think I saw her going into the conservatory with Mr. Ilalcombe, half an hour ago. Shall I go in search of her ?" " Yes, ffo. I must tell her the c^ood news. I have just had a letter from Cuba, Lucy, and Artliur is mar- ried !" /Some one says of Talleyrand, that if he wero kicked from behind, his face would not show it. ^Hi< ^- ^iki B jppjHf^ 111 m m I'j m \ < fi I \ , 100 THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. r Diplomacy, perhaps, gave the great statesman tliat wonderful command of countenance, but it comes by nature to women. Lucy Sutherland heard the news as Mary Stuart heard her death-bell toll, without flinching. She miglit have caught one gasping breath, with the agony of the first sharp, sudden pang ; but even that, her face did not betray. Its pallor was habitual now, and the gaslight befriended her. Even her voice was quite steady when she spoke. " Permit me to offer my congratulations. lie is married to Miss Rohan ?" " Yes, to Miss Rohan ; and his letter is one outburst of ecstasy. As it was written the day after the wed- ding, that was to be expected ; and Eulalie is an angel ; and he is in paradise. He writes to say good-bye, for the happy pair start for the continent without coming near us. Go find Augusta, Lucy ; I must tell her at once )j It was something quite foreign to the usui:l order of things for Mrs. Sutherland to converse in this friendly manner with her niece-in-law, but she was so uplifted on the present occasion as to forget, for the time being, how much she disliked her. " Tell Augusta to come at once," Mrs. Suthcrkind called after Lucy ; " I must put a stop to her flirting with that popinjay Ilalcombe. Don't tell her what I want her for, either." uM THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. 107 Lucy found Miss Augusta and Mr. Ilalcombe deep in a desperate flirtation among the rose-bushes and geraniums, and delivered her mamma's message. The dinner-bell rang at the same moment^ and Lucy went in after the rest with no shadow on her stony face of what her heart was feeling. She listened, still with that shadowless calm, when Mrs. Sutherland came back with Augusta, and made public the tidings of her son's mar- riage to the Creole heiress, whose fabulous wealth and beauty was an old story to all. Slie ate and drank, while a little tumult of congratulation went on around her, and all the time her heart seemed to lie dead in her breast. How desperately, how passionately, how insanely she had learned to love Arthur Suther- land she had never dreamed, until this night, when the last flickering hope died out, and she knew she had lost him forever. With that face of stone, she sat eating and drinking mechanically, the voices around her blended in one confused discord, and a dull sense of horrible despair filling her breast. " Their tour is to be a prolonged one " — the voice of Mrs. Sutherland made itself distinct, saying — " Eulalie has never been abroad, and tbey jiurpose re- maining two years. I doubt It, tbough — that devoted grandfather and granddaughter cannot remain aj)art half the time." Of course there was nothing else talked of all '\ 108 THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. HI : i. VM tliroiiLcli (liiincr but tlic wedding, and tlic great riches and greater beauty of the Creole bride. Arthur Suth- erland wiis the niost fortunate of men, all agreed ; and the ladies wondered what the bride wore, and how many bridesmaids she had ; and whether she was mar- ried in a bonnet, or bridal- vail and wreath ; and if it was at church or at home. " In church, I daro say," Augusta said ; " these Catholics like to be married in church, I believe ; and Eulalie was always very devout." Lucy Stitherland, wearing that ineffably calm face of hers, made herself very useful that evening, as nsual. She walked through two or three sets of qua- drilles — she played waltzes and polkas for the rest — and went np \.o her room past midnight, and was alone with her despair for the first time. She had loved him, she did love him — and she had lost him forever! Thousands of other poor hearts liave wailed out daily, and do wail out, that same pitiful ciy ; but that, I am afraid, makes it none the easier to bear. She had been a block of stone down-stairs, but here, locked in her own room, with no witness save Heaven, she could be a woman, and do battle with her womanly agony, and go down among them when to-morrow came, a statne once more. The holidays pjisscd very pleasantly at Maple wood. The merry ringing of sleigh-bells, or the joyous THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. 1G9 face qiia- statue langliter of skaters, made music in the January sun- si lino all day long, and dancing, and dressing, and feast- ing, and flirting, stole away the " rosy liuurs ■ ' of the wintry night. It was all very delightful indeed, and everybody said Maplewood was the dearest old place in the world, and hated to tear themselves away when the niontii of February came round. With her guests departed Mrs. Sutherland and Miss Augusta, for the gay Hfe of the city. " It will be so horribly lonely, you know," Mrs. Sutherland said ; " after the pleasant time we have had, for me and Augusta to mope ourselves here until next summer. Besides, it would be unfair to her, to bury her in her very fii'st season in an old country house. I shall leave Lucy Sutherland in charge and go to New York." So, early in February, to New York they went, and Lucy was once more alone. Perhaps not one of the gay, fashionable, frivolous people who bade her adieu, thought whether or not she, a young girl like them selves, might not find it lonely, immured in this big, empty house all alone, like Marianna in the moated grange. She was scarcely a human being to them ; only a pale, s lent, noiseless shadow, coming and going, and forgotten as soon as out of sight. "Ilow that long winter did drag itself out, she alone ever knew. About once a month came a letter from 8 mi 170 THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. .f 9.- 1 ! Augusta, bringing spasmodic scraps of news from tlio gi'eat outer world. She and mamma were liaving, oh, such a splendid time ; and there was another letter from Arthur and EuLilie, and they wore in France, or Ger- many, or Switzerland, or somewlere else, and too happy ur words to Icll Mrs. Sutherland founr' the ciry so pleasant that the genial spring months found her liTi^a-ing still. May came, and June, and July ; and the mistress o: Maple- wood and her daughter were at New York, and lugusta was having a more splendid time than ever. Once again the maples, and hemlocks, and pines, and tamaracks, were out in tleir green summer dress, and the shadows flickered and fell on the velvety terrace overlooking the sea, where Arthur Sutherland had wooed his bride. Once again, the songs of countless birds made the amber summer air vibrate with word- less melody ; and the August and September roses lifted their flushed heads in the golden heat. The long summer vore itself out as the winter had done ; and still Lucy was the pale recluse of Maple- wood, seldom, save on Sunday morning, passing beyond the great entrance-gates. But when, in the glorious autuTnn the maples and hemlocks burst out in an oriflamme of crimson and yellow, and the apple and pear and plum trees in the orchard were laden to the ground with their luscious load, Mrs. Sutherland came THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. 171 lioinc, w' 'i licr daiigh.Lcr lUi "! anotlK r flock of city- frluuds, 1/ feoeiid luitUinn and Cliris^-'iias and New Year's iv ler New England homestead. " Go- dness gracious me, Lucy Sutliei'land !" Augusta cried ; " wnat Iiavu yon been and done to yourself all these ages ? You look like somebody that had been dead and buried and come to life ai:ain by mistake. Can't you do something for her, Phil, in the ])ill or j)i)wder line, to keep her from looking so awfully corpse-like as tiiat ?" For Philip Sutherland was back -^gain at ]\raple' wood. " Time, that blunts the edge of thing^^, dries our tears and sj^oils our bliss " — time had brought such balm to him, that he could bear once more to look on the scene of his love and his despair. Fifteen months is a tolerable time to heal a broken heart, particularly when that heart belongs to a man ; and Philip Suther- land could eat, drink — ay, and be merrj", too, though the woman he loved was the wife of another man. But the great trouble of his life had left its indelible traces, as all great troubles must do ; and he had grown ten years older in gravity and staidness, dui^ing these lifteen months. He looked at Lucy ]^ov: with that grave face tliat was so new to liim. " My solenm Lucy, you do look old enough to be your own grandmother," he said ; " no wonder, though, shut up here all alone, like an oyster in its r<»!i m mm 17a TnE LULL BEFORE TUE STORM. ,<► It I I' -h < !. I. (f v' i: I i pn !i bIicII. The only wonder is you have not gone ineUn- clioly-nuul long ago." Lucy looked lit liim with a contemptuous smile. "He tiilks of what he knows nothing about," she tlionght; "I shall be lonely now that all these men and women are here. I was not before they came." So the ^veeks went on, with Lucy counting them in their flight. Christmas, and the IS'ew Year came in robed in snow, and departed, and Mrs. Sutherland and lier friends departed, too. They had flown back to the city, not to retnrn until June, when Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Sutherland were expected heme. But Lucy's solitude was over, for April brought a troop of workmen — carpenters and masons and land- gcape-gardeners and uj^holstercrs — to refit and refur- nish the old mansion for the reception of its master and mistress ; and workmen and laborers were in and out, and u]) and down stairs, and the sound of hammer and plane resounded from morning till night. But out of the chaos of noise and dirt and confusion, order and liarmony came at last. Most elegant harmony, too. The house was like a palpable fairytale, in its new beauty and splendor, and June roses waved in a sort of modern Garden of Eden. The house had been fitted up superbly, and landscape-gardeners had been working miracles. Mrs. Sutherland and Augusta went into feminine raptures over their old home in its trans- THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM, 173 foriiKition. Thoy IkicI come alone tliis time. It was hard 1 J likely Arthur and Eululie, weary of traveling, and Umging for the peace and rest of home, would care to find a houseful of fashionable strangers in possession before them. And besides, there was i)Oor dear Eula- lie's mourning for her grandfather; for, nearly six months previously, the old millionaire had gone to that workl of shadows from which all his golden thousands could not save him one poor second. lie had gone — and how the granddaughter, who had loved him so devotedly, had mourned him, they could only conjecture, for her brief letters did not tell. Those countless thousands were all her own now; and the baby that opened its eyes first in this mortal life in Florence the Beautiful, w^as surely born with a golden spoon in its mouth. " I do want to sec the baby, yoti know," was Augusta's cry ; " because the idea of Arthur's baby is Bomething too absurd. If I had only been born to fifty or sixty hundred thousand, I dare say my snub nose would not be thrown in my face every day of my life, as it is now." It was in the golden haze of a June twilight that the travelers came. Mrs. Sutherland, Augusta, and Lucy stood in the doorway to welcome them, and Lucy's face was whiter than snow. Arthur, sunburnt and bearded and bronzed, and handsomer than ever, hissed 11 ^ I '•I I I i ^^s 171 TJIF. LULL BEFORE THE STOliM. I m h' 111 ■i I, ! :i I I 1: tliciii Jill round ; and Eulidio, beautiful as a dream, in her deep niourniiii^^ wept on tlie motherly Ijreast of Mrs. Sutherland. A little paler than of old, a little less hrilliantlj bri^dit, but indeseribahly more lovely. AVifehood and maternity, too holy and intense in its liappiness for words to tell, had wrou'^ht their inevita- ble ehani,^e in lier. Ihit the entrancing; beauty was all the more entrancing for the change ; and it needed only one look to tell you that this man and wife were truly united, and as perfectly and entirely happy as it is possible for creatures in this lower world to be. A Swiss nurse, with a round, high-colored face and a fuimy cap, got out with a bundle in her arms. The bundle turned out to be the baby ; and Augusta, with a little screech of delight, made a grab at it, and tore off its wra])pings, to the unspeakable dismay of baby's little mamma. " Oh, what a beauty ! Oh, what a j^erfect love of ! a baby T' was Aunt Augusta's cry. "Oh, wh.it lovely ' black eyes and black curly hair. It's the very image of Eulalie, and not a bit liice you, Arthur." '' I like it all the better for that,'.' smiled Arthur. " Louisa, don't let her tear your nursling to pieces, if you can help it. It is in imminent danger of being kissed to death." The Swiss honne came forward, and took the little black-eyed atom from Augusta, and followed the rest THE LULL nEFOUE THE STOllM. 175 into tli(3 house. It liad its mamma's wonderful Creole eyes, tliis tiny, pale-faced, solemn-looking baby, and Jiad not one look of the Sutherlauds in its infantine physio^iijnomy. It was Eulalie Rohan over again, as Kulalie llohan must have looked at live mouths old — not beautiful now, but with the serene promise of future beauty in its baby face. Lucy Sutherland, pale, silent and shadowy, hovered in the background, like any other shadow, all that evening, and watched the wife of Arthur Sutherland furtively but incessantly from under her pale eye- lashes. The change in the Creole puzzled her. Two years ago, she had been the most childish of spoiled children ; now she was a woman. A woman, with deep-dented lines of care and thought in her smooth forehead, with gravely earnest, almost mournful, dark eyes. The gaslight fell dull on her black dress ; but neither the outward nor the inward mourning for that beloved parent could have wrought this change ; for she was unspeakably happy, you could see, loving that handsome husband of hers witli a passionate devotion that it falls to the lot of but few men to be loved. Slie loved and trusted him with her whole heart and soul, as these impassioned daughters of the South have an unfortunate way of doing, and she was happy and blessed beyond the power of words to tell. What, then, was the trouble that had wrought a revolution in . < 176 THE LULL BEFORE THE STOUM. her whole nature, that had furrowed so early that young brow ? lu the solemn and lovely starlight, Lucy sat up in her own room, watching the big round midnight moon sailing through a cloudless, serene sky, and asked her- self the question. The life that lay before these two promised very brightly to-night ; but far off, invisible to every eye save her own, the pale watcher saw a dark cloud, slowly gathering. " I hate her !" Lucy Sutherland said to her own heart ; " I hate her, and I hope and pray and trust I may li\e to see her ruined and disgraced. There is a secret in her life — a dark, disgraceful secret, that I will find out, if I spend my life in the search ; and when I see you down in the very filth under my feet, I will cry quits witli you, Mrs. Arthur Sutherland 1" A2' THE GONGERT, 177 I CHAPTER XI. , (. AT THE CONCERT. TIE prettiest of little onnolii clocks, standing on the low marble mantel, stiiick up a lively Swiss waltz, preparatory to striking eight, as Lucy Sutherland, in full dress, :)pened ilm heavy oaken door, and entered the boudoir of Mrs. Arthur Sutherland. In full dress, with Miss Liicy Sutherland, meant a robe of pale lavender crape, as dim and shadowy as herself, and a few knots of ribbon, a shade or two deeper in tint. Tlic charming boudoir of the charming wife of Arthur Sutherland wiis a mirocle of taste and luxury and beauty — a fitting nest for the tropical bird who owned it. The bright June moonlight, streaming in between the curtains of rosy silk, fell in squares of silvery luster on the thick, soft Persian carpet and the gems of pictures on the tinted walls. Opposite the door was an archway lumg with rose silk. Lucy lifted the curtain, and stood in the dressing-room of her cousin's wife. A beautiful rooui — more like a sea-nymph's grot 3+ 'i»,i ■ I'i: m T 'V« ■uMjimui ' nimwi i imnui i i,afc.,.auiunw w '1 p! 178 AT TUB C ONCE JIT. i I tlian an apartment for aiiytliing mortal. A carpet that looked like tangled moss ; pale green walls, with painted })anels, where mermaids and mermen disported themselves in foamy billows ; with conches and ottojiians, cushioned in green velvet, and great mirrors flashini; hack ou either hand this sea-ii:reen crrot. A lovely room, for the lovely little lady standing before the exquisite dressing-table full in the light of a dozen wax tapt!rs, taking a last look at her own enchanting beauty. She wore black lace that swept the cai'pet with its ill my llounces; and pale oriental p'-irls glinnnered like wan stars in midnight in her hair, and around the perfect throat and arms. IJeautiful she looked, this starry-eyed, jettydiaired little Creole wife — a beauty born — and looking lovelier to-night than ever before, Lucy thought, bitterly, in the depths of her envious heart. A vivid foil to the glowing little southern beauty, in her dark drapery, stood Augusta, in a violet pink dress, and flashing tlianu)nd necklace and cross. Triline, Eulalie's maid, was just fastening the barbaric diamond eardrops in her ears when her cousin entered. " Dressed, Lucy,'' Airs. Arthur said, with that radiant smile of hers, " and not fifteen minutes since you went U]vstairs. There is an example for yo i and me, Auii'usta." lon't care about followmg Lucy's, example," "I d( AT TUE CONCERT. 179 said Augusta, with a Frencli slirug, lean xrom Tri- line. " Tlio role of tlie Princess Perfect never suited me, but Lucy takes to it as naturally as life. You have moped and moped, and grown dismal and corpselike, shut up in this big barn of a house from year's end to year's end, and Prince Perfect is verj- loQg in coming. Isn't he, Lucy, dear ?" " Yes," said quiet Lucy, " i)erliaps so ; but no longer coming, Miss Sutherland, than the Prince for whom you have been angling so desperately these List two years." Eulalie lauo-hed : and Auf^usta, conscious of beiui' well dressed, and of looking her best, made a little wry face. '' Don*t be cantankerous, Lucy, it's an old maid's privilege, I know, but don't use it, dear. There! that will do, Tritine ! How do I look ?" " Cliarming !" cried Mile. Triiine ; and Mrs. Arthur Sutherland echoed the flattering ; but Lucy only eyed her with a little sour glance of disdain. " Don't you think I look charming, too, Lucy, dearest and best ?" inq'iired Augusta, provokingly. " Of course, you do ; but tlio extent of your admira- tion renders you speechless. Don't trouble yourself to put it in woi'ds, love — TH take it for granted. By- bye, Eulalie. T must go and dis2)lay myself to m ,ii ; .■;f, II i I -I i li n -.1 i^ I i IZ l^Z^""""'''^"^'"-"'" "" ' "'" '""''^''*""''°m*w > 1 I ^3 I I ;iii;' i I i! I i II K|;| I I 180 AT TEE CONCERT. mamma, to be revised and corrected before going down." Off swam Miss Augusta, making a mock obeisance to Luc}^ in passing. The Id armed-neutrality existed still between these two ; and Lucy and Augusta hated each other with a cordial intensity truly womanly. Lucy's position in the family, hitherto painfully unde- fined, had latterly been more decidedly fixed. When Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Sutherland had returned, she spoke one day to the new mistress of Maplewood of leaving, and had been met with an earnest protest. " I shall feel lost if you go, Lucy," Eulalie had said, imploringly. " You don't know how ignorant I am, and how stupid I am about housekeeping. I couldn't order a dinner, you know, or see after the servants, or know whether anything was done right or wrong, and you will do me the greatest favor, my dear cousin, by stopping here and taking all the trouble oS. my hands. Besides, Lucy, Maplewood would not be Maplewood without your quiet face within its walls." " You mean, Mrs. Sutherland," Lucy said, coldly, not deigning to notice the caressing words — *'you mean you want a housekeeper, and you offer me the situation." "O you d/cadt'ul matter-of-fact Lucy," laughed Eulalie. ''You mrt as matter-off art as some grim old man of bv^Itits,-, Yet.-, if }0U will put it so, I do want AT THE CONCERT. 181 you to be my housekeeper. My poor, dear Arthur must go diimerless, I am afraid, if you do not." Lucy Sutherland, homeless and friendless, was only too glad to accept an offer which meant nothing to do and a high salary for doing it. But she closed with it as coldly and thanklessly as she had hitherto accepted, ungraciously, a home in the family. So she was house- keeper at Maplewood now, and jingled the keys at her girdle, and issued her mandates to the servants, and came to Mrs. Arthur in a coldly formal way for her own directions; and hated her all the while, and watched her like a spy by night and by day. Eulalie, with the princely spirit nature and education had given her, heaped costly presents on this pale, silent, impene- trable consin-in-law, whom she could not take to kindly, somehow ; and Lucy accepted everything, still thankless and still unthawed. The costly jewelry, the rich dresses, Eulalio forced upon her with a lavish hand, were so much " portable property," she might one day turn into current Gf4^ 0^4 ''se to bring aboi Eulalie's own downfall. She took *he ^ifts and hat^ the giver, and Eulalie knew it by &(/im ifimmta}. - second-sight. " She doesn't like me, poor soul !" she said t/j ^tur husband. " I suppose she thinks me foolish and ig- norant ; and I know I am, too." " Because you don't understand the art of cookii ^ ■:, ;,:u lii 'SI .1,. i ^^'^mmi^mmms.^'. 1 :.: ■ 182 AT THE CONCERT. I 1 ! ! breakfast and making coffee, my dear little good-for- iiotliing wife," laughed Mr. Sutherland. " I don't think it would accord with the universal iitness of things to see my elegant little Eulalie bending over a cook-stove, or simmering over jellies in a hot kitchen. Still, I think you mistake about Lucy : she is one of your silent, impenetrable sort — human icicles, that wouldn't thaw in thu tro])ics. Iler lines have not fallen in very pleasant places, poor girl ! and her loveless life has intensilied her reserved and undetnonstrative na- ture." Mrs. Sutherland-, senior, going b.?ck to the city very soon, w\as only too thankful to have the responsibility of Lucy shifted off hcv shouxuers. " She is, without exception, the most disagreeable creature I ever met," said the elder lady to her daughter-in-law; '^but, I dare say, she will serve you well enough as a housekeeper. T never liked her ; the mere sight of her irritates me, and I am glad to be so well rid of her." Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Sutherland's dear fi^'e hun- dred friends had called upon them immedial-ely .ifter tiieir return ; and now a ball was to be given at Maple- ■svood, to which the dear five hundred were invited. jMrs. Sutherland and Augusta departed for Saratoga directly after ; but Mr. and Mrs. Arthur remained for the summer at home, by the young wife's desire. AT TUB CONCERT. 183 " We have had cnoiigli of sii^ht-Bccing and rjaycty and society wliile we were abroad, dear," slie saidj chni;iiii!; lovingly to lier Imsbaiid; " and I am so tired of it all, and 1 want to he at home, and at peace, with only you and bahy. I want to stay at home, Arthur, in this beautiful old home of ours, where so many happy days have been spent, and shut out the great big tumultuous world outside, if I can." Lucy Sutherland watched her this night of the ball as she always watched her, furtively, as a cat watches a mouse. She looked after her, with a sinister look in her pale eyes, as she went into the nursery before de- scending to the ballroom. It was a dainty little .ipart- n\ent, all gauzy white drapery, with a carefully lI M^ed lamp, and the most elegant and exquisite of tiny cribs for the heiress of all the Sutherlands. It was the first time in nineteen years there had been a Iniby in Maple- wood ; and from stately grandmannna down to Betty, the cook, baby was in a fair way of being kissed to death. There never was a baby in the world like it, of course ; everybody said so but Lucy Sutherland, and Lucy never had anj'thing at all to say on the sul)ject. She was the one Mordecai at the king's gate ; and she watched Eulalie bend over the crib now with a cold, hard, evil glitter in her eyes. It was a pretty picture, too — the lovely 3^oung mother in her misty lace dress and floating black curls, looking little more than a child {} 'it 111 •I ii'i 184 111 ■I I i I II AT TEE CONCERT. herself, bending over the cradle of her first-bom. But Lucy hated mother and child — hated them with a vin- dictive intensity that these frozen natures are capable of once in a lifetime. The happy wife of the man she had loved and had lost could not fail to be other than an ol>ject of abhor- rence to ber; and the beauty, the L'^rnce, and the fabulous fortune of the young Creole wife \vere each an item to render her more and more abhorrent. The ball that night at Maple wood was a brilliant success. The dusky splendor of Mi's. Arthur Suther- bmd's beauty had never before so dazzled the eyes of the good people of St. Mary's. She was like some little tropical bird, in her glowing and dusky loveliness, that had fluttered by chance down here, in this staid New England home. " By George ? whj ' a perfect little beauty she is !" more than one enthusiastic gentleman ci'ied. " Suther- land's the hickiest fellow alive, to win such a wife, and such a fortune." Lucy Sutherland, never relaxing that pitiless watch of hers, saw Mrs. Arthur some half dozen times dui-ing the night glide out of the heated and gas-lit and crowded ball-room, up stairs, to that pretty room where her baby slept. *' Where the treasure is, there shall the heart be also." And Eulalic, bending down to kiss the sweet baby -face, was far happier than when sur- i '■■ I AT THE coy CERT. 183 rounded by her hosts of admirers. Lucy's pule-bluo eyes saw this with a gleam of demoniac triumph in their steely depths. " If I fail every other way," she thought, " I can Btrike her at any time through that child. It would bo a very stupid way, though ; and I think the mystery that is hidden in her life will come to light yet, and save me tlie trouble.'^ The ball passed off brilliantly ; and in the gray and dismal dawn, the guests drove away from Maplewood. Two days later, Mrs. Sutherland and Augusta took their departure for gayer scenes, promising to return for the Christmas holidays; and the family at Maplewood were left alone to begin their new life. A very quiet life. No visiting, no calling that could be avoided, no party-giving or going. Airs. Arthur Sutherland had grown strangely quiet, grave Lucy could hardly be more of a recluse than she. If she went out at all, she went reluctantly, and under protest. She was so happy at home ; she said she wanted nothing of the world outside, and she liad ac- quired a nervous dread of meeting strangers. If she rode out, or walked out, it was always closely vailed — she, who had never been in the habit of wearing a vail. Even in her visits of charity to the sick and the poor of the neighborhood, even in her Sunday drives to and irom the church, she never went now without a screen- m h 'il ill I i I hit ■ I'. 1 80 AT THE GONCEllT. H f i ■ * I. '/ I iw^ vuil. Ilcr hnslxiiid laughed at and ridiculed her Bti'aiii^e whims; but he reiiicirdjcred all these wretched details al^terward, in the miserable days so near at hand. So near at hand, and yet just now how cloudless the sky looked — how very, very happy those married lovers were? Too happy to last ; for this perfect bliss cannot lon the-bye, have you got over the shock yet of having your song interrupted last night ?" " Who the deuce was it ?" inquired Mr. Benoir ; " I mean the lady who screamed and fainted." " Mrs. Arthur Sutherland, of Maple wood," replied the eldest Miss Weldon. " I suppose it was the heat, and she is a delicate little thing, any way." " I had a good look at her," said one of the Trouba- dours; "she sat right in front, and, by Geoige! she is the stunningest little beauty I ever saw in my life." " Oh ! she's lovely !" cried Miss Sophie, rapturously, " I could sit and look at her for a week. She is prettier than any picture I ever saw, with those great black eyes of hers, and that beautiful smile. And, do you know," exclaimed Miss Sophie, struck by a sudden inspiration, " I think she looks ever so much like Mr. Benoir !" Mr. Benoir bowed profoundly. " Thanks, Mademoiselle, you do me proud ! I should like to have a look at this beautiful lady whom I resemble so much. Is there any hope of seeing hei ?Ji the concert to-night ?" Mli. GASTON BENOIR. 107 " TTardly, after her fainting-fit of last evening ; and Blie scarcely ever goes out ; or if she docs, it is always closely vailed." " Vails ought to be indicted as a public nuisance," said Mr. Benoir ; " thai is, on pretty women. Ugly ones, if there be such a thing as ugly ones, do well to mask their bad looks under — " Mr. Benoir stopped short, for there was a little cry from Misb Sophie, who had glanced out of the window. " Oh, Emily ! I declare if here is not Miss Lucy Sutherland I What in the world brings her here ?" " She cannot be coming here," said the eldest Mish VVeldon, going precipitately to the window ; " sho never was here but once in her life, and that was to collect money for the new church. She is too proud. My stars, though, if she is not !" There was a general flutter of expectation among the company, in the midst of which Mrs. Weldon her- self appeared, ushering in Miss Lucy Sutherland. Miss Weldon arose, and presented a seat. " Don't let me disturb you," Miss Sutherland said, smiling graciously. " I called to ask after Fanny — I heard in the village she was ill." " You are very kind, I'm sure. Miss Sutherland," said Fanny — the youngest Miss Weldon — answering ' i Hf » I 108 MR. GASTON BENOIR. m J for herself. " I had a soro throat yesterday, but it is ahnost well now, thank you." "And how is Mrs. Sutherland?" inquired Miss Wcldon ; " I was so sorry to see her faint at the concert last ni<^ht. Is she better again V^ " No," said Miss Sutherland, whose eyes had been wandering furtively from face to face of the silent Troubadours ever since her entrance, " she is very poorly. She was ill and hysterical all night, and the doctor never left her. She fell asleep for the lirst time just before I came away." There was a general murmur of sympathy among the ladies, and Miss Sophie inquired if she supposed it was the heat. " I don't know," said Miss Sutherland ; " it might have been, for poor Eulalie is not very strong." Mr.'Benoir, who had been leaning lightly over the back of a chair, taking very little interest apparently in the conversation, started as suddenly and violently at this last speech as if he had received a spear-thrust. He turned round and faced Miss Sutherland with a strange, eager look in his eye. " I beg your pardon," he said, " but did you call the lady Eulalie?" Miss Lucy Sutherland lifted her eyes in calm sur- prise to his face, and took a long look before she answered him. He was a very handsome man, this ! r ifn. OASTOH BENOIR. 100 I: ! Mr. Bcnoir — Mr. Gaston Bcnoir, «afl his name read on the playbills — with a dark, Southern kind of beauty rarely perfect in its way. No features could bo more exquisite ; no eyes could be lar<^cr, blacker, or moro splendidly luminuus ; no teeth could bo whiter or more even; no hair could be darker, or moro silken and curly. He was tall and perfect of form as as of face, with a clear, dark, olive complexion. He wore a thick, jetty mustache, and spoke with a slightly foreign accent, but in excellent English. To a casual observer, he was only an uncommonly handsome you.ig man ; but Lucy Sutherland was a physiognomist, and under- lying all that dark beauty she saw that this man was crafty, and cruel, and sellish, and sensual, and a villain I She saw it all in that one glance ; and then the light blue eyes shifted and fell. "Mi-s. Sutherland's name is Eulalie," she said, calmly. " May I inquire why you ask ?" " Because I once knew a person of that name whom I have not seen for years, and it is a name one does not often hear. It was in Louisiana I knew the person ; but Mrs. Sutherland, I presume, has never been there ?" "I think not. Mrs. Sutherland is a native of Cuba." " Cuba !" Again Mr. Bcnoir started, and his dark ill : I " S iJ jii V I !• * i i'li' ;^i Hi II I 200 MR GASTON BENOIR, face fTuslied hotly. " Cuba !" he repeated eagerly, " May I ask if her maiden name was Rohan ?" Miss Sutherland and every one else in the room looked at Mr. Benoir in surprise. " It was," Miss Sutherland said. " Did you ever know Eulalie Rohan ?" Mr. Benoir turned away suddenly, and looked out of the window in a manner that prevented them from seeing his face. When he spoke, his tone and words were carefully guarded. " I have been in Cuba," he said, " and I have heard of Mr. Rohan and his granddaughter. No, Miss Sutherland, I never saw Miss Eulalie Rohan." He turned as he spoke, and walked out of tho room, bowing slightly to the company. They all saw him as he went out, and the flush had left his handsome face, and he was white even to the lips. Miss Lucy Sutherland only lingered a few moments lovvger, and then took her departure. Mr. Benoir was Ic Liiiug over the balcony, smoking a cigar, as she p-Mcd ; and she gave him a sidelong look from under her light lashes. " It is as I suspected," she thought, as she walked slowly homeward. " It was never the heat made Eulalie Sutherland faint last night. "What is she to this man? What is he to her? He is handsomer jli MR. GASTON BENOIH. 201 than any one I ever saw ; and h^ has known her in Cuba. I am sure of that, in spite of his denial. la this the dark m3^stery that overshadowed her grand- father's life and here ; and is the day of her disgrace and downfall nearer at hand than ever I thought ?" Mr. Gaston Benoir lingered so long on the balcony smoking cigars, that pretty Sophie Weldon lost patience waiting for him, and made her appearance there too. Mr. Benoir started up, flung away his cigar, and offered her his arm. " I am tired of solitude and my own thoughts, Miss Sophie," he said ; " and was just wrishing for you. It looks delightfully cool down there in the orchard, under the trees. What do you say to a walk ?" Miss Sophie had no objection. It would have been a strange proposal, indeed, she would have objected to, coming from Mr. Benoir. She had seen him the day before for the first time ; but pretty, blue-eyed Sophie had a susceptible heart ; and Mr. Benoir's handsome face had wrought fearful havoc there already. There was no one in the long orchard, where the apple-trees were in bloom ; and the handsome Trouba- dour and the pretty village girl walked up and down uninterrupted. Mr. Benoir was a good talker, and told Sophie charming tales of his wanderings by sea and land. But, presently — Sophie, thinking of it in the tragical after-days, never knew how — he led the I Mir I 202 MH. GASTON BENOIR. conversation round to tlic Sutherlands, to Mrs. Arthur Sutherland particularly ; and Sophie found herself tell- ing him all she knew of that lady. It was not a great deal. She remembered when she had first come to St. Mar)''s, with her grandfather, and Mrs. Sutherland, and Miss Augusta, from Cuba, and what a sensation her beauty created far and wide. Then came Mr. Arthur, who fell in love with her at once, as all St. Mary's knew ; and then followed the time when she was struck by lightning, and lay ill unto death. Then came the journey back to Cuba ; the dreary probation Mr. Arthur spent at Maple wood ; and then his own departure for Cuba, and the wedding which followed. Then there was the long bridal-tour, the grandfather's death, and the return with the foreign nurse and the baby. They li ad been at Maple wood ever since, going out very little, and seeing little company, and loving each other, as every one knew, better than ever hus- band and wife loved one another before. Mr. Gaston Benoir listened to all this with a very attentive face. He did not speak during the recital, until his fair companion had done. Then he asked a question : "These Sutherlands are very proud people, are they not?" " Proud ! Yes ; tlie proudest family in St. Mary's. Mrs. Sutherland would not think a princess too good Mli. OAST ON BENOIR. 203 for her son. If Miss Rohan had been less of a beauty, and less of an heiress, and less grand every way, she never would have consented to the match." Pretty Sophie "Weldon, in saying this, was not looking at Mr. Benoir, or she might have been startled by the change in his face. Such a look of triumphant malice overshadowed it, such a derisive light flashed from his black eyes, that Sophie might well have been staggered to know what it meant. " I think I hear some one calling you,'* was Mr. Benoir's first remark ; and " Sophie, Sophie, where are you ?" shrilly called in the eldest Miss Weldon's voice, confirmed his words. Sophie, only too happy to be just where she was, frowned ; but Mr. Benoir, with all his politeness, looked relieved as he led her back to the house. The other Troubadours, scattered about the balcony smoking and reading, smiled significantly as the pair came up ; but Mr. Benoir paid no attention to any of them. He turned off up the road, walking slowly ; and one of the TroubadourSj taking his pipe out of his mouth, hailed him : " I say, Benoir ! where are you bound for ?" " To see the lions of St, Mary's," Mr. Benoir re- plied, without looking round. " And don't you want company," pui*sued the speaker, winking at a fellow-Troubadour. !l! (, !li \m I - ^^ I 204 MR. OASTON BENOIR. " Perhaps so ; but not yours 1" With Avhich rebuff Mr. Benoir walked on. Not to St. Mary's, however. A sudden bend in the road hid him from siglit, as he turned his back upon that pretty village, and bent his steps in the direction of Maple- wood. " At last !" Mr. Gaston Benoir was thinking, as he walked along, " at last my time has come 1 I have waited for it many a year. I have traveled over land and sea until I have almost given up in despair, when lo ! I come to this one-horse village, in a lost corner of Maine, and iind my Lady Ilighropes. At last my time has come ! Old Rohan had the reins in his hands long enough ; but it is my turn now. What a pity he's dead I I owed him a long debt of hatred ; and pretty Eulalie must pay his share as well as her own. At last ! at last ! Gaston Benoir, your lucky star is in the ascendant ! No wonder she fainted at the concert. She'll come through more than that before I have done with her. Good-bye to the Troubadours, my future's made I" MR. BENOIR'a LETTER, 205 r . * MR. BENOIR's letter. m CHAPTER XIII. HE great iron gates of Maplewood stood wide open as Mr. Benoir drow near, as if inviting him to enter. He paused for an instant to glance at the prospect, the broad sweep of carriage-drive, the waving trees, the gleams of bright pai'terres, the plash of distant fountains, and the stately old house just showing in glimpses in the distance. The songs of countless birds made the air melodious ; the June sunlight lay in golden sheets on the velvet sward ; the liush of the place was deep and unbroken in its noonday summer rest. "A fine old place," Mr. Benoir thought ; " a place a man might be proud of ! And Eulalie Rohan is mistress of all this, and the wife of an honorable gen- tleman. A proud man this Mr. Sutlierland, they tell me, and come of a proud race. All the better, I'll lower his pride for him one of these days, or I'm mis- taken. He entered the wide open gates, and walked up the 206 MR. DENOIR'S LETTER. \ broad graveled drive. For nearly ten minutes he went on v/ithout meeting any one ; then a bend in the drive brought him in view of a rose garden, where a gar- dener was at work. The man looked up at the sound of footsteps and stared at the stranger. " My good man," Mr. Benoir said, condescendingly, "I hope I don't intrude. I am a stranger here, and, seeing the gate open, took the liberty of entering. If I trespass, I will leave." The gardener touched his hat to the handsome and gentlemanly stranger. " No, sir ; it's no trespass. Maplewood is free to all strangers, by Mr. Sutherland's orders. You can go over the grounds if you like." "Thanks, my friend," Mr. Benoir said, politely. « I think I will." He turned away, following the drive until it took him to tiie lawn in front of the house. He paused, looking thoughtfully up at its long, low^ old-fashioned front. " A fine old house — old and historic for this new land. I wonder which is her room — I wonder if she is thinking of me now. Oh, my pretty little Eulalie ! do you dream how near I am to you this minute ?" He walked on ; for a servant girl, coming out, was staring with open-eyed admiration at the dark stranger. He strolled through the old orchard, through the woods ■ 1 I MH. DUNOIR'S LETTER. 207 and fields ; and, coming ronnd the end of the house, found himself on the grassy terrace overlooking the sea. He leaned over the iron railing, and looked down at the placid waves murmuring upon the shore. " A nice place to commit suicide," Mr. Bcnoir said to himself. " One leap over this railing into that calm, Bimlit, treacherous water, and all one's troubles are ended. My pretty Eiilalie ! if I were in your place, I should know how to defy Gaston Bcnoir !" The footpatli through the woods to his left caught his eye. He followed it, and found himself presently in the half-ruined old summer-house where Philip Sutherland had long ago fought with his despair. -He sat down in the rustic scat by the rickety table, and looked complacently out at the pleasant view of the terrace which it commanded. He sat there, and no shadow of the awful tragedy so soon to take place within these four walls came darkly over his mind to warn him. He sat and looked out at the terrace, his mind in a state of soliloquy still. " A capital place for a rendezvous," thought Mr. Benoir. " Silent as the grave, lonely as the heart of some primeval forest. A murder might be done hei-e and no one be the wiser ! I wonder if Mrs. Arthur Sutherland ever walks in that terrace ? If so, I could sit here safe and unseen and have a look at her. I really should like to see her. That pale-faced, fair- II !('. IF i If ' IH 203 MR. BENOIR'8 LETTER, i : haired young lady, down at the hotel, this morning, disbelieved me, I think, when I said I never saw Miss Rolian. I wonder if she looks like — " Mr. Benoir checked his own thoughts abruptly to liglit a cigar. "When the weed was in good going order, lie rose up and sauntered slowly back again toward the gates. The gardener was at work still, and paused, as the stranger drew near, leaning on his rake. "Well, sir," he asked, "and how do you like Maplew«»od?" " A charming place," said Mr. Benoir. " I had no idea there w^as anything like it in St. Mary's." " There's nothing like it far or wide !" said the gardener. " And there isn't as old a family, or as rich now, as the Sutherlands, in the State." "Indeed! I heard," Mr. Benoir said, politely, " that Mrs. Sutherland was ill. She is better, I hope ?" " Getting better, sir. She is able to be up, they tell me. We'll have her out here to-morrow, may be. She's uncommon fond of walking through the grounds when she's in her health." " I suppose she has her own particular walk, too?" " Yes, sir, yes ! The terrace down there by the water. That's Mrs. Sutherland's daily walk up and down when she's well, and of moonlight nights with her husband. It's a lonesome sort of place, but she likes it best." Mli. LENOIR'S LETTER. 200 " There is no accounting for a body's tastes," said Mr. Benoir. " By tlio way, I intend making some stay in St. Mary's ; and if I should choose to come hero occasionally, would Mr. Sutherland have any objec- tion ?" *' "Why ! — no, sir, I think not," sai^ the gardener, on whom the stranger's handsome face, pleasing smile, and insinuating address had made a very favorable impression ; " leastways, he never does object, and he ain't likely to begin with you. All that's wanted of visitors is not to pick the flowei's, and they may come as often as they please." " Mr. Sutherland is very kind, and I am much obliged to him and to you. Good day, my friend. I'll saunter up to-morrow again, I think, to kill time." Mr. Benoir was absent and distrait all the rest of that day. Blue-eyed Sophie, fluttering around him like a buttei-fly round a flower, wondered what was the matter, and pouted her rosy lips to find how little notice he took of her. He avoided his brother-Trou- badours, and loitered by himself in the orchard, smok- ing endless cigars, and thinking and thinking. The concert that night was very successful. Mr. Benoir's singing charmed everybody ; but none of the Siitherlands were present. So successful, indeed, was the concert, and so crowded the house, that the Trouba- dours had big posters put up next day to inform the Ir : i- 1 210 MR. BENOtR'S LETTER. 's ^1 i good people of St. Mary's, that, as a particular favor, they would remain for the rest of the week. Immediately after breakfast, Mr. Benoir started for Maplewood, one pocket iilled with cigars (for this mysterious gentleman was an inveterate smoker) and a novel borrowed from Soplr'e in the other. lie made his way to the old summer-house without meeting any one, and sat down on the rustic chair beside the old table to smoke and read, and keep watch. But all his watching was useless. One of the gardeners and a maid-servant appeared on the terrace for a few moments, but no Mr. or Mrs. Sutherland. Mr. Benoir's watch, pointing to three, reminded him that two was Mrs. Weldon's dinner-hour, and that he was hungry ; so he rose uj), pocketed his novel, and started for home. The Troubadoui's stayed all week, according to promise, and every day found the handsome tenor at his post in the summer-house. Not quite unrewarded either, this patient watching ; for one day Mr. Suther- land appeared on the terrace — he knew it was Mr. Sutherland from the description he received of him — loitered up and down for half an hour, as if to aiford the watcher a good look, and then retired. " A proud man '" — was the Troubadour's criticism while he looked — " A proud man, who would prefer ten thousand deaths to dishonor. You're a veiy flue M Mlt. DENOIirS LETTER. 211 follow, and a very fiiK gentlcrnai, no doubt, Mr. Arthur Sutherland, but I liave you under my thumb for all that." Mr. Bcnoir's extraordinary conduct puzzled his brother-Troubadours bcyrmd everything. lie had changed so suddenly and unaccountably from being "hail fellow! well met," the life of the company, to a thoughtful, silent, and steady man. His prolonged absence, too, could not be accounted for. They had traced him morning after morning toMaplewood but, as the spies said, what the deuce did the fellow do there? lie couldnH have fallen in love with Miss Lucy Sutherland that first morning, could he ? Hardly, for he made love most devotedly to pretty Sophie. It wasn't to see the place — once or twice would surely suflice for that. The Troubadours were puzzled, and Sophie Weldon with them. It was quite true Mr. Benoir made love to her be- tween whiles, he being no more insensible than the rest of mankind to the influence of azure eyes, golden-brown ringlets, and rose-bloom cheeks. He could hardly be insensible to the flattering import of rosy blushes and eyelid-droopings at his coming. So he found time to do a little courting, even while he kept that daily watch at Maple wood. But, right in the middle of Lis love- making, he had a habit of breaking abruptly off and falling into a moody silence, and being a thousand i ' 213 MR. DENOIR'S LETTER, miles away from Sophie in half a minnto. Ilis Imnd- Boiiie dark face would cloud over as suddenly aa an Aj)ril sky; and Sophie, afraid of him in those gloomy fits, would glance shyly and wistfully at him from under her eyelashes, and steal away and leave him ahme. Before the end of the week, the concert-going folks of St. Mary's began to grow tired of the Troubadours, and the houses they drew were wofuJly thin. So they made up their minds to pack and start on Monday morning, and were all ready to go, when Mr. Benoir, their very best singer, electrified them by announcing his intention of remaining where he was. " I entered into no engagement with you," Mr. Benoir coolly said to the head of the Troubadours. " I merely came with you here to kill time. Now that I am here, I like the place, and don't choose to leave it just yet — that's all." " I say, Benoir, is it Maplewood or our Sophie that's the attraction?" demanded a Troubadour; to which Mr. Benoir's reply was to turn his back upon him and walk away. Sophie was in ecstasies, and set it all down to her own account ; but, then, why was Mr. Benoir so moody ? Surely she gave him encouragement enough, yet des])ite all, that absorbed, gloomy, and distrait manner remained. Tsr MR. BENOIWa LETTER. 21S Tho daily visits to Maplcwood were continued : the very servants there he^^an to notice him now, hut still all in vain. Mrs. Sutherland was hotter, report said ; but, let him watch as he would, she never appeared on the terrace. Did some secret prescience tell her ho was there, and warn her to keep away? Mr. Benoir got desperate at last. " ril dilly-dally no longer," he said to himself, set- ting his white teeth savagely. " I'm about tired of this game of solitaire. If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain. I can't go to my lady, so my lady must come to me." That evening, in the solitude of his own chamber, Mr. Benoir wrote a note. A brief and abrupt note, without date, or address, and almost without signa- tui'e. ; n r " You know that I am here ; and that I will not leave until I see you. The time of meeting I leave with you — the place I take the privilege of naming myself. The old summer-house at Maplewood, facing the terrace, is the best place in the world for a clandes- tine meeting. G. B." Mr. Benoir took a great deal of pains with the address on the envelope — "Mrs. Arthur Sutherland, Maplewood, St. Mary's." He had written the iiote in a bold, dashing fist, but the address was in a pale, wo- 214 MR BENOIWa LETTER. he I manisli scrawl, that would not have disgraced a scliool- girl. " If they see it," said the scribe to himself ; " they'll think it's from a lady, and won't suspect. I rather think, Mrs, Sutherland, these few lines will bring you to it !" Mr. Benoir dropped this letter into the post-office, and waited patiently for three days for an answer. .During those three days he forsook Maplewood, and played the devoted to Sophie Weldon. On the third morning he presented himself at the post-office, and inquired if there was a letter for Gaston Benoir. The postmaster fumbled through a pile in the " B " depart- ment, and at last singled out one for the name. Mr. Benoir glanced at the superscription. It was post- marked St. Mary's, and the address was in a delicate and rather peculiar female hand. His fingers closed tightly over it, while a smile so evil, so triumphant, so sinister, came over his handsome face, that it altered so you would hardly have known it. lie had not patience to wait to roach the hotel. He tore off the envelope the moment he was outside the door, and went along the quiet village road, reading. The note was as short and abrupt as his own. "I will meet you to-morrow night at nine, in the place you have named. Destroy this as soon aa read." MR. BENOIRa LETTER. 2 IS That was all. Not even an initial at the end; bat then, it was hardly necdod. As Mr. Benoir lookod up from the paper, at the sound of an advancing footstep, he found a lady passing by, staring at him as if he were the eighth wonder of the world. It is a lady's privi- lege to stare ; so Mr. Benoir lifted his hat politely, and walked on. The lady was Miss Lucy Sutherland ; and, an instant after, she stooped hastily to pick up some- thing white, lying in her path — the toni envelope of a letter, over which her hand closed as if she had found a diamond. Not until she was some yards away — not until she made sure there was no living creature to watch her, did she unclasp the envelope and look at it. No earthly emotion could redden the pallid face of Lucy Sutherland, but it almost flushed now, and her eyes kindled with a steely, fiery gleam. " So she writes to him," she thought ; " the wi^e of Arthur Sutherland writing to this handsome strolling vagabond. That was her letter he was reading as I passed him. It is coming — it is coming — the day of her downfall ; and meanwhile I will keep this piece of paper — it may be of service before long 1" i!* I 111 .1 did MR. BENOma SHADOW. \\ I CHAPTER Xiy. MR. BENOIR'3 shadow. ULALIE SUTHERLAND sat in that favor- ite scat of lisrs, the deep, curtained recess of the drawing-room window, watching the summer night fall. It had been a dull day — a day of hopeless chill and drizzle, with a low, com- plaining wind, that had moaned and sighed drearily through the trees, and a sky of lead closing down over all : a wretched day, that unstrung your nerves, and made you cross and miserable, and the highest-spirited agree with Marianna, that " life was dreary." The night closed in early this gray July day, and a servant came in to light the gas. Mrs. Sutherland turned round — she was alone in the drawing-room — and forbade her. " I don't want lights yet, Martha. Where is Miss Lucy r " In the drawing-room, ma'am, helping Susan to sort the silver." "Very well; that will do. Mr. Sutherland has Mli. BENOma SHADOW. 217 gone out to spend the evening, so there is no need of lighting the gas, just yet. That will do." The s'lrvant left the room, wondering, perhaps, at her mistress's strange fancy for sitting in the dark, and Eulalie aank back in her seat. There wa^ just light enough coming palely through the large window to show the change which a few days* illness had wrought in the Creole's dark face. So thin, so has^Gcard, so worn it looked, you might have thought she had been sick for months ; and the black, starry eyes looked un- naturally large and bright. Some inward excitement or other sent a feverish fire burning in their dark depths this evening, and on the haggard cheecks glowed two deep, crimson spots, quite foreign to her usual complexion. Her very stillness, as she sat staring straight before her at the darkening day, was full of the same suppressed excitement. Her long black hair fell loose and uncared-for over the scarlet shawl folded around her, a silky mass of ripples and ringlets. The house was very still. A golden canary-bird fluttering faintly in its gilt cage above her head ; the tick, tick, of a little French, clock on the carved chim- ney-piece; the wailing of the evening wind, and tho dull tramp of the waves on the shore — all were sharply audible in the deep hush. She was quite alone; Mr. Sutherland had gone to a dinner-party, reluctant, but with no excuse for absenting ; Lucy was busy in the 10 M w m 11 ill m 5f i p; i-' hi ,^ p •ft i ^- ' i i 1 . 1';; 1 218 ifff. BEN0IIC8 SnADOW. ;;l: 1 i hi Ui: household department, and the Swiss honne and the baby were up in the nursery. So Mrs. Sutherland sat alone in the rainy twilight, looking steadfastly out at the creeping blackness, and never seeing it. Her hands lay folded in her lap, except when she pulled out her watch to look at the hour ; but her burning impatience, her intense, suppressed excitement, showed itself in every line of her altered face. As the dark day shut down in darker night, Lucy, her housekeeper's task ended, came into the drawing- room. A faint liorht from the hall illuminated the lont? room, and showed her quick eyes the scarlet drapery, and the tancrled waves of dead-black hair. " You hero, Mrs. Sutherland ?" she said, in a voice of quiet surprise ; " and sitting in the dark !" Eulalie turned round, but in such a w^ay that the deep shadow of the amber curtains concealed her face. " Yes," she said, trying to speak in her usual voice. " I preferred the twilight. King for Martha if you wish." " I wish ! Oh, no ! If there is nothing you want me to do, I will take my work up to my room and finish it." It was one of Miss Sutherland's unsocial customs to take her work up to her chamber of an evening, instead of sitting with her cousin and his wife. She « MR BEN0IR8 SHADOW. 219 ■"1 in gathered up her spools and cambric now, and left the drawing-room, as was her wont. Oa the threshold she paused to ask a question. " Do you intend sitting up for Mr. Sutherland ?" " Yes, I think so. AVhy ?" " Because it will be unwise. He will probably not return until late, and you are not strong enough yet to lose your night's rest. Good-night !" " Hest ?" Eulalie repeated, inwardly, looking out at the darkness with a sort of despair. " Shall I ever find rest again in this world ? Shall I ever rest now, until they lay me in that last home, where all find rest alike ?" Tick, tick ! The golden hands of the little French clock told off the minutes of aLother hour, and struck up a waltz, preparatory to striking eight. A watery moon, struggling feebly through banks of rugged clouds, gleamed athwart the blackness of tlie night, and hurriedly hid itself again in billows of black. The hush of the house was profound. Eulalie sat in the stillness and darkness, like a figure of stone. Kain- drops, pattering softly against the glass, told the storm was increasing, and the wailing wind was rising high among the rocking trees. The French clock set up a lively waltz again — the hands pointed to five minutes to nine. At the sound, Eulalie started up, wrapping the large crimson shawl over her head, and around her fig- # i H I I Mntn!TTriii,,i^.^^i,y .„ . . ... . , •/ 220 Mil. BENOmS SHADOW. i ; ure, crossed the drawing-room swiftly, opened noise- lessly the long window, and stepped out into the rainy grass. Then a sudden panic of irresolution seized her. The niglit was raw and dark, the wind cried out like a human voice in agony, the trees rose up around her on every hand, tall grim goblins. The roar of the surf on the beach struck a chill of cold nameless terror to her heart. The awful mj^stery of night and solitude chilled the blood in her veins. She stopped, afraid to go on, and looked back. Some one was entering the drawing- room from the hall, and the dread of being seen there, counteracted that other d.-ead. She went on through the wet grass, and stnick into the path leading to the terrace. The memory of the night when she had w^alked that path with her dead grandfather, and heard the first warning of her mysterious danger, came back to her, with a pang like death. " Poor, j)oor grandpapa," she thought, " the danger you dreaded so much has come at last. Thank God you have not lived to see this night !" On the terrace she lingered for a moment, out of breath. She leaned against the iron railing, and looked down at the black gulf of water, roaring at her feet. " If the worst come," she thought, " and it were not a crime, how easily one could escape, after all." She dre\^- back, shuddering at her own temptation, ai til MR. DENOIR'S SHADOW. 221 and turned toward the tangled path leading through the wood to the ruined summer-house. " Xo, no, no !" she said, inwardly ; " never that 1 If what I fear does come, tliere will be no need of suicide. My days in this world will be few indeed. May Heaven strengthen me to meet the worst !" She had to feel her way among the trees along the dark pathway. A faintly glimmering light from the broken window of the summer-house told her the man she had come to meet was there before her. Iler heart ])eat so fast that she turned faint and sick. For a moment only — the next she was rapping at the closed door. It opened instantly, and Eulalie Sutherland and Gaston Bcnoir stood face to face. There was a moment's blank pause. A dark lan- tern, brought thoughtfully by the ex-Troubadour, stood lighted on the old table ; and by its uncertain glimmer the two stood looking intently at each other. Beside the lantern stood a black bottle, and a strong odor of whisky and cigar-smoke showed ho-v the gentleman had beguiled the tedious time of waiting. They stood and looked at each other. Miss Sophio "Wcldon had once remarked that Mrs. SutherhiTid and Mr. Benoir resembled each other, and Miss Weklon was right. There was a resemblance — something in the outline of the face, in the peculiar beauty of the i' I I m 223 MR. BENOma SHADOW. II' ] mouth and chin, and in the full oriental eye, not suffi- ciently marked to strike a casual observer ; but there. In that interval of silence, during which the rain beat against the broken windows, and the wind howled dis- mally through the wood, the place looked strange and eerie enough, shadows lurking fitfully in every corner, and the man and woman mutely confronting each other. Only for an instant — all Mr. Benoir's suave politeness returned then ; and, with a low bow and an easy, oU-hand manner, he drew forward the only chair the summer-house contained. " Good-evening, Mrs. Sutherland," he said, in a tone of easy familiarity ; " pray take this seat, and ac- cept my thanks for the favor of this interview and your punctuality. You see," pointing to the black bottle, and seating himself on the table, " I brought a friend with me to shorten the time of waiting. Pray sit down ; you will fatigue yourself standing." Eulalie sank into the chair, her dilated eyes, un- naturally large and bright, fixed on his face with but one expression — that of intensest fear. She would have stood, but she trembled so it was impossible. " That is right," said easy Mr. Benoir, wit) a satis- fied nod ; " now we can talk comfortably. "Were you surprised to receive my letter ?" " No." " Ah ! I thought not I You recognized me at the C( 11 m MR. BENOIR'S SHADOW. 223 re. bt lis- fid concert that night — that is to say, you recognized my name on the bills, and fainted. Well, I don't wonder ; it must have been a shock. Do you know. Mi's. Suth- erland, you gave me a shock, too, when you entered here five minutes ago ?" She did not speak. Some subtle fascination, be- yond her power to control, kept her eyes riveted im- movably to his face. *' My dear Eulalie — pardon the familiarity, but you and I don't need to stand on ceremony — you bear the most startling resemblance to your mother — you don't remember her, do you ? — and for one second, when you entered, I fancied the dead had arisen. Your grand- father — he was a sly old fox, too — must have known, if ever I saw you, I should recognize you by the re- semblance." Still she sat silent; still her widening eyes never left his face. Mr. Benoir, no way disconcerted, talked on. " You don't speak, Mrs. Sutherland, and you look frightened, I think. Don't be alarmed ; there is not the slightest occasion, I assure you. I am the most conscientious of mankind where ladies are concerned, particularly to my own — " He stopped. Eulalie had held out both hands with a sort of gasping cry. - 1^1 ■ m U r , 1 1' I II jifi Ml I*' 224 MR. BENOin'8 SHADOW. I " Don't !" she said, " don't ! don't ! don't I If you have any mercy, spare me !" " My dear clilld," said Mr. Benoir, " if you cry out like that, some one may hear you. Compose yourself ; I would not distress you for the world, especially in our first interview. By-the-bye, won't tliey miss you in there ?" nodding toward the house. " No." " Does that pale-faced, fair-haired young woman, Miss Sutherland, know you are out ?" " I think not." " That's ri«;ht ; keep her in the dark ; she's as keen as a razor, that demure damsel. And now let's come to business ; for it's confoundedly raw in here, and I have a long walk before me in the wind and rain. How long have you known your own story ?" " Not three years." " Ah ! that cunning old fox kept it as long as he could. You knew it before you were married ?" " Yes," she answered, shivering and drawing her shawl closer around her. ^ Mr. Sutherland doesn't know, of course ?" " No." "No one in all this big world knows it but you and I ?" " No one." Mr. Benoir's black eyes flashed with triumphant Mil. BKNOliriS SHADOW. 2*25 )U ^ > malice ; Mr. Benuir'ti luiiulsome face wore the look of a demon. " Then, my pretty little Eulalie, you are utterly and entirely and irrevocably in my power ! Mine, al- most body and soul !" She rose up, came a step forward, and fell down on her knees before him, holding up her clasped hands. " Spare me !" she cried ; " for God's sake have mercy on me 1 1 am in your power beyond earthly hope ; l)ut be merciful, as you expect mercy. For my huslKUid's sake, for my child's sake, for my dead mother's sake, have mercy 1" His face darkened and grew stern as he looked down on her from under his bent black brows. " Get up, Mrs. Sutherland," he said, "you look at me with your mother's face, and speak to me with your mother's voice, but it only hardens me the more. What did your mother care for me ? What right have I to cherish her memory ? I have a long debt of ven- geance to pay off. I owe that dead grandfather of yours a long score, and I am afraid you must settle it. Got up, Eulalie Sutherland. I threaten nothing, I promise nothing. I only say this : I am not a man to forget or forgive. Get up, I say, and listen to me." He held out his hand to assist her, but she shraidv froni his touch, and arose, precipitately. Mr. Benoir burst into a laugh. 10* ?ti! ■i Ji 220 Mil niCNOfirS SUA DOW. " You (lonH like to tou{;li mc, my pretty Eulallo; tliere is pollution in it, isn't there i Is it the hhi'jk blood in my veins you are afraid of, or what? Don't be too faritidious, my dainty little rosebud, you may find it in your way hereafter. I say, have you got any money ?" i( No." " You little simpleton ! Let me see that ring on your left hand. A diamond, by Jove I Diamonds aro very pretty — ^ive it to me I" Eulalie yhrank back. • " I cannot," she said, " it is my husband's gift." " Let him give you another, then ; tell him you lost it. Give it me." " No, no," she pleaded faintly, " not that \ li you \jjant money, you shall have it, as much as you desire, but not this I" "I will have this and the money, too. Give me that ring." She dared not refuse. She dropped the ring into his extended hand, trembling before hmi. Mr. Benoir held it to the light, the splendid jewel flashing forth rainbow-fire, and put it com])lacentl} on his little finger. " Thanks, my pretty Eiiialie It is a tight fit, but I can wear it, 1 think. It will t^erve to remind me of you, njy dear, until we meet again. When am X to have that happiness ?" Mil BENOIR'S SHADOW. 237 I " Wliy do you ask mc'^' said Euljilio, hor voico trembling pitiably ; "you know it must be wlicnevor you wish." " Very true — but I like to bo as accommodating as possible. I don't know at present when I shall take a fancy to have another chat in this airy little rendezvous — when I do, I shall drop you a line. How much money can you conveniently spare me to-morrow ?" " How much do you want ?" " Let mo see," Mr. Bonoir said, reflectively. " I like to begin moderately. Suppose we say a thousand dollars." " I cannot get you so much to-morrow," replied Eulalie; "you will have to wait a day or two. Is there nothing else — I must be going ?" " Are you in such a hurry to leave me ? Well, I'm in a hurry myself ; so it's no matter. No, there's noth- ing more at present — I'll see you again before long, and again and again. I don't mean to drop your charming acquaintance, my pretty Eulalie, now that I've made it. Fellows, like me, knocking about this big world and getting more kicks than halfpence, don't often get into such society as Fm movin,*^ in at present. Talking of knocking about, do you know, Mrs. Sutherland, I have searched every inch of this habitiiblo globe for you, and was about gi^^ing up the hunt when I came here and met you. You'll send che money in a day or two with« out fail ?" ^ Ml a 1)1 I i I* 223 MR. BENOIWS SHADOW. m " I will send you ^lie money," Eulalie said " Heaven knows how gladly I would buy your silence with every farthing I possess. But before you go — you have not promised to keep my secret." " No," said Mr. Benoir, getting off the table ; " and what's more, I don't mean to promise. No, my pretty little Eulalie, you are the image of your mother, and I don't forget her or my own wrongs, or the debt I owe old Rohan, and old Rohan's son, and I won't promise. They're both dead, so they can't pay the debt ; but you, whom they both loved, are alive, a^d must. I hate to be ungallant to a lady, particularly a young and pretty uie; but, my little beauty, I really am afraid you must." She covered her face with her hands, with a low, despairing cry. Mr. Benoir pocketed the black bottle, took uj) his dark-lantern, pulled up the collar of his overcoat, pulled down his felt hat over his eyes, and tu^rned toward the door. Eulalie dropped her hands from before her face — her face, blanched to the color of death, and held them out to him in a last appeal. " Can nothing buy your silence ? Can nothing of all I possess tempt you to be secret V " Nothing, my pretty Eulalie." " Have you no pity for me — a w^ak, helpless girl, who has never w^ronged you ?" " My dear Mrs. Sutherland," Mr. Benoir said, with ::i !*'' • MR. BEN0IW8 SHADOW. 229 a sardonic smile ; " you are a Christian, t. most devoted daughter of the Old Church, they tell me, and you know where it is written ' The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children, even unto the third and fourth generations. ' Satan quoting Scripture, eh ? Good night, my pretty little Eulalie ; don't stand too long here, or you may catch cold. I shall expect to hear from you in the course of the week — until then adieu, and au revoir /" He raised his hat with ceremonious politeness, but with that derisive smile still on his handsome, sinister face, and went out. The path through the wood was in inky blackness — the slanting rain drove in his face, and the blast waved and surged, like the voice of an aui^ry giant, through the trees. The dark lantern he carried served to show hii'" the wav tlirouf]jh the gloomy woodhmd aisle. " A bad night," thought Mr. Benoir, looking up at the black sky ; " and a dismal walk from here to St. Mary's. But if it were raining cats, dogs, and pitch- forks, I should go through it all for the sake of the interview that is just past. Poor little Eulalie ! what an unlucky little beauty it is, after all ! If tlie debt I owe the Rohaus were a trifle less heavy tlian it i.s, 1 should be tempted to take her fortune, every stiver of it, and then let her go. As it is, that is out of tlie question. Gold is sweet, but revenge is sweeter. Mo, !: l\ % i ■n 230 MR. BEN0IW8 SHADOW. my poor little, pretty little Eulalie, there is no help for you. Oh, confound it I I shall break my neck !" Stumbling along in the darkness, under the drip- ping trees, with the wind and rain in his face, Mr. Benoir had enough to do to preserve the even tenor of his way, without looking behind him. A dark, shadowy figure, flitting noiselessly along after him, was therefore unseen — a figure that stopped when he stopped, that hurried on when he hurried on, and that never lost sight of him. A figure that had followed him from St. Mary's earlier in the evening, that had watched him through the grounds of Maplewood at a safe distance ; and that, crouching under the trees behind the summer-house, had waited until the inter- view within was over. A figure that kept steadily behind him, like his own shadow — a woman's figure, slender and tall, wearing a long black mantle, w4th the hood down over hor head. That shrouding hood would have hid her face, even if there had been light enough to show it — but she was only a blacker shadow among shadows, moving swiftly and noiselessly, as a shadow should. Mr. Benoir, absorbed in his own dark, venge- ful thoughts, never once looked back, never once dreamed that the destroying angel was stealthily and surely on his own track I ' HKBECGA THE nOU>'SEMAlD. 2ai 'III CHAPTER XT. REBECCA, THE HOUSEMAID. TSS LUCY SUTHERLAND, in her capacity of housekeeper at Maplewood, was not very much liked. The servants had a way of stigmatizing her as " that sneaking cat," from a fashion she had of stealing upon them unob- served and noiseless, ind at the most unexpected time. If Elizabeth the cook, or Fanny the waitress, smuggled their young men in for lunch in the kitchen, or a stolen tete-a-tete in the servants' hall. Miss Lucy glided down upon them, shod witli the shoes of silence, pale and vengeful. Elizabeth the cook threw up her situa- tion after a week or two, in disgust. " I ain't no fault to find with you or master, ma'am," Elizabeth said, in explanation, to Euklie ; *' you're a^ good as gold, both ; and keep your places as ladies and gentlemen slionJd, and does not go a pryin' and a sneakin' into the kitchen^ where you ain't no business, at all times and sensons, hindering of folks from doing their work, and hunting round like an old i • V :l i! I 9'{0. llEBFdCA THE UOUSEMAID. cat after a mouse, for followers. I can't staiiG it, ma'am, and I won't ; so I give notice and leaves when my month's up." Elizabeth left accordingly ; and so did Fanny the waitress, and Sarah the housemaid. Another cook and waitress were procured, after some trouble ; for Miss Lucy was hard to please in the matter of qualifications and reference, and applicants were few and far between. The housemaid seemed to be a still more difficult matter ; half-a-dozen had applied, been weighed, and found wanting, and the office was still open. Miss Sutherland sat in the housekeeper's room, in an arm-chair before a table, poring over accounts. A pretty room, and sacred to Miss Lucy ; a bright-tinted carpet on the floor, pretty j)ictures on the papered walls, lounges and easy chairs scattered about. The table was strewn with bills, receipts, and passbooks ; and Miss Sutherland, pen in hand, Avas busy balancing her ledij^er. The mornino: sunlic^ht streamed in an amber flood through the open window, and the songs of countless birds and the scent of lilac and rose-tree came in on the morning breeze. No trace of last night's storm remained ; the sky was as blue as Miss Lucy's blue e3'es, and a great deal brigliter. Suddenly, a shadow came between her and the sunlight ; and, looking up, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland, arm in arm, loitering past, on their way to the terrace. REBECCA THE HOUSEMAID. 288 Arthur looked Imndsome and bappy ; he was laugh- ingl}'' relating some incident of the previous ev^ening's entertainment, and Eulalie looked, as she always did, beautiful. Iler long black ringlets, falling behind her taper waist, were just shown off by the white muslin skirt, and the rosy ribbons that trimmed it lent a glow to the creamy pallor of the Creole face. Young and handsome, rich and happy, loving and l)eloved — surely they were an enviable pair. Lucy Sutherland's wrongs — the love she had given unsought, the miserable, sin- ful, hidden passion that gnawed at her heart still, and made her life a torment, rose up in wrathful rebellion as she looked. " How long the time is coming !" she said to her- self ; " how long, how long ! Of what use to me are my suspicions, or the tangible evidence of her own handwriting, addressed to this strange man, without further proof. Where was she last night, out in the storm ? She looked like a living corpse, when I met her, stealing in, dripping wet, and started back from me as if I had been a ghost. How he bends over her, looking down in her sallow, baby face, and big, mean- ingless black eyes, as if there was no one in he world but herself ! Arthur Sutherland, you are a fool where that pale-faced, foreign hypocrite is concerned ; and 1 will prove it to your satisfaction and my own somo day, before long. Well, what do you want ?" i i\ In li I 284 REBECCA TUE HOUSEMAID. t She turned liarslily upon the servant who entered, and whose knock she had not deigned to answer. " Miss Lncy, there is a young woman in the kitchen cotne after tlie housemaid's place." " Who is she ? Where does she come from ?" " From Boston, she says. She is a very respectable- looking young woman, and brings first-class references, she says." " Show her in, then." The girl retreated for a minute, and re-appeared, showing in the new applicant for the housemaid's place. Miss Sutherland, something of a physiognomist, was struck at the first glance by the young woman. Slie stood before her, stately and tall, slender and graceful — a handsome young woman, beyond a doubt. Her face was so tliin and dark, and the crimson of her cheeks and lips so living and vivid, that it startled you strangely. Her eyes were as black and glittering as glass beads, and her coal-black hair was straight and tliick as an Indian's. There might have been some- thing fierce, perhaps, in those glittering black eyes ; something bitter and shrewish in the sharply-com- pressed lips ; but she stood respectfully enough before the young lady, to be inspected. Her dr jss was very simple, and exquisitely neat. " You have come about the housemaid's place," Miss Sutherland said, at length, motioning her to a seat. , REBECCA THE UOUSEMAID. 235 "Yes, Miss," the young woman replied, sitting down, with her gloved hands folded in her lap, and looking steadfastly at Miss Sutherland out of her shin- ing dark eyes. ■^ " What is your name ?" " Rebecca Stone." " Where did you live last ?" " "With a family in Boston, Miss ; I have my refer- ences with me. I came to St. Mary's a few days ago, to see some friends ; and hearing you wanted a house- maid, I thought I would apply for the place. I am sure I can give satisfaction. Miss." The young woman spoke with a fluent ease and a quiet self-possession that impressed Miss Sutherland. She took another steadfast and suspicious look at her, but the black-eyed young woman did not flinch. " How old are you ?" was the next query. " Twenty-five, Miss." " And how long have you been at service ?" " A great many years, Miss, in the very best fami- lies. Here is my character from the last lady I lived with, Mrs. Walker, of Beacon street." Lucy glanced carelessly over the paper. " She speaks well of you," she said ; " we are very much in need of a housemaid at present ; and I like youi appearance better than that of the other appli- cants ; so, if the terms suit you, you may come." ■ ' I l:i 236 ItEBEGCA THE HOUSEMAID, (( (( (( )> The terms suit me very well, Miss. Yes. And when can you come ?" Eight away, Miss. I can get my things fetched up to-night. )j a Th » hat will do. King the bell, please.' The new housemaid obeyed. " I suppose you understand," said l^Iiss Sutherland, " that no followers are allowed ?" A faint smile dawned and faded on the young woman's face. " I understand. Miss. I don't think I shall give you any trouble on that head." Again Lucy looked at her suspiciously. There was something in her tone and manner of speaking unlike that of any one of her class she had ever had to deal with. But the handsome, bold, brunette face before her was as unreadable as a page of Sanskrit ; and Rosa, the waitress, came in before she could ask any more questions. " Rosa," Miss Sutherland said, " this is the new liousemaid. Her name is Rebecca, and she can sleep with you. She is going to remain now ; so fetch her up-stairs, and let her take oH her things." Rebecca followed Rosa out ; and Lucy looked after the tall, stately figure of her new servant, with a glance of considerable interest. " There is character in the gypsy face of liat girl," REBECCA THE UOUSEMAID. 237 she said to licrself ; " tliosc bold, l)laek eyes of hers aro very largo print indeed. I don't think blie has been a housemaid all her life, her assertion to the contrary notwithstanding. I shall keep my eye on her, I tliink." Once again the sunlight was darkened. Air. and Mrs. Sutherland were loitering back in most lover-like fashion, and the sight drove the new housemaid out of lier thoughts. She resumed her work, but with a dark frown disfiguring her pale face. She could not grow used to the daily sight of the happiness of these two. It half maddened her sometimes to see them loving and beloved, and blessed with all earthly blessings, and feel that it was out of her power to blight that happiness. No Indian savage could have been more thoroughly cruel, and cold-blooded, and revengeful, than she. She could have seen the woman she hated tied to a stake, and burning to death ; and folded her arms, and smiled at the sight. Miss Sutherland kept her promise to watch the new honsemaid, but she only had her labor for her pains. Kebecca's conduct was above reproach. No housemaid had ever given such satisfaction at Maplewood before. No duty was loft unfulfilled, no work was slighted or neglected. She had a rapid, tidy w^ay of doing things, that left her considerable time to herself, but she never seemed to want it. When her rcicular duties were ^ ' I i \ « J[ -I ^■::TiL' :^ ' ^\iSJ '* 238 REBECCA THE HOUSEMAID. concluded, and she miglit liavc amused herself gossiping in the kitclien with her fellow-servants, she would come to Miss Sutherland for sewing, and sit at one of the front windows hy herself, stitching away industriously. She was altogether such a model, this Rebecca, that Lucy took quite a fancy to her, before the end of the first week. This in itself would have been enough to make her fellow-servants dislike her, but her silent and reticent manner had already done that. Cook and lady's maid, waitress and coachman, joined together in Btigm.atizing her as " that stuck-up thing," and lost no opportunity of making her feel their petty malice. But Rebecca had the temper of an angel, and nothing ever came of it. The black eyes might flash flame, the thin lips compress until nothing remained of them but a crimson line, the dark face might pale with suppressed anger, but no explosion took place. If she had a tem- per to match those flaming black eyes, it was well under control. The suppressed fire might break out to terri- ble purpose, you could see, but not while that iron will held it chained. She was Miss Sutherland's puzzle, still — the reticence of the girl matched her own, and baffled her, and she could learn nothing more of her past history than she had heard that first day. The handsome housemaid created more sensation at Maple- wood than ever housemaid created before. Even Arthur was struck by her appearance. REBECCA THE nOUSEMAID. 239 " I say, Lucy," he said one day, when Rehecca swept in her stately way across the drawiTig-room, with baby Euhilieiu her arms ; " where did you i)ick up this new handmaiden ? She looks more like an Indian c[iiccu than an every-day domestic." Lucy explained. " She's a remarkable-looking young person," said Mr. Sutherland, stretching himself on a lounge, and opening the morning paper ; " and very decidedly good-looking. She'll have all the stable-boys about the place falling in love with her, if you're not careful, Lucy." But Rebecca kept stable-boys and everything else masculine at a discreet distance. They might admi/e those flashing black eyes, and tar -black tresses, but they must admire afar off. She never gossiped, she never flirted, she never idled, this remarkable new house- maid. With the plain sewing Miss Sutherland gave her, she would sit at one of the front windows and work as if her life depended on it, until the stars shone in the sky. She was the pink and perfection of house- maids, but Lucy Sutherland was not satisfied. All secrecy, and self-suppression, and industry only made her the more suspicious. "Why is she so secretive of her past life?" she thought ; " why does she avoid her fellow-servants, and keep steadily to herself? Why is she in so much k n ! . ! 210 EKDECCA THE HOUSEMAID. '\' liurry with her proper work, and bo fond of sitting sew- in*^ at tlio front windows ? There is more in all this tlian meets tlie eye." Miss Sutherland, as usual, was riglit. Rebecca, the housemaid, like herself, was on the watch ; and the person watched for came in the beginnin*^ of the second week. It was a sultry August evening — not a breath of air stirring the maples and hendocks, and the setting sun piercing their greenish gloom with long lances of red fire. The gii-1 sat watching the western sky^ flooded with the scarlet glory of the sunset, and crossed with billows of yellow gold. The red light flashed back from her brilliant eyes, and wove gleams of flro in the waves of her iidv-black hair, gilded the roses on her cheeks, and lighted her bright, dark face with a new beauty. She sat with her chin on her hand, looking at all this glory of coloring, her work, fur once, dro^^ping idly in her lap — lost in thought. The quiet lionse was as still, this hot August evening, as the enchanted castle of the Sleeping Beauty. No Bonnd londer than the slipping of a snake among the dry underbrush, the chirping of a restless bird in its nest, or the mysterious fluttering of leaves stirred by no wind, came to distiu'b her reverie. The sound of tlie sea was like the faint, ceaseless sound of an seolian harp, and Maple wood was Iiushed in the deep calm of eventide. The servants had drawn their chairs out ' I liEBECCA THE UOUSEMAID. 24t into tlio cool porcli, and were enjoying tlicinselvcs tliere ; but thin unsociiil Ile])eccji liad no doKirc to join tlicni. Slie sat there as still as if the calm enchantment of the place and hour had fallen upon her, too : or as if, like the Sleeping JJeauty, she waited for the coming of the prince to rouse her to life. Slowly, out of the sunset sky, the blaze of the sun- set fire died. Slowly it paled and faded, and the big white August moon sailed up, serene amid the constel- lations in the deep-blue arch. With the moonlight came the prince, as if he ))elonged to it, heralded by vapory, scented circles of cigar-smoke. Darkly splendid — handsome enough for any earthly prince — Mr. Gaston Benoir lounged up the avenue, smoking at his ease. Beauty unadorned is something very nice, no doubt ; but beauty adorned in the height of the faiBhion is something considerably nicer. The ex-Troubadour had rejuvenated his outward man within the last week, and appeared now arrayed within an inch of his life, but in perfect taste. Yery few could have looked at Mr. Benoir, thus dressed, and in the dusky splendor of his southern beauty, without turning to look again, as they might at some exquisite picture. The handsome housemaid, from her post at the window, looked at him with a strange, wild fire gleaming in her black eyes. There was something fiercely-passionate, eager, and 11 I !l ■ii 24^ REBECCA THE HOUSEMAID. tender, withal, in tliat look ; and the color came and went on her face, and her breath cangLt itself in flutter- ing gusts. " At last !" she said, between her set teeth, " at last — at last he has come I" Screened by heavy damask curtains, the girl sat and watched him, with that dusky tire in her eyes, and that passionate light in her face, until he turned off round an angle, and was hid by the trees. The last rays of the daylight had faded ; the moon's silver radiance flooded the trees and lawns and gardens and ierraces with the light of day. Rebecca rose up, pale with mi- ward excitement, ran up to her room, threw a black shawl loosely over her head, came noiselessly down stairs, and left the house unobserved. There had been a dinner-party that day, and the family were assembled in the drawing-room. Miss Lucy, ever on the watch, was safely oat of the way. Out in the moonlight, Rebecca turned in the direction of the seaview terrace, the path Mr. Benoir had taken, and beheld that gentle- man leaning lightly on the railing, smoking still, and watching the boats gliding in and out of the moonlight. The ouRpmaid stood still in the shadow cast by a clump of cedars, and waited. He had not heard her, and, en- joying his cigar and the viev/ of moonlight on the ocean, wa^s very slow in turning round. Her dark REBECCA THE nOUSEMAID. 243 dress and tlie gloom in wliicli she stood kept him from seeing her at first, but slie let the shawl slip loose ofi her head, took one step forward into the light, with hia name on her lips : " Gaston I" I . 244 A LITTLE TANGLE CHAPTEK XYI. A LITTLE TANGLE IN MR. BENOIR'S WEB. K. GASTON BE:^TC)IR was a gentleman whose admirable self-possession was not to be easily disturbed ; but he started back now in something that was very like con- sternation. " The — devil !" said Mr. Benoir. Lucy Sutherland's strange housemaid came fully out into the broad sheet of moonlight ; her long, straight black hair tumbling loose about her shoulders ; her great, fierce, black eyes shining like ebon stars. "No, Gaston, not your master; only one of his angels. You hardly expected ; find me here, did you V Gaston Benoir replaced his cigar, which, in the shock of the moment he had taken out — all his own cool, phlegmatic self once more. " Expect to see you here !" he said. " I should as soon have expected to see Queen Victoria 1 "Where did you drop from, Rebecca?" ,^ 1 a JJH MB. BENOma WED. 245 From New York last. I tracked yon from that ?) city here. " Trucked me, did yon I Come, I like that ! And what are yon doing here, pray ?" " I am the honsemaid." "The what?" cried Mr. Benoir, aghast. " The honsemaid," calmly replied Rebecca ; *^ and I flatter mysslf Miss Lncy Sntherland never possessed snch a domestic treasure before." Mr. Benoir expressed his feelings in a prolonged whistle. " Well," he said, " Solomon — I think it was Solo- mon, or some other wiseacre — says, ' There is nothing new nndor the sun,' and I used to believe it ; but hang me if I ever believe it after this. Hebecca Isaacs a housemaid ! That goes a little ahead of anything I ever dreamed of." "Rebecca Stone, if you please. There is no such person as Rebecca Isaacs. Are you not curious to find out how I discovered you were here ?" " No ; it's clear enough. That confounded minstrel- troupe, I suppose." " Exactly. I followed you from New Orleans to New York, from New York to St. Mary's, without pausing." " The deuce you did I" said Mr. Benoir, with any- ' * 240 A LITTLE TANGLE tiling but an expression of rapture. " And now that you're here, wliat do you want, Miss Stone ?" Miss Stone's big black eyes flashed. " What do I want ? And is it Gaston Benoir who asks that question ?" " At your service, Mademoiselle. I never change my name." She stood and looked at him — very white, her black eyes fierce and wild in the misty moonlight. " Then you have nothing at all to say to me, Gaston Benoir ?" " No, my dear," said Mr. Benoir, taking her fierce regards very quietly ; " nothing that I know of except — good night." lie lifted his hat and was walking away ; but Ke- becca, the housemaid, stepi)ed before him, and barred his path. With her wild black hair falling loose about her —her deadly pallor and flaming eyes, she looked like some dark prophetess of other days, or some tragedy- qu-'on of modern times. "^0," she said, in a voice deep, suppressed, but non.3 the less threatening. " No, Gaston — we do not part like this. I have not traveled over land and sea, for many a weary day and night, to be left at your sovereign pleasure. No, Gaston, not good night yet 1" " As you please, my dear Rebecca j only this place IN MR. BENOIRB WEB. 247 t t being open to every one, and the distance to my hotel of the longest, do be good enough to cut it short." The suppressed passion throbbing intlie girl's white face miglit have warned him ; but he was not to be warned. He stood, leaning carelessly against the trunk of a tree, slowly puffing out clouds of scented vapor, the moonliMit illuminatincr his handsome face, and flasliing back from tlie diamond ring he wore on his little finger. Provokingly nonchalant he stood there, returning Rebecca's fiery glare with supremest uncon- cern. " My dear girl," he said, starting up, before the pas- sion she was holding in check would permit her to speak ; " if we have to enjoy a tete-a-tete by moonlight, we really must not stand here. Take my arm, and come this way ; I know a nice, secluded path, where you can talk and I can smoke to our hearts' content, unobserved. By the way, I hope you don't dislike my cigar — you usen't to, I remember. Ah ! this is quite like old times, is it not, Rebtcca?" He drew the girl's arm within his own, and led her down an avenue, lonely enough for anything ; where quiet maples shut out even the moonlight. A few bright rays, slanting through the boughs, made lines of light on the turf ; and no sound but the solcinn mur- mur of the sea and the trees awoke the echoes of this lonesome forest aisle. Perhaps it was the solemnity of I ^' r III vx ■ I 'I iJ !•: if ; t* i 218 A LITTLE TANOLE the place — perhaps it was something in her compan- ion's last words that made the girl's gypsy-face alter 80. The white fury tl) ?re an instant before vanished, and a look of impassioned appeal and despairing love came there instead. She clasped botli hands round his arm, and looked np in his handsome face, with all a woman's love, and despair, and hope, in her great black eyes. " Old times," she said. " Oh, Gaston ! you have not forgotten old times ?" Some memory of the past rose np from her heart and choked lier voice. Mr. Benoir took ont his cigar and daintily knocked off the ashes with the tip of his little linixer. " Forget ! of course not. Any more than I ever forget your o^vn dark face, my gypsy ! Oh, no ; I have an excellent memory, I flatter myself." " And remembering, you could meet me as you did, and speak to me as you did, not two minutes ago. Oh, Gaston, you have nearly broken my heart.' Again there came that hysterical choking in her throat. Mr. Benoir took out his cigar once more in some alarm. If anything in this mortal life disturbed his equanimity, it was a scene, and there seemed con- siderable danger of that annoyance just at present. " Now, Rebecca, don't ! dont, I beg ! don't make a scene. Don't agitate yourself, my dear girl ! it will do you no good, and it will ruffle my feelings beyond de- IN MR. BENOmS WEB. 249 ^' Ir Bcription. Say wliat you want to say quietly — there is nothing in this world like doing things quietly ; and the worst of you women is, that you never can be brought to understand it. You will flare up; you will go ofl into hysterics at a moment's notice ; you will persist in being agitated, and ecstatic, and enthusiastic and ridiculous in the extreme. It is a universal failing of the sex, lamentable to a degree. Calm yourself, my dear Rebecca ; take your time; don't be in a hurry. Say what you want to say, by all means; but do it with Christian composure, 1 beg." The black-eyed housemaid listened to this harangue as if she neither heard nor comprehended. Both hands were still clasped round liis arm — the bold, bright eyes, looking straight before her, not at the leafy arcade through which the moon-rays sifted, but into the past, were soft and misty with love's remembrances. Mr. Benoir, resuming his cigar, regarded his fair companion in some perplexity. " If pretty little Sophie were here now," he thought, " wouldn't there be a row ! Thank goodness she's not. Confound the women ! what a nuisance the whole race are ; and this she-devil beside me, the worst of all !" " Gaston," said the girl, " you loved me once ; in those old days, when I was so very, very happy, when I be- lieved, and trusted, and loved you with my whole heart. Gaston, you deserted me — no, do not deny it ; you know 11* 1 ; n |i v-f, If i I ; I 250 A LITTLE TANGLE \\\ )3| yon (lid. You grew tired of my dark face, and wild l)lack eyes ; and you left me. Once I thought, before I knew you, that no man could do that and live. I am a Jewess, and I suppose there is fierce blood in my veins; but I loved ycu so well! — oh, so well, Gaston, that you never can fathom one iota of that passionate woioiilp. I loved you so well that I forg.'ive your de- sertion, and became a coward ; as poor, pitiful and weak a craven us any love-siok woman can be. I fol- lowed you here, ciiring nothing for long, weary days of travel, for hunger, slec])less nights, for no toil, or trial, or disappointment, so that I found you, so that I won you to love me again. I have found you, Gaston ; and now, is all the love of other days dead so coon for poor Rebecca ?" She looked at him with a look that is sometimes seen in the eyes of dogs, crouching at their master's feet, expecting a blow. Usually her color was bright enough ; but the pale, cold moonlight itself was not paler than her face now. Mr. Benoir had smoked out his cigar, and threw it among the ferns and strawberry vmes, where it glowed like a red sinister eye watching them. " My dear Rebecca," Mr. Benoir began, in an ex- postulating tone, ^' I told you not to excite yours'^lf — • to be Cctlm ; and yoii. are excited, and you are i ot calm. You are as white as a ghost, and your big black eyes 111- w^) IN Mli. DENOms VrED. 251 r are tliushirig sparks of lir^, Come, bo a good girl ; give mc a kiss, and make up Incnds.'" This was soothing ; but, perhaps, not as satisfactory [Id be wished. Mr. Bi kissed hi an answer as couia be wisaea. Mr. lienoir as composedly as he did everything else ; and the girl's head fell on his shoulder with a great gasping sob. Esau sold his birthright for something to eat — character- istic of the sex ; had Esau been a woman, he would have sold it for a kiss, and thought he had a bargain ! Yol.1 see, a woman madly in love is blind, mad, and a fool ; let the happy m:in tell her Ijlack is white, and she will believe him, against the evidence of her own eye- siffht and the assertion of all the world. Younijc women witli big black eyes and tar-black hair are apt ti» love and hate pretty strongly ; and really Mr. Benoir was as handsome ai;; an angel. '' Love me little, h)ve me long,'' is the most sensiljle of old adages — this love at furnace heat is not the kind that lasts ; and its unhappy vic- tims, tortured by it for a time, are very likely to go off into the other extreme of hatred and abhorrence at a moment's notice. * Mr. Benoir came to a halt in the moonlit arcade, and put his arm round Luc}' Sutherland's housemaid's waist — it was the least any young man, not a St. Kevin, could do — and v/aited witli exemplary patience for a fit of hysterical sobbing to pass oif. " It's very odd," said Mr. Bei\oir to himself, phil- ;t . },* «!• I ! r^^-^^rr'o 253 A LITTLE TAN-OLE osophically, " the nature of thcso women. Now, if I liad tokl this girl to go to the deuce, and be done with it, she would have flared up, no doubt — she's the kind to do it — but she would not have shed a tear. Instead, for the sake of peace and quietness, I give her a kiss, wliich, I suppose, is what she wants, and lo ! she drops down and drenches my coat-collar immediately. I wish I had never made love in my life. I wish I was well out of this scrape. Rebecca Isaacs is not the kind of woman one can court for pastime and desert at pleas- ure. I shall have to tell lies by the yard to keep her quiet for the present, at least. '^ As telling lies was quite in Mr. Benoir's line of life, and as he was as perfect in the art as it is possible for poor human nature to be, it was no difficult task to de- ceive a woman who loved him. " I acted wrong in going off as I did, beyond a doubt," Mr. Benoir admitted, with captivating frank- ness. " I don't ask you to excuse that, Rebecca ; but believe me when I tell you no other has ever taken your place. I am not the sort of fellow to fall in love and out every other week, and I always intended when I had a few thousands saved to go South and be mar- ried. I knew you would wait for me, Rebecca ; but, somehow, the thousands are very slow in coming What with going round, and one thing and another, a fellow's money goes before he knows it, and it is aa y A IN MR. DENOWa WED, 233 much as he can do to keep himself, much less a wife. There, yon have it ; and I never mean " — said Mr. Benoir, with the air of a Spartan — " to marry until I can support a wife as a wife should be supported." " Gaston," Rebecca said, her dark oyes soft and beautiful in their new and happy light ; " do you think one who loved you would care for your poverty ? Oh, my love ! you know me better than that !" " And I know myself," said Mr. Duiioir, lirndy. " I care for you a great deal too much to entail on you the trials of a poor man's wife. No, Rebecca, you must have faith in me, and wait a little longer. My prospects are brighter just at present than they have been for years." Some secret exultation in his tone that he could not quite repress made the girl look at him, and notice, for the first time, the new broadcloth suit and flashing diamond ring. " You have a prosperous look, Gaston," she said. " What are the prospects of which you speak ?" " Ah !" said Mr. Benoir, mysteriously, " that is my secret. A little speculation, my dear — a speculation, that, I think, Avill make me a nch man." " Is it anything connected with Mrs. Sutherland ^" she asked. Mr. Benoir stood still, abruptly, his dark face paling, his eyes full of sudden alarm. "s. ! i' \\ i f r 1 , ':i 2.) I A LITTLE TANGLE ti Mrs. Siitlierlund !" he repeated. " VVluat do you ?5 know of Mrs. Siitlujrland, llehecea Isaaes ? " So," said Rtjhecca, quietly, " I see I am ri«^iit. It was Mrs. Sutherland, then, who met you last Thursday iiii'ht in the summer-house over there. I never waa quite sure of it until now." With that startled pallor still on his face, the ex- Trouhadour grasped the girPs arm with a grip that made ht'r wince. " I say, Jiebecca," he cried, liis eyes fierce, his mouth stern, " I want to know v iiat this means. How came you to know anything of my meeting Mrs. Sutherland in the summer-house ? Have you been at your old tricks — acting the sj)y ?" " Yes. Let go my arm, sir I You Imi-t me !" " I shall hurt you worse, perhaps," said Mr. Benoir, between his set teeth, " before I have done. Tell me what you have heard ?" " I heard nothing. Let go my arm, I tell you, Gaston ! You hurt me !" " You heard nothing !" said Mr. Benoir, slightly re- leasing his grasp, but still stern and pale. " How do you come to know anything at all of the matter, then ?" " Simply enough," Rebecca replied. " I came to St. Mary's that very day, and stoj)pcd in the hotel opposite yours. From my window^, I watched you loitering all the afternoon, in and out, on the veranda, i IN Mil. DENOIR'S WICB. 2.59 ^ 8iii(jkin«ij niid rcadiiii^; and at dusk, I saw you Htart for ]\Ia[)lu\vood. I followed you — don't scowl, (Jaston — I had reason to distrust you — followed you to Maple- wood through the rain and dju'kncss, saw you enter the Buniiner-houae, and crouc^hed down outside to watch and wait. Half an hour after I saw a woman enter; a little woman, so mullled up tliat I could not sec her face, alt]iou<5h I did my best. Neither could I liear — apiin no fault of ndne ; and when you left the sununer- liouse, I followed you hack to the villiij^e. I thoui^lit that ni^'ht the woman who stole to meet you was my successful rival, and how I hated her, all uidcnown ! AVhat dark thoughts the devil was puttinpj in my head as I walked after you in the dai'kness, perhaps it is as well f(jr your peace of mind not to know." Mr. Benoir drew a lon:^ breath of unspeakable relief, lie knew the woman he was talking to, ho knew when to believe her, and when to doubt. She ■was telling the truth now, and he was safe — she had not heard what had passed, after all. Once more, he drew her arm within his own — they had been standing all this time — and recommenced his walk up and down the shadowy -puth. " I don't doubt it ! You felt like running your stiletto into me — didn't you, my love ? Arc you jealous still?" " No." '> 'i! i '1; '! m ill :l m. 256 A LITTLE TANGLE " And wliy not, pray?" ^' Because I have seen Mrs. Sutherland since that night ; and I know it was she who met you in the Bummer-house." " The deuce ! How do you know it ?" " I looked well at my supposed rival, Gaston — her 'height, her gait ; and no one at Maplewood corresponds with the height and gait of tiie woman who met you but Mrs. Sutherland." " Well," said Mr. Benoir, looking at her sideways from under liis eyelashes ; " and supposing it to have been Mrs. Sutherland — Mrs. Sutherland is a very pretty woman : the prettiest woman I think I ever saw — your pardon, my love; why are you not jealous still?" " Because Mrs. Sutherland does not love you !" " Ah I Are yen sure ?" " Quite sure," said Rebecca, calmly. " Mrs. Suther- land does not love you, and does love her husband with her whole hoart's devotion. No, Gaston, I am not jealous. Mrs. Sutherland met you that night, I am convinced, but aot to play the false wife. Whatever brought her to commit such an act of folly, love has no share in it." " You are right, Rebecca," Mr. Benoir said, with sudden gravity ; " lovo had no share in it. Since you know so nmch, I may as well tell you more. Mrs. Siitherland did meet me that night, very much against ' IN MR. BENOIWa WEB. 257 ' her will, poor little woman; but the secret that gives me power over her is no guilty amour. Slie is no rival of yours, Rebecca. She hates me, as I suppose an angel would hate Lucifer ; and there is little love lost. Some day I will tell you what this secret is ; some day, when you are my wife. And," thought Mr. Benoir, considering the sentence mentally, " it is very likely I will, when you arc my wife." " "When I am your wife," repeated the girl, wearily. " Ah 1 how very, very long that time is in coming. I had hoped long ago to have been your wife." " The time will come soon now, my dear. Be patient and wait, and trust me a little longer, my own. And now, before we part, tell me how you ever came to be a servant here ?" " I had to do something ; and I heard you came here every day. I found out a housemaid was wanted. I applied for the place, got it, and fill it admirably, as I told you before." "You're a wonderful girl," said Gaston Benoir, looking at her in real admiration ; " a genius, my gypsy ! Will they not miss you within there ; or is it * my night out ' ?" Rebecca laughed slightly. " Oh, no ! I have no night out, and no followers. Miss Lucy thinks me the pink and pattern of all hoiise- maids." / SoH A LITTLE TANGLE " And how do you like Miss Lucy?" " Not at all ! I sliould liato her, if it were worth the trouble. Slie studies me, and I study her. I don't know wliat she makes me out, but I have set her down as the greatest hj-pocrite that ever lived." "Strong language, my dear. What has Miss Lucy Sutherland done to offend you?" " Nothing to offend me. We get on most amicably together, and I know her to be an arch-hypocrite all the time. How she does hate Mrs. Sutherland, to be Bure !" " Hates her, does she ?" " Yes, as only one jealous woman can hate another." " Jealous ! You never mean to say, Rebecca — " " I do mean to say Lucy Sutherland is furiously jealous of her cousin's w^ife. She hates her for her beauty and her riches, and j^erhaps for her hus- band !" Mr. Benoir uttered a very prolonged " Oh !" " Trust one woman to read another, Gaston ! And now, for to-night, we must part ; Miss Lucy must not miss her model housemaid. I don't think she believes in me as entirely as she pretends ; and, while I remain here, I don't wish to give her any grounds for suspicion. When can I see you again, Gaston ?" She clasped her hands again round his arm, and IN MR. BENOIR'S WEB. 259 look 3d up in liis lumdsome face with cjcs full of love and hope. " Oh," said Mr. Benoir, " all times are alike to me ; but, if you don't wish to excite talk, I suppose our interviews had better be cliindestine. Lot me see — this is Tuesday — suppose you meet mo here Friday evening again. And, in the meinitime, watch the Sutherland family — Mrs. Sutherland particularly — and fetch as nmch news witl.v you as 3'ou can when you come. I feci an interest in that little lady. I shall tell you why when you are Mrs. Benoir." He stooped and kissed her. They were out in the moonlight ; and the gypsy face of the girl was radiant. " Oh, my love ! my love !" she cried, her face drop])ing on his shoulder, " you know I am your very slave ; ready to obey your iiVGry connnand, ready to die for you, if it were necessary. Oli, Gaston ! I have endunjd more than you can dream of to reach you. If you prove false to me now, I shall die !" " Ko," said Mr. Benoir, laughing lightly ; " you don't mean that, Rebecca ! it is I who should die !" Rebecca lifted her head, a strange, wild lire in the depths of her great black eyes. " Yes," she said, slowly, " you should die !" Mr. Benoir recoiled a little. The girl was terribly in earnest — terrible in her love, most terrible in her I ;*: 3G0 A LITTLE TANGLE. liatred. For a moment, a cliill of cold fear made the young man shiver in the warm air. " Pshaw !" lie said, impatiently, " what are we talking of ? Good night, and pleasant dreams." There was a most lover-like embrace; and then the dark housemaid flitted into the house; and Mr. Benoir, with his hands in his pockets, went whistling softly on his way, in no pleasant humor, however, for liis brows were knit, and his face stern. " Confound the girl !" he thought ; " has Satan sent her here to balk me ! I wisli he had her, body and bones ; for she is as near akin to him as anything in woman's shape can well be. I have henrd of the transmigration of souls ; and, if there be anything in the matter, I fancy the soul of a tiger must have got into her body. Eebcc 3a Isaacs, I wish the old demon had you I" ON THE SCENT, 861 I CHAPTER XYIL ON THE SCENT. UCY SUTHERLAND stood in the beautiful breakfast-parlor of Maplewood, looking thoiiglitfully out at the summer prospect of swelling meadows, where the slow cows grazed ; of dark pine woods, cool and fragrant ; and the nearer prospect of lawn, and glade, and flower-garden, all steeped in the yellosv glory of the August sunshine. The early breeze, with the saline frei-hness of the sea, fluttered the white lace curtains and stirred the roses and the geraniums and morning-glories in the parterre below. The sea itself, boundless and blue, and flashing back the radiant sunshine, spread out before her; and over all, land and sea, brooded the blessed calm of country life. But Lucy Sutherland's blue eyes looked neither at the green fields nor the blue sea — they were turned inward in her dark thoughts. Yery bitter thoughts for one so young and fair as she looked, standing there, with the sunshine making a halo on her fair hair, and tlie sea wind toying with the azure rib- if !Ha > i :M »itfi jt.tf ''14 iBiiiHHai 2G2 ON THE aOENT. bons triMiming her pretty morning-dress. Beautifully neat and fresh everytliing she wore ; she looked a very fireside- fairy, delicate and womanly in outward seeming, most evil and Tinwomanly at heart. She was alone in the room — that is to say, Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland were not down yet ; but Hosa, the waitress, was setting the table, humming a little tune to herself the while. Presently, Miss Sutherland turned round. " Rosa, has James gone to the post-office yet ?" " Oh, yes. Miss, long ago." " It is time he was back. Go and — " Miss Sutherland stopped. James, errand-boy of the house, came in with the letter-bag. Kosa laid- it on the table, iinished her task, and left the room, and Miss Lucy opened the bag and took out its contents. Some papers for Mr. Sutherland, half a dozen letters, one for herself from her mother, two for Mrs. Sutherland, one in the irregular scrawl of Augusta, the other — Lucy dropped the rest and stood looking at it. " Postmarked in the village," she thought. " Who can be her correspondent ? It is a woman's hand sure- ly ; but what woman in St. Mary's writes to Mrs. Sutherland ? Can it be — " She j^aused — stopped her very thoughts. An idea tliat was like an electric flash made her clutch the letter suddenly and fiercely, her heart throbbing against her side. The hall-clock struck nine — half an hour yet bo ON THE SCENT. 203 i fore Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland would descend to break- fast. Hiding the letter in a pocket in her dress, she went up-stairs to her own room and examined it. It was a common buff envelope, the gummed flap stuck down in the usual way. She held it up between her- self and the light, but the yellow envelope was too thick, not a word could be made out. " I shall know for all that," thought Lucy, looking at the mysterious letter. " All is fair in war, they say. Eulalie Sutherland has no female correspondent in St. Mary's. I know as well as I am living that this letter is from that man, Gaston Benoir." Miss Sutherland rose deliberately, lit her gas, held a knife in the flame until it was heated, and, with tlie utmost care and precision, opened the envelope without tearing it. She took out a folded sheet of note-paper, written in a bold, big hand, not at all like the spidery tracery of the address, and ravenously devoured its con- tents. It was very brief. " My Dear Mrs. Sutherland : — Meet me to-mor- row-night at our former trysting-place, and at the same hour. Don't let your pocket be quite so empty, please, as it was the last time. Devotedly, G. B." Lucy Sutherland's heart stood still. Intense sur- prise was for the first moment her only feeling. What- ever she had fancied, she dreamed of nothing so bad aa ■A':n yvl >' \ il l-:ii mtttmm 204 OiV THE SCENT. I this. A fierce liglit of vladictivc joy flamed up in the pule ])hie eyes, and her little thin hand clenched itself, I as if the woman she hated was crushed hi the grasp. "At last!" was the triumphant thought ; "at last my hour has come ! I have * ited " ai 'or a longtime, Eulalie Itohan, but this repays m.o fof all." She refolded the letter, rcphu'cd it w the envelope, moistened the flap with some liquid gum, and sealed it. It wanted still ten minutes of the breakfast-hour when she returned to the parlor, and she had time to arrange the letters on the table before her cousin and his wife came down. The}' entered together — Eulalie in a loose white cashmere dressing gown, leaning on her husband's arm. " Good morning, Lucy," Arthur said. *' Our letters liave come, I see. Ah ! one from my motl^er, too. You have one from iV.ugusta, I see, Eulalie." Eulalie tore it open eagerly, without looking at the one below it. It was as brief and spasmodic as that young lady's epistles generally were, and Eulalie looked up from it with a smile. " Augusta's opinion of Cape May is not very flatter- ing to the place or the people. Philip Sutherland is with them, and she abuses him almost more than Cape May. He is the dullest and most insufferable of idiots, she says, and wanders about all day, smoking and bath- ing, and lying on the sands, too lazy to live. Cape ON THE 8GENT. 2G5 Vi^y is drearier than the New York Tombs, and the nit u ill it are a ct of simpering ninnies. Poor dear Aigusta! 1 am afraid she -vas in very bad liumor V'ith the world and herbolf when she wrote this let- ter." She laid it down and took np the other. Lncy, silently observant, saw the instantaneous pallor that blanched the girlish countenance — the cold turn th^t made every line of her face rigid. She saw how I !uC hand that opened the letter shook, and how tlu. tv, <>» were thrust together into the pocket of her dress J. .'a} mw how cilectually it had taken away her app^^'e. as she sat with her chocolate growing stagnant in hCi cup, and the toast unlasted on her plate. Mr. Sutherland, absorbed in his own correspondence, saw nothing, so Lucy was good enough to call his attention. "My dear Mrs. Sutherland," she said, with un- wonted solicitude, *' I fear you are not well. You eat nothing, and you arc looking pale." " I am very well, thank you," Euhdie said, but her voice faltered ; and her husband, looking up, saw the white change that had come over her. " My dear Eulalie," ho said, anxiously, " what is the matter ? Your face is as white as your dress. Are you ill ?" " Oh, no !" " Then, why are you looking so pale, darling 1" 12 2CG ON THE SCENT. She tried to smile, not bravo enough to meet tho strong, loving eyes fixed upon her. " Notliing, Arthur. I am perfectly well, I assure you. My looking pale is nothing. Finish your letters and never mind me." She poured the cold contents of her cup out, and passed it to Lucy to be refilled. Ailhur, a little reas- sured, resumed his reading ; l)ut every few minutes his anxious eyes wandered from tho paper to his wife's face. Lucy sat, pale, calm, and exultant, slowly eating her breakfast, and revolving in her mind a little plan of her own for the day. She looked at lier cousin ub he laid down his last letter, and found his anxious gaze still fixed on Eulalie. ** Arthur," she said, as if the thought had just struck her, " who is that young man who seems to have obtained the entree of Maplevvood so much of late ?" " What young man ?" inquired Mr. Sutherland. " That is what I ask you. A tall, foreign-looking, rather gentlemanly person, dark, and very handsome." " Dark and very handsome ? Why, that must bo the man whom Kobinson, the gardener, was telling me about. I forget his name — it has a foreign sound, too — Lenoir, or something of that sort." Eulalie arose suddenly, and walked to the window. Her husband glanced after her in some surprise. " Have you finished breakfast, my love V I ON TUB SCENT. 267 "Yes, Artlmr.-' "And tasted nothing," said Lucy. "You really cannot be well, Mrs. Sutherland." " I am perfectly well." " And what about this very handsome youn^^ for- eigner V resumed Mr. Sutherland. " You have not fallen in love with him, have you, Lucy ? Even Ilubin- Bon was struck by his remarkabh; g(jod luoks." "Ko," said Lucy, quietly ; "I have not fallen In love with hhn. Are you aware he is here almost every day ?" " So Hobinson tells mo. It appears he has the good taste to admire the place, and comes here to smoke, and read novels. He is a gentleman of learned leisure, it seems, and walks to and fro, smoking for a living." " It is really very remarkable," said Lucy. " Arc you quite sure he has no sinister design, Arthur, in tiius frequenting the place ?" " My dear girl, what sinister design can he have ?" " Burglary. Your plate-closet is no common temp- tation." " I am not afraid. The plate-closet is in your keep- ing, my dear Lucy, and, consequently, quite safe." "Well," said Miss Sutherland, rising, "if you feel no anxiety, of course I need not. But if I were you, I would ascertain whether this unknown person's inten- tions ai'e as he pretends." !! |.(K I. '*1 i 2C8 ON THE 8CBNT. In sotting l);iclv l)cr chjiir, she tried to see Eiilalie's fiico, but Eulalio evaded her. The vague distrust the Creole had felt from tlie first of this pale-faced, low- voiced, soft-stupping cousin, had returned this morning stronger than ever before. Lucy rang for Rosa, and Arthur, coming over, put his arm tenderl3^ around his wife's little waist, and looked down at the face she strove to hide by her fall- ing curls. She was conscious how deadly pale she was, and how utterly unable to account for that paleness. " My darling," Arthur said ; " you are ill. Tell me, love, what is the matter ?" She did not speak, llcr poor pale face hid itself on his shoulder, and her little hands clung to him, in the old childish terrified way. She was such a weak, frightened, timid little thing, this childish Creole wife, not a bit like a heroine, that she could only cling there mutely in her distress. "Tell me, my dearest," Arthur said, mor- anxious- ly; " tell me what is the matter?" " Nothing — nothing," Eulalie reiterated, trying to steady her rebellious voice, and keep down her frightened heart-beating ; " don't ask me, Arthur ; it is nothing — it is nothing," lie looked down at the clinging hands, all he could see for the tangled shower of curls, and some- thing missing on one of them, struck him. ON THE SCENT, 209 " Wlicrc is your ring, Eiiliilie — the ring I gave you last ?" She liurricdly snatclicd away her hand, and hid it in the folds of hL.i- dress. It was a child's act, but sho was little more than a cliild in all things. Arthur Btood in wonder; the ring had been his latest gift on her birthday — a cluster diamond his paternal grand- mother had worn — an heir-loom in the family, newly set. " Have you lost your ring, Eulalie V he said, with a feeling of annoyance, in spite of himself. " Yes." Lucy, lingering near the door, heard this answer, and passed out. Rosa was coming in, and Mr. Suther land, looking umisuidly grave, lifted his wife's face resolutely. He could feel her cold and trembling ; and some shadovy distrust, some cold, creeping feeling that all was not right, chilled him. He could see her face was colorless as that of a dead woman's, and her eyes wild with nameless dread. What did it all mean ? He drew her gently out of the room, his fa'^o troubled and perplexed. Lucy saw him, half leadiii;^' her up-stairs, and a cold, gratiHed smile passed over h"r thin lij)s. " Your torments are only commencing, Arthur," she said, softly ; " only commencing. The pain you have wrung my heart with — the jealous pain that I Ml 'i »■ Ha ; m 1 i 270 ON THE SCENT. I exceeds all other earthly torture — you shall feel in year turn. Mhio was hidden, no living soul mocked me witli their pity ; yours shall be known to the wide world/' An hour after, Lucy left the house, in bonnet and shawl, and took the road to the village. It was a hot daj — the sun blazing like a wheel of fire in the serene blue sky, and the young l;idy walked very leisurely. It was a l1' IIjc previous history uf I t\ 1 ^ i -^"l m :.1 m ifii ] )*t :l ^il -'Z^ t «■ 274 ON TIIIC SCENT. tills lover of yours, Sophie ? Purdon my seeming iiiqiiisitiveness ; but I like you so nuicli, my dear Sophie, that I wpeak only for your good." " Thank you, Miss Sutherland," said pocr Sophie, gratefully. " I am sure you are very kind. ]S"o, I don't know very much about Gaston, except that he was born and brought up in Louisiana, somewhere, of French j)arents, and came North, when qnite a boy, to seek his fortune. He lias been knocking rouiul the M'orld, he says, ever since, until he has grown tired of it, poor fellow ! and now he wants to settle down, with me for his wife. I am sure I love him with all my heart, for her : ^verhaps, independent of ON THE SCENT. 275 the hidden motive that made her wish to propitiate him, independent of vlie interest she must have felt in him had he been ugly as Culiban, she was no more in- sensible to the power of his remarkable beauty than the weakest of her sex. Mr. Benoir seated liimself at one of the open windows, talking in an easy, oif-hand strain, jus a gentleman addressing his equals. lie ran the lingers of an aristocratically small and sluipcly hand through his dark' hair while he conversed, and the flash of a diamond ring dazzled Lucy Sutherland's eyes ; a ring she knew well — that had been worn by line ladies of the house of Sutherland befoi'c any one there present was born — that had been Arthur's bii'thday-gift to his false-hearted wife. What further proof was needed of her inconstancy than this ? "We don't see you often in Bt. Mary's, Miss Sutherland," said Mr. Benoir, in the course of liia free- and-easy remarkg. *' No," said Mis^ jlf^fe/land, composedly, ' ' rdl/ so often as we see yon at Ma|/i^'/V^ood," "Ah, yes!" returned Mr. i^n//if,/<^rolessly iTiing the hand on whicii the diamon<^ 0}iMifti\ . ■ con* spicuously thi'ougli his hair. " I do ifmft»**i^ fli.it cliarminif houic of noui's a u'ood dtvu. A max *ili<^''f;t place, Miss SuthorLuul, and an honor to its owner. Mr. Sutherland has my best thanks for his kindness in *,•' J >i I 276 ON THE SCENT. \: admitting strangers within his gates. Personally, 1 have not tlie pleasure of knowing him. If I had, I should cxj^rcss my thanks in person." " Mr. Sutherland W\\\ take them for granted," re- plied Miss Sutherland, coldly, rising as she spoke ; her Sutherland pride rebelling against this familiarity. " Maplewood is open to all who choose to enter. Good-bye, Miss Sophie ; good-morning, Mr. Benoir." Just deigning to bend her head in acknowledgment of the late Troubadour's profourid bow, tlie young lady left the hotel, and Logan her homeward route. Mr. Benoir watched her out of sight with an odd little smile on his lips. "A sharji young woman that, Sophie," he said; " an uncommonly sharp young woman. What brought her here this morning?" Miss AVcldon explained. " Ah, for a drink ! Is she a grea^ friend of yours, Sophie ?" " Oh, dear, no I" replied Sophie. " She is a great deal too proud. She has not been in our house for years, I think, until that day you met her here fir^t." " And what brought her here that day f " To see Fanny — she had a sore tliroat." " Ilem-m-m !" said Mr. Benoir, in a musing tone. " That was the day after Mi's. Arthur Sutherland's fainting-fit ?" ON THE SCENT. 277 '8 " Yes." The odd little smile was on Mr. Benoir's face again. " A sharp girl," he repeated ; " a very sliarji girl ! Don't you think, Sophie, she saw my diamond ring ?" " I dare say she did," said Miss Weldon ; " it was easy enough seen, goodness knows !" Mr. Benoir got up, whistling, and went out again on the veranda. Miss Sutherland was already out ol' sight, slowly as she walked, nmsing ^^rofoundly. She was on the scent now — nothing should stop her until she had hunted her prey down. " To-morrow night they meet," she thought, as she walked leisurely toward the home she vs ^ trying to make desolate. " To-morrow night they meet. Very well, Mr. Benoir, I shall be present at that interview, too." It was nearly mid-day when she renched the house. As she entered the parlor, tired and a little hot, she found her cousin Arthur lying on a sofa with a book. There was an unusual gravity in his face. Lucy saw, as he looked up at her entrance, anxiety about his wife. "Have you been to the village, Lucy f he asked. " Yes," said his cousin, dropping into a seat, " and I am nearly tired to death. How is Eululle'f "Not very well, I am afraid. She is lying down in her room. Lucy, what is the matter with Eulalie lately ?" t I i^i '1'; U % 2TS ON 'HIE SCENT. % ITc had to iisk that question. He had thought and pcrploxcd liiniself over the matter so long in secret that tlic words forenjd tlieuisolves from liis lips, almost in sj)ite of liimsolf. lie got up in a feverish sort of way, and took to pacing up and down the room. Miss {Sutherland's blue eyes gleamed pale flame as she watclied him, sitting umnoved, with folded hands. " She says herself there is nothing the matter. Can you not take her word for it ?" " Slie says that because she does not wisli to make ni(! uneasy, but something is the matter, I am con- vinced. Ever since that night of the conceit, on which blio fainte' :■ n If II f i 1 ! 1 ! 1 I \ 280 ON THE SCENT. . % i m \ I I fiirico lie cm no licrc first (the nif^ht of the concert at wliicli Eiilalie fiiinted), and he chanced to enter the room I was in talking to one of Mrs. AVeldon's daugh- ters." "Well," reiterated Mr. Sutherland, never taking his eyes olT her face. " Miss Weldon, without asking permission, took the oiTensive lil)erty of introducing him to me. lie is, as I ]ia\G said, exceedingly^ handsome, gentlemanly in manners, and altogether superior to his station. IIo was dressed in the height o( the fashion, and wore on the little fhiger of his left hand a diamoiid ring. Ar- thur, it was th.e ring youv wife has lost !" There was a dead pause. The shifting blue eyes of Lucy Sutherland still fixed anywhere except on her cousin's face, as she went hurriedly on : "Perhaps Eiilalie, when last out in the grounds walking, dropped it, and this man found it there. Ask her, Arthur, if she wore it the last time she was out ; for I am certain it is her ring Mr. Benoir had on his fi nirer ?j She was up, taking off her bonnet and mantle, as a pretext for uot looking at him ; but she knew for all how stern and palo he was standing. " AYliere did you say this man was from ?" was his first question. ON TUE SCENT. 281 bis "From Cuba, but a native of L