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A LON light stes and darl wooden ( table, CO) stony-hea huge gulj Christma viciously, It was rawly ove the narro noon, wit ing black desolate t occupant and dowi darkly in An old scanty gn cap, and ; rows. F twinkled, back, wer He stop sound of I Bonoroush " Four lie told Si would d&^ ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. CHAPTER L K0Y8TEN DARRELL. A LONG, low room, paneled in black walnut, the dim day- light stealing in through the high, narrow windows, gloomy and dark, and almost unfurnished. A few stiff-backed wooden chairs, primly arranged, round the walls, a deal table, covered with oilcloth, in the middle of the floor, a stony-hearted old horpe-hair sofa — nothing more. In a huge gulf of a fire-place, wide enough to hold yule logs at Christmas-time, a fire of green wood sputtered and smoked viciously, and failed to lighten or heat the somber room. It was an afternoon early in May, but a chill wind blew rawly over the sea, and drifted the rain ceaselessly against the narrow windows. A hopelessly wet and windy after- noon, with a low-lying black sky, frowning down on a moan- ing black sea, and with trees tossing drearily in the wailing, desolate blast. Desolate without, desolate within, the one occupant of that eerie chamber paced up and down, up and down, w'th all the gloom of the weather shadowed darkly in his face. An old man, bent, and withered, and wrinkled, with scanty gray locks straggling from under a rusty oM skull- cap, and a face seamed and drawn into innumerable fur- rows. From under bushy gray brows two keen eyes twinkled, and the long, lean hands, clasped behind his back, were hooked like the talons of a bird of prey. He stopped short in his restless walk suddenly, at the sound of a loud-voiced clock, somewhere outside, striking sonorously four. ** Four o'clock," muttered the old man, angrily, " and lie told Simpson he would be here directly. Some people would dawdle, I believe, though th« crown of the world ESTHLLA *S H U8BAND. awaited them. And yet, RoyBten Darrell is not one of that sort, either." He walked to one of the windows and looked out. There were six windows to the long, antique room, three looking east, over a bare expanse of desolate marsh and swampy meadow land, and three looking Ws-st, over a bleak, circu- lar beach and illimitable waste of sea. Through one of these western windows the old man gazed at the lonesome prospect — at the long, forsaken shore, at the rain-beaten ocean. Far away to the right you caught a glimpse of a strag- gling village; far away to the left spread out the sodden marshes and bare, windy beach. No living thing was to be seen, but about a mile distant, rising and falling on the long groundswell, a low, dark schooner lay at anchor within a sheltered curve of the circular shore. *' Ay," said the old man, apostrophizing this piratical- looking craft, "there you lie — black bird of ill-omen — rightly named the * Haven. ' There you lie, black and for- bidding! and many a dark deed has been done on your pol- ished deck, and many a foul crime, I dare say, has your gloomy hulk hidden. There you lie, you black buccaneer I fitting craft to be commanded by reckless Hoysten — by Dare-devil Darrell. And yet there are worse scoundrels out yonder in the world than the mad-headed smuggler captain — fortune-hunters, with glib tongues and polished manners; and ten to one but the girl may fall a victim to one of them, if I let her go. Better marry Boysten Dar- rell than one of those black-hearted hypocrites. Whatever he is — give the devil his due — I don^'t think it is in him to be unkind to a woman." He walked away from the window to the table, took up a letter lying there, and read it over slowly, from begin- ning to end — a long letter, written in a delicate, spidery hand, and signed Helen Mallory." He laid it down, after his slow perusal, seated himself before the sputtering fire, and gazed thoughtfully into its smoky heart. ** And to think he should turn up at last — after over sixteen years, and claim his child. To think that he should be a nobleman and a millionaire — to think that this firl, half educated, half civilized, brought up by old Peter isher, should have the wonderful sang azure of the old m estella's husband. ripime in her yeins, and be this French nabob's sole heir- ess! It is like a fairy tale or a melodrama; it is like nothing in real life. Ha! that knock! Heckless Koysten at last.^' A thundering knock, that made the lonely old house vibrate, came to the front door. The old man smiled grimly as he heard it. '* It is characteristic of the man — Dare-devil Darrell's knock the wide world over. Big, blundering, impetuous giant! Ten to one but he refuses to make his fortune, after all." A slip-shod footstep was heard straggling along the low passage, a chain was slipped, a key turned, and the house door opened. Directly after there was a scuffle in the pas- sage, and a boisterous bass laugh. ** My Hebe! my idol!" cried this boisterous voice. ** My lovely Judith, do I again behold thee? Never squirm or wriggle, my fair one, but give me a kiss, and have done with it." Here there was a struggle, and a sounding slap, '^Uowed by a second jovial laugh. ** It's like your impidence. Captain Darrell," exclaimed a shrill female voice. '* If I'd a-knowed it was you, you might a-knocked the door down afore I'd have opened it. Let me alone, I tell you, or I'll scratch your eyes out" A man's step came bounding up the stairs — each stride making them creak with his weight; then the door was flung open, and Captain Boysten Darrell, of the schooner ** Raven," stood before old Peter Fisher. A magnificent monster — a giant of six feet three, with the thews and sinews and muscles of a gladiator — the build of a Farnese Hercules, and the symmetry of an Apollo Belvedere. A kingly head, crowned with a glorious aure- ole of red-brown hair; magnificent beard and mustache of the same leonine hue; a broad, white forehead; two brill- iant blue eyes, full of laughing light; a symmetrical nose, and a ruddy complexion well browned by exposure to freezing winds and tropic suns. An overgrown Adonis — a human lion, a superb specimen of muscular Christianity — aged seven-and-twenty years. The old man wheeled round in his chair, and eyed the big captain of the " Raven " with a grim stare. ** At last, Roysten Darrell! You nave kept me waitings f, V k ''I i t estella's husband. and I hate people who make me wait. Tou told Simpaom you would lollow him directly, and Simpson has been back over an hour/* ** Simpson may go hang!" responded Roysten Darrell, politely, '* and you, too, my Ancient Mariner, if it comes to that. Do you suppose I have nothing else to do, when ashore, than daniMtig attendance upon you and Simpson? It was touch-aiid-^o my getting here at all, most worthy old buffer. I had other fish to fry, I can tell you. But here I am ; and now, what the deuce do you want in such a hurry?" ** To make your fortune, Roysten Darrell, little as you deserve it. So try and keep a civil tongue in your head. You're not on the deck of the * Raven ' now, remember^ and Peter Fisher isn't one of your slaves. " ** Make my fortune, eh?" repeated Captain Darrell, coolly. ** Why don't you make your own first, Mr. Fisher? This old rookery of yours will tumble about your ears one of these days. Take a little of the fortune you are going to make for me and repair it. Have you found the Phi- losopher's Stone, or Aladdin's Wonderful Lamp, or a cruci- ble to turn all metals into gold? or have you come upon a buried treasure, or what? I have no objection to have my fortune made, and it's slow work making it in the * Raven.' The revenue cutters were within an ace of having me, orew and cargo, this last time." ** They'd have had you long ago, if you had been an honester man; but Satan is go^ to his own. However, your fortune is made, and within your grasp now, if you choose to reach out your hand and take it. " " Then, by Jove, I choose! Just have the goodness to explain yourself a little. " The old man leaned forward, and his keen, ferret eyes peered sharply into the brilliant blue orbs of the stalwart captain. . ** Roysten Darrell, have you any objection to a wife?" *'!Not the least in life! To a dozen, if you choose. Have yoti found me one?" ** I have — an heiress — a millionaire's only child." *' Good! It has been the ambition of my life to marry a millionaire's daughter. But where is she? I didn't know millionaires existed over in yon big fishing village of Rockledge." \ ,, i tr 1/ )^ 18TELLA 8 HUSBAND. ** No more do they. She isn't in Rockledge; she is here, in this house." " Thousand thunders!** cried Roysten Darrell, in his boisterous voice. ** You don't mean old Judith? By Jupiter! I'm not of a fastidious stomach in these matters, but ril be hanged if I could bring myself to such a pitch as that. No, my worthy old crony," said the captain of the ** Raven," making a wry face, *' if Judith is your, heiress, you'll allow me to decline. Much obliged to you^ though, all the same." **I)on't be a fool, Darrell!" exclaimed Peter Fisher, angrily, '' and don't lift the roof with that big voice of yours. I don't mean Judith, you know as well as I do; I mean Estella Mallorv." '' What! Little Estella? But, mon ami, she's only a child." *' She's over sixteen years. Captain Darrell, and a good- looking, well jrown girl. You objected to age a moment ago — now you object to youth. Pray what will you have?" '* I'll have little Estella with all the pleasure in life. The question is, will Estella have me? She scuds, like a frightened deer, at the first glimpse of me. " No wonder, with your rough ways, and your thunder- ous voice, and your ponderous six foot three. But I'll make that all right — she'll do whatever I tell her, or I'll know the reason why. And you'll marry her? Give me your hand on that, feoysten Darrell." The captain of the ** Raven " stretched out his big brown paw, and gave one of the lean talons a grip that made the old man wince. ** I'll marry her fast enough, and every other pretty girl from Maine to Florida, if you like. But where's your heiress? where's your millionaire? I thought little Estella was an orphan." ** So diet I until within the last day or two, when a letter comes and tells me her papa has most unexpectedly turned up. He is a French nobleman, worth a mint of money, and Estella — when he finds her — is his heiress and only child.** ** A marvelous tale," said Captain Darrell; '* so mar- velous, my old friend, that I can't swallow it at the first fulp. Who is this Estella Mallory (Mallorv hasn't a very rench sound, by the way), and how does old Peter Fisher, of Fisher's Folly, come to be the adopted father of French >'.■' ■} ''■i 10 estella's husband. noblemen's daughters? You'll exonse my onrioBity, bat if Tm to marry the young lady, it strikes me I should like to know something of her antecedents. " '*You shall know all," said Peter Fisher. ** Her mother, Estclla Mallory (yes, the girl bears her mother's name, not her father's), eloped at tlie agd of eighteen with an unknown foneigner, her music teacher — a poor devil, with nothing but a handsome face, a black mut taohe, and a high-sounding name— an exile. Whether she was his wife or not did not appear, and the Mallory family — proud as the — as your best friend, Captain Darrell — were shocked and horrified, and scandalized beyond everything. How she spent the first year of her union with Monsieur Haut- ville does not appear — wretchedly enough, I infer, in pov- erty and loneliness. The first thing that is known of her, she turns up here — she comes to me in her misery and utter friendliness for shelter and succor. 1 had known pretty Estella Mallory when a graceful girl of fifteen, and she came to me in preference to the home she had aban- doned forever. She came in poverty and sickness, and I took her in and did my best for her. But that best could not save her life — she went to her grave, a broken-hearted woman, at the age of eighteen. In this house her child was born, and we named her after the mother that was dead and gone." The grim old face grew a shade less grim, as he told the story — the every-day story of a woman's woe. Boysten Darrell listened intently. " And monsieur — how do you call him? the gay deceiver —where is he?" **In France. With the overthrow of the old dynasty, and the rise of the Napoleonic star, he went back to be reinstated in the old title and the old estates. That was all the dying girl could or would tell me; but I know she thought he had deserted her. She wore his wedding- ring, she showed me her marriage certificate — but she never looked to see his faco in this world a^ain. No letter, no message ever came — she died believing herself betrayed and deserted. And yet it seems it was not so; after sixteen years our French noble turns up and claims his child." '* How does he discover he has one?" asked Captain Darrell. ** From his dead wife's only sister and sole living relft- E8TELLA*S HUSBAND. 11 u tire, Helen Mallory. He returns to this country, anxious to make reparation — to own his marriage, to claim hiH wife. His wife he can not find — her siHter he does, and lenrns Estella is dead and buried, and her daughter and living image lives and bears her name. He is immensely rich — he has his ancient title — he burns to behold his daughter, and claim her as his heiress. But Helen Mal- lory neither forgives nor forgets the past; his tardy repent- ance does not move her; she refuses to tell him where that daughter is to be found. * 1 will write to her guardian, M. le Comte,' she says, coldly; * you have little claim to my dead sister's child. I will tell Mr. Fisher what you have told me; if he is ready to resign the girl he has adopted and reared from infancy, well and good; if not — you must seek her and find her for yourself, without any clew from me.' She keeps her word— this haughty Helen Mallory; her letter came two days ago. Monsieur the Count offers immense rewards for his heiress; he is ready to pay any sum 1 may demand. Here is the letter — read for your- self.'' The old man took the letter from the table and passed it to the captain of the *' Baven." Boysten Darrell read it carefully from beginning to end. ** A very nice letter and a very good turn-up for you ! But you'll excuse my dullness, Mr. Slsher, if I say I don't see clearly how all this is to benefit me !" ** In the easiest way imaginable — as the girl's husband. Look here, Roysten — you marry her before she knows any- thing of her good fortune. When this wealthy French count finds his daughter, he finds his daughter's husband also. What belongs to your wife belongs to you; you claim her fortune, and you — share that fortune with me. " "Exactly!' replied Captain Darrell, coolly; '* and the lion's share, too, I take it. A very charming scheme, Mr. Peter Fisher, but not altogether practicable. In the first place, little Estella won't marry me — you'll find she won't — and these girls can be as determined as the deuce, when they choose. In the second place, supposing you compel her to marry me, she won't live with me an hour after she finds her rich father. And what do you suppose that ariRtooratic papa will say to a son-in-law who weds his daughter, willy-nilly, after he finds out she has a fortune? i 12 jjstella's husband. What will M. le Comte think of you? what will he think ojf me?" ** Whatever he pleases. You will be hev husband all the same, and it will be rather late in the day for an esclandre. Monsieur the Count must put up with the inevitable. At the worst, there will be a compromise and a divorce, and you will bleed the Parisian nabob to the tune of half his fortune. Half of that half you will hand over to me, and it will make us both rich for life. What do you say, Roy- •ten Darrell — will you make a bold stroke for fortune, and marry the girl out of hand?*' Peter Fisher leaned forward, his greedy old eyes glisten- ing. The brilliant blue orbs of the captain met that eager gaze with imperturbable sang froid. ** Yon cold-blooded old reprobate!" he said, taking out a cigar and biting off the end. " You're a deeperSyed villain than / am; and that is saying a good deal. You have brought up this girl from babyhood — you stand pledged to her dead mother, who trusted you, for her wel- lare; and here you are, bartering her off, as though she were a little slave-girl under the auctioneer's hammer. Why, you thundering Old crocodile, have you no bowels of com- passion? Don't you know you are trying your hardest to make her miserable for life? The old man listened unmoved, an evil sneer on his withered face. ** Satan turned saint! Roysten Darrell changed into a second St. Kevin! Go — there's the door! Go back to the ' Raven,' and let the revenue officers take you, and rot in prison for me. You're a greater fool than I took you to be!" ** Thank you, old messmate! I believe I will go, for 1 'hare business to attend to that id rather pressing. How soon is pretty little Estella to become Mrs. Roysten Dar- rell?" *' Ah, I thought your scruples would end in that way! You will marry her, then?" ** Most assuredly. Do you think me capable of refus- ing so small a favor to a lady? 1*11 marry her to-morrow, if you choose, and take her with me for a honey-moon cruise in the * Raven. ' Meantime, you can settle matters with papa, and when we return, Mrs. Darrall, heartily sick of estella's husband. 13 the sea and of matrimony, I shall be ready for that divorce and half of the millionaire's fortune. Good-evening to you, old hypocrite! Settle matters with the young lady — tell lies by the yard — ril swear, through thick and thin, to all you assert. To-morrow, about this time, I'll be along again to hear the result.*' He rose up, and swung off with his long, sailor stride. Peter Fisher watched him out of the room, with a grim glance, and heard the house-door close after him with a bang that made him wince. " The devil take him!" muttered the old man. " He'll smash every hinge in the house if he comes here often. If there were any other way — but there is not, and she must marry him. After all, a divorce will set everything right again. I will have feathered my nest, and away in France, who will be the wiser? It must be. I'll break it to her at once. " He seized a hand-bell on the table ^nd rang a vigorous peal. The summons was answered by fi gaunt old woman, as grim, and wrinkled, and withered as her master. '* Send Estella Mallory here, Judith," her master said. ** Tell her to come at once." The gaunt domestic departed without a word, and Peter Fisher sat staring nervously into the smoky JSre. Outside, the rain beat, and the wind blew, and the dusk of the dismal spring day already darkened the dismal room. The old man shivered as the shrill gale whistled round the lonely gables. *' After all," he muttered, ** she ought to be glad to get away from this grewsome place — glad of anything for a change. Roysten Darrell's a handsome fellow, and girls all like to be married. 1 hope she won't object. I don't 'want to use force. There's a look of her dead mother in her big, brown eyes sometimes that — Oh« here she comes!" ■•i\ CHAPTER II. ESTELLA. There was the quick pattering of li^ht feet down ihA long, steep stairs— the last three cleared with a jump — 14 estella's husbaxd. then the door flew open, and Peter Fisher's ward stood^ brightly smiling, on the threshold. The fire leaped up as she entered, as if briofhtened by her bright presence, and lighted the dusky room. The old man shaded his eyes with his hand, nnd looked furtively at her, thinking, in spite of himself, what a contrast she was to his late visitor — to the gigantic oaptain of the '* Raven," and his gaunt, grim old nousekeeper. She stood before him — a tall, slender damsel, with a pale, rather thin face, and the evident consciousness of having too many arms, which it is in the nature of sixteen years to have. Great brown eyes, dark, deep-shining, lighted up this pale, girlish face — not beautiful yet, but full of the serene promise of future beauty. Beautiful eyes — now black and sparkling, now soft and glowing with umber light, reminding you of Balzac's " Girl with the Golden Eyes." With these wondrous brown eyes went a wondrous fall of hazel hair, rippling, waving, shining, down to her slen- der waist — a glorious chevehire, that would have driven a fashionable belle wild with envy. She stood before him there, in the fire-light, so brightly pretty that it was a pleasure only to look at her. ** Her mother's image," old Peter Fisher thought, with a little nervous tremor. *' It is like ^jceing the ghost of the dead." ** You sent for me. Uncle Fisher?" the girl asked, in her fresh, young voice. *' Judith told ma you wanted to see me very particularly." ** And so 1 do. Come in, child, and shut the door. Take that seat— I have something very important to say to you." The bright, brown eyes opened wide, &nd fixed them- selves in a frank stare of astonishment on the seamed old face. In all her sixteen years' experience, Mr. l^'isher never had had anything of importance to say to her before. The old man shifted in his chair, and leaned back further into the shadow, strangely uneasy under that c'ear gaze. ** Do you know how old you are, Estella?" he asked. ** Why, yes, uncle; sixteen, last March." '* Sixteen years and three months^ and a young woman^ BsteUa" ESTELLA'S HUBBA^ND. 15 Estella Mftllory laughed — a clcar^ sweet laugh. '* I hope I am nothing half so stupid. A young woman! How prim and dowdyish it sounds! One is only a girl at sixteen. Time enough to be a young 'oman wnen one is two-or three-and- twenty." '* Pooh! nonsense! You're as much of a woman almoet as you'll ever be — a strong, well-grown girl. Plenty of women are married before they're your age." Miss Mallory shrugged her graceful shoulders. '* They must be in a hurry, uncle. If there's one thinr more stupid and dowdyish than being a * young woman, it is to be married. Is this what you sent for me to talk »bout?" It was quite evident Mr. Fisher's ward was not in the least awe of her grim guardian. And, indeed, you needed but look once into those bright, frank eyes to see that utter fearlessness was a characteristic of the girl's nature. " Estella," said the old man, shifting his base, " aren't you tired of this place — of this lonely old house — of those dreary marshes — of that everlasting sea — of that stupid Rockledge?" ** Dreadfully tired, uncle — tired to death of it all ages ago. " '* And you would like to leave it, wouldn't you?" eager- ly. ** To travel and see the world, to visit great cities, to be yoiir own mistress, and quit Fisher's Folly forever?" The brown eyes dilated; the pretty lips came breathlessly apart. ** Uncle, what do you mean? Are you going to send me away? Oh!" clasping the little hands in sudden rapture, " perhaps you. are going to send me to school." ** No, my — my dear. That would not be freedom — only another more irksome kind of bondage. Boarding-school girls are veritable slaves, and half-starved at that No, no, Estella! I mean something better than that." ** Then, perhaps yo« are going to quit Rockledge your- self, and take me and Judith with you. That would be nice. " *' Better still, Estella. Can not you guess?" Miss Mallory shook Ler brown curls. ** No, uncle, I can't travel over the world alone; and, unless you are going to take me, 1 give it up!" '* My dear," the old man said, his voice trembling witk » \ I II estella's husband. eagerness, ** you need not go alone. A younger and hand* 8omer man will take you. You are old enough to be mar- ried, Estella. You shall go as a bride!" Estella Mallory gave a little, gasping cry, then sat star- ing in speechless astonishment. ** You lii£e young and handsome men — don't yoU; my dear? All young girls do. And he's — he's very much in Jove with you," said Mr. Peter Fisher, bringing the words out with a gulp, ** and ready to do anything under the sun for you. He will take you everywhere. To New York — and New York is a wonderful city, Estella— to foreign jiwids, if you wish. He will be your slave; every wish of aurs will be his law. You shall have silk gowns, and gold ear-rings, and cart-loads of those novels you like so much^ ;< nd everything your heart can desire. All he asks in return i« that you marry him — this week." ** This week!" gasped the stricken Eotella; "good gracious me ! Uncle Fisher, who are you talking about?" ** About the man who loves you so much, Estella," re- plied Uncle Fisher, with ghastly playfulness. ** Can't you guess his name?" ** Does he ever come here?" ** Yes, my dear — often. " " Then 1 give it up," said Estella, promptly, " for I never saw a young and handsome man inside this house in my life." '* Think, my dear — think. Try again." ** Think!" repeated Estella; '* it doesn't require any thinking. There's Mr. Jacobs, the minister, he comes here, and he's got a bald head, and a wife and five chil- dren. There's Doctor Skinner, he drops in sometimes, and he's a widower of sixty-live, with granddaughters older than I am. There's the butcher and the grocer, they come after their bills monthly, and they're both married men, and old and ugly as original sin. There's your law- yer — old Grimshaw — with a face like a death's-head, who has buried three wives and is looking out for a fourth. Perhaps it is Mr. Grimshaw, uncle; though if you think him either young or handsome, you must be taking leave of your senses." Mr. Fisher laughed a feeble, little laugh. *' Ha! ha! my dear; very good! But it isn't Mr. Grim- aluiw, nor any of those you have mentioned. Try again." ebtella's husband. 1? *' Where's the use?" exclaimed Estella, impatiently. ** I never see any one else here. I can't guess. Who is it?" ** My dear, he was here this very afternoon." Estella Mallory gave a cry, and fairly sprung from her chair. ** Uncle! Mr. Fisher! You never mean to say you're talicing of the smuggler captain — of that great, big, red- headed monster. Captain Darrell?" " I'll thanic you to keep a civil tongue in your head. Miss Mallory!" said Peter Fisher, sharply. ** les, I mean the captain of the ' Baven.' A young and handsome man, miss, if there ever was one yet. " Oh!" cried Estella. It was all she could say. She dropped back in her chair, mute with amazement. ** Captain Darrell was here this afternoon, and he wants to many you. He'll take you on board the * Raven ' any- where in the wide world you would like to go. " *' I'd see Captain Darrell and the ' Kaven ' at the bottom of the Red Sea first!" burst out Estella Mallory, her pale face turning crimson with indignation; ** that great, fright- ful, overgrown, wicked wretch! Why, if there is any one man in the whole world 1 have a horror of, it is that mani A smuggler — a pirate — a — " ** Silence /" thundered Peter Fisher, starting to his feet; *^ you bold minx, how dare you say such things of any friend of mine? Captain Darrell is a thousand times too good for you — a nameless pauper — and does you a thou- sand times too much honor by taking any notice of you at all." ** I don't want him to take any notice of me," responded the young lady, rather sulkily. ** I hate him!" *' You shall marry him for all that. Do you think I am going to keep you on my hands forever — a burden and a drag? I always resolved you should marry the first decent man who asked you, and Roysten Darrell is the first, and you shall marry him I" ** I sha'n't!" returned Estella, with resolute defiance, '* and he isn't a decent man! I know what they SLy of him in the village; 1 know how the revenue cutters chase hha; 1 know how he killed one of his men who informed 1 1 I i\ '-'"f: ■ 18 estella's husband. on him two years ago — split his skull open with a crowbar; I know—" ** 1 know you'll get your neck twisted, or your skull split open, if you don't mind what you say!" shrieked the old man, in a fury. '* Hold your poisonous tongue, miss^ and hear me out! Koysteu Darrell wants to marry you, and whether you like it, or whether you don't, marry hirx you shall, before you are a week older. Do you hear^ Estella Mallory? Marry him you shall before another week!" *' 1 hear," said Estella, getting up resolutely, *' and 1 wonH ! No, Mr. Fisher, not if you were to kill me! I'm afraid of that man — I hate him ! and I'd die a thousand times before I'd ever be a wife of his!" ** Dying is very easy in theory — very hard in practice. Young ladies of sixteen will do a good deal before they die. A week's imprisonment on bread and water will cool the fever in your blood, and bring down that high spirit a little. 1 won't lock you up to-night. I'll give you a last chance. But if, by to-morrow, when Captain Darrell comes here for his answer, that answer is not * Yes!' up you go to the attic, there to stay among the rats and beetles until the yes comes!" Estella shuddered, but walked determinedly to the door. ** Stop!" exclaimed the old man, also rising. " Hear me out! Don't think of escape. You have neither money nor friends — you stand utterly alone in the wide world, depend- ent on me. No one in the village will help or harbor you. You are entirely in my power, to do with as I choose. If 1 locked you up until the rats gnawed the flesh off your bones, and nothing but your rattling skeleton remained, who would be the wiser? Think better of it, my good girl, and when Captain Darrell comes here to-morrow, be ready to say * yes, and ' thank you.' Now go." The girl left the room without a word. In the dim light of the dusky passage she was deathly pale, but the youthful face looked fixed and resolute as doom. She walked to a window at the end of the hall, and looked out. The rain had ceased, but the wind whistled shrilly and rant the black, jagged clouds wildly hither and thither. The sea tossed wild and white, with a roar like thunder, and dim, and dark, and far od she could just make out estella's husband. 19 ;h a crowbai; Dr your skull shrieked the iongMQ, miss, marry you, , marry hin ►o you hear, fore another tely, "andl ill me! I'm e a thousand 1 in practice, ore they die. mil cool the iiigh spirit a ^e you a last tain Darrell Iq&V up you I and beetles. to the door. " Hear me r money nor rid, depend- harbor you. oose. If 1 [your bones, ained, who girl, and ready to |e dim light le youthful hall, and id whistled [dly hither |e thunder, make out the '* Raven,'' outlined against the gloomy skv. Either the sight, or the raw, rattling blast, made her shiver from head to foot. ** It is easier to die,** she said to herself, her brown eyes looking black under her bent brows. ** He is a robber and a murderer — an outlaw and a villain— a wretch for whom the gallows is waiting! Better be eaten alive by the rats up in the attic, than live an hour with liim ! But, oh ! I don't understand it all. What on earth can he want to marry me for? I won't marry him, and I won't be locked up! You'll see, Mr. Fisher I This is Dick's night —dear, clever old Dick — and he will tell me how to outwit them both.'' [J 1.1 1 1 CHAPTER III. DICK DERWENT PLOTS. Peter Fisher's dreary dwelling— Fisher's Folly — stood as dismally isolated from other dwellings as a house could well stand. A long, dark, rambling old place, gloomier without than within, if possible, perched on a windy cliff overlooking the lonely sea. Far away on either hand spread the desolate marshes and arid fields, burned dry under the broiling sea-side sun. Three miles off lay Rock- ledge— the little country town; and the road between Rock- ledge and Fisher's Folly was as lonely and dismal a stretch of road as you could find in a long year's search. Those ghastly fields— those sodden marshes, dotted with elumps of gloomy cedars — spread out unutterably grewsome after dusk, and very rare was it, indeed, to meet a human being on that deserted road once the gloaming fell. But on this wild and windy May night, a tall young man •trode cheerily along the lonesome path, whistling a lively tune. A tall and slender youth of one-or two-and-twenty, with a frank, good-looking, high-colored face, and merry, light-blue eyes. A young man on whose boyish face the callow down was just beginning to crop up in palest hues, and whose long legs measurS off the ground in seven- league strides. Under his arm he carried a bundle of books, in tattered paper covers, and as he whistled along he cast anxious glances now and then up at the overcast sky. The rain '-n \ { M estella's husband. had entirely ceased, but the wind blew a gale, and the black clouds scudded wildly before it over the stomiy sky. ** Anasty nightl" the young man muttered — ** cold, and raw, and bleak for my dear girl to venture out. But she won't fail, bless her dear little fearless heart ! She's a great deal too fond of *vellow-covered literature * for that. 1 wish she were too fond of poor Dick Derwent also I But that's too good to hope for." His whistle ended in a lugubrious sigh, and his cheery face clouded a little. " Will she ever like me, I wonder, as 1 like her? Will it go on like this forever — 1 madly in love with her, she fond of * dear old Dick,' as she might be fond of some big, faithful Newfoundland dog? Will my secret burst oat sooner or later, and frighten the dear little innocent girl out of her senses? I'm no match for the adopted daughter of the rich old miser. I suppose she'll be an heiress when he dies, and Dick Derwent's cake will be dough. She's in love with the Corsair, Ernest Mai tra vers, and a dozen other heroes of that ilk, and the sub-editor of the Rockltnge * Weekly News ' might as well love some * bright particular star,' etc., as the prospective heir of old Peter Fisher. It's destiny, I suppose," concluded Mr. Dick Derwent, with a second long-drawn sigh, " but it's doosidly hard." He strode along in gloomy meditation for the remainder of the way, and gloom was an element altogether foreign to Dick Derwent's good-humored face. But he was in love —hopelessly, helplessly in love — and surely the megrims is the normal state of hopeless lovers. He was in love with Estella Mallory, this youthful sub- editor of the Rockledge *' News," on whose boyish chin the down was still tender, and to him the glorious sun shone on nothing half so lovely as the pale, slender girl of iixteen, with the wonderful hazel eyes and hair. He was in love with the pretty Estella, and he kept his secret, and let concealment prey on his damask cheek; and he Drought her flowers, and fruit, and cheap jewelry, and unwholesome confectionery, and more unwholesome novels, by the whole- sale, and was her escort to the few places of amusement she was permitted to attend, and was her most intimate friend on earth. But she was not in love with him — not the least bit. He was always '* dear old Dick," and she was very fond of him, )• BSTELLA 8 HUSBAKD. 21 and he knew it, and that very frank fondness plunged him into the deepest abyss of despair. *' She is waiting for a modern Count Lara," Mr. Der« wont thought, moodily, '* a second Eugene Aram, a mag* uificent creature with black whiskers and a pale face, and a murder or two in his mind. That's the worst of devour- ing novels by the dozen. Where's the girl of sixteen will look twice at a fellow whose beard crops up in wliite and red stubbles, and who is obliged to wear patched panta- loons, when hur head is full of Sir Lancelots and Giaours, and grandiose chaps of that kind? She'll elope with some sixpenny barber from New York, the happy possessor of dyed haii ^ud mustache, and two melancholy dark eyes, and Dick Derwent may cut his throat, for all that she will care." The young man came to a halt as he reached this gloomy climax. The place of tryst was evidently gained. A dismal spot — a dozen yards beyond the house — on the verge of the windy cliffs, screened from the beach below by a clump of dwarf cedars. He glanced over the bushes, but the shore below was in darkness. A regiment might be in hiding under that beetling cliff and be none the wiser. A watery moon looked out from the scudding clouds, but cast no light on that eerie spot, and the man who leaned motionless against the rock, directly below him, was un- seen by Dick Derwent. The sub-editor of the Rockledge ** News " drew forth a big silver watch, and looked at the dial by the pallid glim- mer of the moon. '* Half past eight, and no sign of her yet. She'll keep me waiting and cooling my shins here an hour or so, as usual, and may be won't x.ome at all. What an unuttera- ble ass I am, to let a little, novel-reading chit of sixteen fool me like — Oh, by George, here she is!" His whole face lighted up — grew radiant. Plain Dick Derwent was transformed, in a second, by the magical power of love. Where v/as common sense, his reasoning and his railing nowi* Yonder came his darling, and all the world was forgotten ! She came breathlessly — flying over the marsh, a shawl over her head and grasped under her chin — the wind flutter- ing her cheap gray dress ESTKLLA's HUSBAITD. 7 '* Waiting Diok?'' she cried, panting. " I always k«0p Jou waiting, don't I? But I couldn't steal out any sooner, was afraid I couldn't come at all. " ** But you're here now. Miss Mallory, and, as Mr. Toots remarks, the waiting is of no conseauence, thank youl Here are the books, four of 'em, enough to keep ypu read* me for one week. " ^* Thank you, Jick! But, oh! where's the use? I won't be let read their.; I'll never be able tj return them — never get the chance to meet you here a^ain. Yes, Dick," with eepest solemnity, ** this is the last time you and I can ever meet." ** Good gracious me!" exclaimed Mr. Dorwent, ** what on earth do you mean. Miss Mallory? The last time? You never mean to say that old curmudgeon is going to lend you away to school at last?" ** No, Dick — ten times worse. I wish it was only lohool. He's going," in an awful whisper, ** to — marry— me!" ** What!" cried Dick, in horror, ** marry you — hit niece — that old man? Estel!a — " ** Oh, no, no! not liimself. He's going to marry me to another man. And you'd never guess the man, Dick— % that dreadful wretch. Captain Koysten Darrell." Dick Derwent recoiled a pace, with a face full of horror. ** EstoUa!" ** I don't know why it is, or what he wants to marry me for," continued Estella, rapidly; '* but he does. He was with uncle all the afternoon, and as soon as he went, uncle sent for me, and told me 1 must be married in a week, and to the captain of the ' Eaven.' Think of that, Dick — in a week! Of course 1 said no — flat — and uncle got into a rage and threatened to lock me up in the garret with the rats and beetles, and keep me on bread and water until I consented. Oh, Dick! what will become of me — what shall I do?" ** See them both at the bottom of the bottomless pit!" burst out Mr. Derwent. "The cold-blooded old reptile! Why, if he searched the universe, he could hardly find a more desperate villain than that outlawed smuggler. Dare-devil Darrell! Marry you to him! Good heavens! he had better take and pitcn you, headforemost, into the lea yonder, and end your misery at once. Marry Roysten ESTRLI.A 8 HUSBAND. 2S Darrein Not if I know mysolf, Essie; and 1 ratnor think I do." ** Dear old Dick! 1 knew you would help me. What would ever becomo of me only for you? But what can 1 do? To-morrow lie comes for his answer, and if the an- swer is * no,' up in the attic Til \m locked as sure as we stand here." '* Then don't give them the chance," said impotuou« Dick; "run away to-night. Does the hoary old repro- bate think he has gone back to the dark ages, to lock young and lovely females in the * deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat,* upon bread and water? Give them the slip, Essie — make youreelf ' thin air ' at once." ' And go where?" asked the young lady, calmly. '* Look here, Dick, I've been thinking it over, and it's of no use. Uncle is tke richest man and the most powerful man in Rockledge. Half of the town are his tenants — all are afraid of him — none of them will willingly incur his displeasure. If 1 leave here, where will 1 go? who will re- ceive me? You have no homo to take me to, and you are the only friend 1 have got. I can't be a burden upon anybody, and I haven't the faintest idea of any way on earth to earn my own living. What am I going to do?" She clasped her hands, and looked earnestly up in his face. He could see the solemn darkness of those rare hazel eyes in the fitful moonlight. How pretty she was! how pretty 1 how pretty! and how friendless and helpless! His heart leaped up with a great bound; his face turned dark red. The young fellow trembled from head to foot. ** There is one way, Essie," he said, hoarsely — " only one that I can see, and I — I am afraid to name it. " " Afraid!" The dark eyes looked at him in wonder. ** Afraid, Dick! What can it be?" ** You must marry some one else, and at once! You are friendless and helpless, and in their power. 1 have no home to take you to, as you say; and, oh, Essie! I would give my heart's blood for you! But if, when the time comes which they appoint for your marriage with Roysten Darrell, you are the wife of some other man, then you can safely defy them both. A husband's authority is the strongest in the world." He spoke rapidly^ excitedly, almost incoherently, th« i 4 U S4 BBTella's husband. poriirp'irfttion Branding like beads on his fliiBhod faoe. The great brown eyes gazed at him in over-increasing wonder. ** But who am I to marry^, Dick? It is jumping out ol the frying-pan into the fire, isn't it? Who am 1 to marry?*' ** Marry me!** The murder was out. Estci. , gave a little gn^p, then stood staring. But with that desperate header oume bacl-' Dick's courage, and into the subject he plunged headfore- most. ** Marry me, Estella! I love you with all my heart and soul! I have loved you, 1 think, ever since 1 taw you first. I would die for your sake! I would give my life to make you happy! I never dared speak before. I would not dare speak now, but for what you huvc^ told mo. Oh, Essie! You hke me a little, don't you? Come with me, and be my wife!" ** But, Dick — Oh, good gracious! who'd have thought it? 1 — I never was so — " But here Dick broke in, like an impetuous torrent ** I am not worthy of you, Estella. You, so beautiful, «nd so much above me! But I love you so dearly, and I will devote my whol. life to making you happy. Don't say no, Esteliu! Think of your danger — think how I wor- ship you! Oh, surely it is better to marry me than to marry Roysten Darrell!" '* A great deal better," responded Miss Mallory, decis- ively. *' Oh, dear, dear! what an astonisher this is! The idea of your being in love with me all this time, and I never dreaming of it! Why, Dick," and here Miss Mal- lory set up a silvery laugh, ** 1 never thought it was in you to be in love at all. I thought you were wrapped up in that horrid printing office and that stupid Rockledge 'News.'" " But now you know, and you — Oh, Essie, you like me a little, don't you?" cried Dick, piteously. ** I like you a great deal," answered Estella, with de- licious candor. ** Better than anybody in the world. But I'm not a bit in love with you, you know, Dick." ** And you'll marry me? Essie — Essie darling, say yes!" " Yes /" said Estella, promptly. " What fun it will be to outwit those two schemers! I'd marry you \t it was bbtella's husband. 2C onlj for that. Bat, oh, dear! the idea of you and mu being marriud! Diok IKMWuiit, it's /oo ridiuulous.'* *' IJou'ltulk liko that, Essio.'' Dick said, his honust fuco all a^lovv with rupture. *' I'm tho happiest fellow on earth. 1 can't promise you a tlno hotiso, and rich dresses, and servants, just yet, but Til wcM-k for you like a galley- slave, and you — you won't mind a litLlo poverty at first, will you, darling?" **Afind!" said Eatella. ** I should think I was pretty well used to it. Look at that grim old prison. There isn t a cottage in Rockledgo half so meanly furnished. Look at my dress! Two of these cheap gray things is all I gel from one year's end to the other. Look ut our table — porridge and potatoes, and salt fish, and brown bread, and weak tea. Poverty! I've had sixteen years of that, Dick, and I should think, as I said before, 1 was pretty well used to it. " ** My own dear Essie! It will go hard with me or we will do better than that. I will go in rags, so that you may be dressed. 1 will starve, so that you may have dainties. I will labor night and day, that those dear hands may never know toil. Oh, my dearest! how happy, how happy you have made me!" Gushing two-aud-twenty! delirious first lovel Miss Mtiiiory smiled complacently. This was as it should be — this was how she would be wooed — this was living a chapter out of one of her pet romances. True, the hero had a snub nose, and perennial smudges Ox printers' ink upon it, but still, for the time being, he was a hero, and Edgar Eavenswood could hardly do better. ** That's all very nice Dick, and I'm very much obliged to you, 1 am sure. But how is it going to be managed? How are we going to be married?" ^ ** In the only way — elope." ** Yes," said Estella, calmly; ** but when? and how? Re- member, we have only a week. " ** And a week is an abundance of time! Oh, my dar- ling, I am ready to go wild with delight when 1 think you will be all my own in one short week! Let me see— this is Thursday night. Essie, you must pretend to consent, and fix this nigh^ week for the ceremony." ** But, Dick, I hate to tell lies! It is too mean." '* Unfortunately, white lies are indispensable on these ■;♦ r i I' 26 bstella's husband. occasions. We must outwit these schemers. Meantime, i will make arrangements for our immediate union. I have a cousin, newly ordained, over at Leaport, who will be glad of a chance to oblige me, and who is not in the least in dread of the great Mr. Fisher. He will marry us, Essie, and next Tuesday shall be the night.*' '* And then, Dicii?'' ** Then we will return to Rockledge, able to snap our fingera in the faces of Peter Fisher and Roysteu Darrell. If tljey dare say one word, I'll show them both up in next week's * News,* and make the state too hot to hold them. We \7ill board for awhile with Mrs. Daly, where I stop now, until I build a pretty little nest for my pretty little bird. You understand all this, Essie, and will obey? *' I will do anything to escape Roysten Darrell," replied the girl, with a shudder — ** anything in the wide world, Dick. Where shall I meet you on Tuesday night?" " Here — 1 will have a conveyance waiting on the road to take us to Leaport. My dearest girl, you will never repent your trust in me." ** Dear old Dick, I know it. And now 1 must go. Judi<^^h locks up after nine, and it won't do for me to be missed. On Tuesday night, then, I will meet you here again. Until then, good-bye!" '* Good-bye, darling Essie!" He took her hand and kissed it rapturously. **' I think I am the happiest fellow on earth. If anything of importance occurs oetween this and Tuesday, 1 will write. DonH you think you could meot me again Sunday evening?" " I don't know I will if I can. Good-bye, and good- night!" She darted away with the last words, and was lost in the darkness before Richard Derwent could quite realize she kad gone. He turned slowly home«vard, with a glow at his heart like a halo around a full moon, all unconscious ol the silent listener under the cliff who had overheard every word. CHAPTER IV. ::OYSTEN DARRELL COUNTERPLOTS. As Dick Derwent's footsteps died away, the eavesdropper emerged from the shadow into the fitful moonlight, and the ■STELLA'S aCSBAND. 27 lofty statare and bold, handsome face of Captain Royrten Darrell was revealed. " So!'* he thought, with a long whistle, ** the game grows interesting — the plot thickens! A rival on the field, eh? Mr. Dick Derwent, sub-editor of the * Rockledge News/ thinks to outwit Dare-devil Darrell! How lucky 1 stayed here, waiting for Briggs^ and how doubly lucky that Briggs hasn't come! My pretty little Estella, we'll see whether Roysten Darrell or Dick Derwent will win the game!" He strode over the beach, whistling '* My Love is but a Lassie Yet," and lost in thought. " There will be the devil to pay with Carlotta," he mused, his brow knitijag; '* she's as stubborn as a mule, and as jealous as — as a jealous woman — but she must yield! 1 don't care a sou for the girl, and if I can get her to believe that, and dazzle her with the prospective fortune, she may hear to reason. But managing Estella will be a trifle to managing her. The very old demon is in her, 1 believe, when her spirit is up. " He walked along rapidly — a long, lonely walk. The watery glimmer of the pale moon lighted up the long- deserted beach, the waste of moaning sea, the beetling cliffs overhead. He walked along for upward of a mile over the shingly shore, passing the spot where the " Baven " lay rising and falling lazily on the long groundswell. No human habitation was in sight, no living thing met his view — the sobbing night wind, the moaning sea, the pallid moonlight, had the ghastly stretch of shore all to themselves. But Roysten Darrell hastened along, with the air of a man who knows where he is going. Another half mile is passed, and then the first sign of human habitation came m view. And yet, was it a habitation? A low, ruinous black building, dark and deserted, known as the " Den " to the fishermen along the coast, and popularly supposed to be haunted — an unspeakably ghastly place to be inhab ited. No ray of light came from its boarded windows, no sound from its gloomy walls, but at the door of this dreary ruin the captain of the " Raven " stopped, and applying his lips to the key-hole, whistled shrilly three times. The signal was almost immediately answered. Bolts shot r V I' 'I 'i 11 estella's husband. back, chains rattled, the door opened cautiously, aizd a bearded face looked out into the night. ** You, cap'n?" said a bass voice. ** I, Marlow. Let me in. Is Monks here, and the rest?" ** Come half an hour ago, and enjoying theirselves. Don't you hear 'em? They'll bring the vultures down on the * Den ' with their infernal row." The captain strode in; the door was again secured. He stood in a long passage-way dimly lighted by an oil-lamp, and the noise of many voices singing in the distance reached him plainly. u There's danger on yon heaving sea, There's lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, marinersl The wind is piping loud. The wind is pipng loud, my boys; The lightning flashes free; The world of waters is our home. And merry men are we!" **And merry men are we!" yelled a dozen nproarious voices. ** And here's the captain, the merriest of the lot! A long life and a merry one to the captain of the * Raven!' " The toast was drunk with a perfect screech of enthusi- asm. Captain Darrell stood in the door- way, calmly re- garding the scene. A large, vault-like apartment filled with casks and bales—too plainly contraband — rude benches for seats, a ruder table in the center, and an oil-lamp swinging above, dully lighting all. Around the table, noisily drinking and playing cards, over a dozen men were seated — stalwart, ferocious fellows, all armed to the teeth, rolling out oaths and tobacco juice in perpetual volleys. Too much noise, my lads — too much noise!" said Roy- sten Darrell. " You'll fetch the revenue sharks down upon you before you know it. Monks, a word with you." One of the men arose — a black-bearded, piratical-looking desperado — and followed his tall commander into a second passage darker than the first. *' Anything new, cap'n? Is Briggs coming for his vent- ure to-night? " I missed Briggs. Look here. Monks, you go to Rock- istella's husbakd. 3» ledge sometimes; do you know a chap there called Dick Derwent — printer by trade?'' ** A tall, slim youth — part editor of the * News?' As well as I know myself, cap'n." " Good! lie is in my way, Monks — you understand? 1 have a little project on foot with which he may interfere.'* ** What! that milksop? Whew!" whistled Monks. ** Milksops make mischief sometimes. Keep your ey© on him, Monks. On Monday night next he must be se- cured without fail, and without noise. You hear?" '* All right! I'm good ior a dozen Dick Derwents. Where are we to fetch him? To the Den, or on board the * Raven?' " ** On board the * Raven.' See that it's all done on the quiet. Monks — 1 don't want a stir made. That is all — you oan go back to your game." He turned away, and walked down the dark passage. Before he reached the end, a door opened, a stream of light poured forth, and there was a woman's glad cry. ** I knew your step, Roysten. Who would have looked for you so soon? Come in — supper is ready and waiting." Two warm arms went round his neck; two impetuous lips met his; two strong little hands drew him in and shut the door. ** And I am as hungry as u bear, Carlotta; so let us have it as soon as may be, my girl. " It was a smaller room than the first — and surprisingly cosy and comfortable for such a place. A carpet covered the floor, the chairs were cushioned, a plump, white bed stood In a corner, there were pictures on the wall, books on the shelves, a fire in a little cook-stove, and a mirror over the rude mantel. A large lamp lighted it brightly, glittering on a well spread supper-table and on the small, slender figure of the woman who stood beside it. A very small and slender figure — a little dark creature — with great black eyes, jet-black hair, and a dark, olive skin. A darkly beautiful creature, with a passionate, southern face, dressed in a rich robe of crimson silk, and with jewels flashing on her thin, dark hands. Roysten Darrell flung off his loose great-coat, and seated himself at the table. The little Creole beauty poured out a cup of fragrant chocolate, and pushed all the dainties on ihe board before him. I ( I M EfflELLA'S HUSBAND. " 1 have news for you to-night, Carlotta," ht said, plung- ing at once, with a reckless rapidity that was characteristic of the man, into his unpleasant revelations. " I am going to be married." The great black eyes dilated — the thin, red lips sprung apart. " Whatf ** I am going to be married, Carlotta — married to a great heiress, my girl. A little, wishy-washy school-girl, fresh from the nursery, whom I have never seen six times in my life. What do you think of that?'' *' 1 don't understand," the woman Carlotta said, her dark face paling strangely. ** You are joking with Car- lotta. 1 am your wife." " So you are, my beauty, and there is a law prohibiting men, in this narrow-minded country, from having more wives than one. But the law and lloysten Darrell have been at loggerheads this many a day, and it's rather late to respect its majesty now. Yes, I'm going to be married, and in a week, and to an heiress, and we'll take the little bride for her honey-moon trip on board the * Eaveu;' and when th« * Raven ' weighs anchor out in the cove yonder again, I will be a widower, and the sole possessor of the late Mrs. Darrell 's fortune." And then, while he eat and drank at his leisure, Roysten Darrell retold the plot laid by Peter Fisher for securing th© wealth of his ward, and retold that second plot he had over- heard beneath the cliff. ** I'll secure the heiress, and foil Mr Dick Derwent," the captain of the '* Raven " concludeu, finishing his meal. ** Come, Carlotta, sit here on my knee, and listen to rea- son. There is no need for you to wear that white, scared face; 1 wouldn't give my little gypsy wife for a dozen heir- esses. But to win half a million of money at one swoop, that is not to be sneezed at. This pale, sickly girl of six- teen will never come back alive, and you and 1, my darling Carlotta, will share her wealth, and live in clover for the rest of our lives." ** Will you murder her, Roysten?" the woman said, with dilated eyes. ** Murder her? No—I wouldn't see her worst eneniv do that. Bu^ seasickness, and horror of me, and the loss of her lover, and our wild life, will murder her. Depend l^; EITELLA'S HUSBAKD. 31 upon it, the little bride will never come back aJive, or if ■he does, only to get a divorce, and free herself from the husband she hates with every penay of her fortune. Come, Carlotta, say you consent, and let ua consider the matter settled. " The woman clasped her arms passionately round iiis neck, and laid her dark face on his bosom with a dry, choking sob. ** Could I refuse you anything in the world, my love, my husband — anything in the wide world? Has poor Car- lotta any will but yours? But, oh, Roysten! it would be easier to die than see you even for an hour wedded to an- other!" r- Estella Mailory reached the house just in time to escape being locked out. Old Judith turi^ed upon her with no very pleasant face. ** And where have you been, pray, this hour »l the night? I thought you were safely up in yonr room. What will Mr. Fisher say to this gaddiug?" *' 1 wasn't gadding, and Mr. Fisher will say nothing. Grandmother Grumpy, for you won't tell him. Good- night, Judith; if you took a mouthful of fresh air yourself every evening, you would be none the worse for it. People grow yellow and cross from moping forever in-doors." She ran off to her room, singing a snatch of a song, her books hidden beneath her shawl. Like all the rooms in the house, Estella's chamber was long and low, and dark and moldering; but the girl had brightened it a little with muslin curtains, and a gay patchwork quilt to her bed, and flimsy little fixings of crochet-work, and books and cheap Erints, mostly gifts from Dick. _ She sat up reading until er caudle sputtered and died out; and then she went to bed to dream how cleverly she was going to outplot the plotters. Roysten Darrell came next day, and was closeted for over an hour with Mr. Fisher. Then Estella was sum- moned, and went down-stairs in soma trepidation to face the stalwart wooer she dreaded. " And how is my little Estella?'* cried the captain of the ** Raven," las brilliant blue eyes sparkling with mis- ehievous light ** Grown out of all knowledge, and prat- i I. 82 estella's husband. )! is! tier than a picture. Come here, my dear, and give me a Ities." But Miss Mallory drew herself up, her great dark eyes flashing, and turned her back upon him in haughty disdain. ** You sent for me, Mr. Fisher," she said, coldly. ** Yes, my dear — for your answer, you know,'' replied old Peter Fisher, his wicked old face distorted into an evil smile. *' Captain Darrell wishes to be married next Thurs- day night — the * Raven ' sails on Saturday. What do you say V* '' No!'' said Estella, promptly. *' All right!" exclaimed Roysten Darrell. " Then we shall be obliged to use a little gentle force. You'll see that all the wedding-gear is prepared, Mr. Fisher, and when Thursday night comes, I dare say Miss Mallory will change her mind. Until then it is useless to trouble her; but I think she had better remain in the house as much as pos- sible. Brides-elect never show, I believe, for a week be- forehand. That will do, my dear. If you won't consent, and if you won't give me that kiss, perhaps you will go back to your room. " ** Not at your bidding," flashed Estella, defiantly. ** Have you anything more to say to me, uncle?" " No! Be off; and be thankful 1 don't rope's-end you for your impertinence, miss!" Estella obeyed, flushed and angry, and from her win- dow, soon after, saw Captain Darrell striding over the marsh. And he came no more. Saturday and Sunday passed, and she was left in peace, but, to her dismay, a prisoner. Old Judith had orders not to allow her to cross the threshold, and old Judith was a very dragon of fidelity to her grim master. Monday came, and with it a ray of hope to Estella. The butcher's boy, from Rockledge, bringing the meat for din- ner, brought also a tiny note for Miss Mallory. Estella chanced to be alone in the kitchen when he came, Judith being upstairs over her chamber-work. The note was in Dick's hand. With aery of delight she tore it open and read: '* On Tuesday night, at half past nine, meet me at the old place. All is ready. Don't fail. " ESTELLA*S HUSBAl^D. 86 That was ill; bufc it was Dick's writing, and her heart ^%ve a great bound. ** I'll meet hira, if I have to jump out of the window!" she thought. " Marry Roysten Darrell, indeed! Not if 1 were to be hung, drawn and quartered for refusing." Tuesday came — a wet, windy day. All the morning Estella remained shut up in her room; all the afternoon she wandered about the house, in a fever of anxiety. Night closed down early — wetter ana windier than the day. Fortune seemed to favor her. Judith was laid up with rheumatism, and obliged to go to bed at dark. Groanmg with pain, she ordered Estelii* up to her room, locked the house door, and hobbled ofE to her own. Nine o'clock, and all was still. Twenty minutes past^ and nothing to be heard but the tumult of wind and rain. Wrapped in her shawl, and wearing a hat and thick veil, Estella stole down-stairs, unfastened the house door with trembling fingers, and stood out in the wet darkness— free! She did not pause a second. Heedless of wind, and rain, and pitchy darkness, she fled to the place of tryst. Was Dick there? Yes; a man stood dimly outlined against the dark background, waiting. ** Estella," he said, in a whisper, ** is it you?" ** It is I, Dick. Quick! I may be missed." He took her hand and hurried her on. A buggy stood waiting on the road. He lifted her in, sprung to the seat beside her, and drove off like the wind. There v^as no time to talk — they flew along too quickly —and the uproar of the storm would have drowned their voices. Dick's cap was pulled over his nose, and his coat-collar turned up, so that his face was completely hidden. For nearly an hour they rattled alor^; then he pulled up suddenly — before a light glimmering m the dark. ** This is the place," he said, hr.rriedly. ** The clergy- man is waiting. Quick!" He drew her along — into a house — into a room. A smoky lamp only made the darkness visible, and through her veil the frightened girl saw, dimly, a man dressed as a clergyman, and two others, all talking in a group. ** There is no time to lose," said Estella's companion. '* We may be pursued. Marry us at once, and lei us be off." 2 M Pi *■'-'■ if- ].« . I H estella's husband. He never removed his cap; she did not put up her veil She was trembling from head to ». The wild night* journey — this gloomy room — these strange men! She wai frightened, and quivering all over. The minister opened hifi book; the ceremony began. But Estella's head was whirling — all was confusion and indistinct. She answered, ** I will I" vagufily. She saw a ring slipped on her finger, as we see things in a dream. Then all was over, and she was out in the wet night once more, flying along the road, and this was her husband by her side! They sped along. Faint and frightened, she cowered in a corner, while the man beside her never uttered a word. On and on they went, stopping with a jerk at last — where, Estella did not know. ** Here we are!" said the silent bridegroom. ** Home at last!" He lifted her out — bore her along like a whirlwind to- ward a house — opened the door and ushered her into a dark hall. " This way," he said. ** They have forgotten to light up. Here are the stairs — look out!" He half led, half carried her up the stairs, opened a door at the top, and disclosed a lighted room. ** At home!" he cried. ** Throw up your veil, my dear little wife, and give me that kiss now /" That voice! She did fling back her veil, in wild affright. Oh, where was she? This familiar room — the dreary par- lor of Fisher's Folly; those well-known faces — old Peter Fisher and Judith — grinning at her across the table. "You thought to outwit us," chuckled the old man,, grimly. ** We have turned the tables and outwitted yoUr My dear Mrs. Roysten Darrell, let me be the first to offer my congratulations!" She wheeled round, with a smothered cry, and looked at the man beside her. The cap was flung off, the coat-collar turned down. Tall and handsome, with the face of a smiling demon, there stood the man she had married — Koysten Darrein li bbtella's husband. at CHAPTER V. IN THE ATTIC. It was « scene worthy a melodrama. For an instant dead silence reigned. The triumphani plotters stood looking at their victim, and she — poor, snared bird — stood paralyzed, her great brown eyes, wide and wild, fixed in unutterable horror upon the man she had married. He was the first to break the silence. With a loud laugh, he strode toward her, his arms extended. Ha! ha! ha! how the Ifttle one stares! Am I the Gorgon's head, my dear, and have I turned you to stone? Gome, my little brown-eyed bride, it is time your blissful bridegroom had a kiss!'' Another stride toward her — then Estella awoke. With a wild, wild cry, that rang through the house, she flung up both arms and fled to the furthest corner of the room. ** Keep off!" she shrieked, " you pirate! you murderer! you second Cain! If you touch me, I shall die!" Roysten Darrell laughed again — his deep, melodious, bass laugh. ** Hard names, my dear, to begin the honey-moon with. Gome, you must forgive our little trick — all's fair in love, you know. You would have tricked me, remember, if you could — you and that little whipper-snapper of a printer. X don't bear any malice, but 1 really couldn't stand by and «ee you throw yourself away on a contemptible little jack- anapes like that. Come, come, Estella — let by-gones be by-gones! You're my wife now, as fast as church and state can make you, and the only thing you can do is to submit to the inevitable and consent to make me the happiest of men. Come, my dear — come! Get out of that comer and pay you forgive me!" Again he came toward her, and again that frenzied shriek rang through the house. * * Don't come near me ! don't touch me ! If you lay your finger upon me, I shall go mad! Eoysten Darrell, I will n«yer forgive you to my dying day!" " Oh, yes, you will, my dear! Don't be unchristian. Ton can't blame me for loving you to distraotion, such « . ( mi 'it" ' i! I ) 80 BSTELLA'S HUciliAND. pretty little girl as you are; you can't blame me for OTer* nearing your little conspiracy with Mr. liichard Derwent; and least of all can you blame me for proving myself the more skillful plotter of the two. Think better of it, my dear little wife; don't stand glaring upon me there, as though I were an African gorilla, out hear to reason. We're married; I'm your husband, and it's a wife's solemn duty to love, honor and obey her husband, if I know any- thing of my catechism and the marriage service. Come, Mra Darrell — come! You must yield, sooner or later- then why not at once?" For the third time he approached, and for the third time the girl's frenzied soreoms echoed through the house. Even Roysten Darrell drew back, appalled. " The devil's in it!" he muttered. " Who would think she would raise such a row? 1 believe in my soul she will fo mad if I touch her. Fisher, she splits my ears — make er stop that infernal yelling. " Old Peter Fisher, his little eyes glaring with wrath, strode forward and seized her arm in a vicious grip. *' You screaming hyena, if you don't stop that noise this instant, I'll choke you! Stop it, I say — stop it! Do you hear? Do you want to drive us deaf, you confounded, cross-grained little wild-oat?" ** Save me from that man!" cried Estella, almost beside herself — ** save me from him, and I will do what you say? Oh, Uncle Fisher, save me — save me! If you let him come near me, 1 shall die!" ** Die, then!" exclaimed Uncle Fisher, giving her a vin- dictive shake — " the sooner the bet^.er! Of all the plagues of Egypt — of all the plagues that ever were heard of — there never was invented such a plague as girls! Stand there, you screeching vixen, and listen to me! That man's your husband — do you hear me, mistress? Your hushand — the master of your destiny — your owner for life. Fm not going to keep another man's wife here. Drop that howl- ing, and get ready and go with the man you have married." ** I never married him!" Estella wildly cried. ** I would have died ten thousand deaths sooner! 1 thought it was Dick Derwent^ and he knows it. 1 will never go with him — 1 will never speak to him as long as he lives! If you let him lay one finger upon me, I will kill myself — I will. Uncle Fisher — and my blood will be on your head!'" \»f ■■» I estella's hlskand. She spoke and looked like one demented — her fare j^liast- ]y pale, her eyes starting from their sockets, her brown liair all wild and disheveled about her. The old sinner recoiled, and stood staring at her in dis- may. " I really believe you uwuhl, you little tigress!'* he ex- claimed. "Barrel!, what, in the name of all the fiends, are we to do with this exasperating minx?** Captain Darrell shrugged his broad fchoulders, and lounged easily up against the chimney-piece. " She's excited now, vion ami — she'll think better of it by and by. Didn't 1 hear you speak about locking up Miss Mallory, upon bread and water, not long ago? Try that cooling prescription with Mrs. Roysten l)arrell for a day or two, and see how it works. It is rather trying to begin the honey-moon — widowed; but what can't be cui-ed, etc. Meantime, with your good permission, I'll light a cigar, and go home. " He took out an inlaid cigar-case, selected a weed, and coolly lighted it. "Your wife shall go with you, Darrell I" Peter Fisher exclaimed, with flashmg eyes. " By all the furies, I am not to be baffled by a girl in her teens! Stand up here, you diabolical little viper, and hear me for the last time. Will you go with your husband, or will you not?" ** He is no husband of mine, and 1 will be torn to pieces before 1 go with him!" Estella answered, wildly. " And so you shall — for your choice lies between going with him, or being torn to pieces by the rats in the attic. 1 swear by all that is holy, girl, if you refuse to go with Roysten Darrell, the moment the door closes upon him, up garret you go, to be starved and eaten alive by an army of rats! Take your choice — freedom and a bridegroom, or starvation and the rats." " Better rats than murderers!" the girl cried, trembling from head to foot. " Anythiuf/ is belter than that dread- ful man! I am not his wife, and you know it. I can die, but 1 can never, never go with him!" " Be it so, then!" exclaimed the old man, in a voice of suppressed fury. " You have chosen. Roysten Darrell, go! She shall abide by her choice. Judith, woman, light the captain out, and then go to bed. By this time to- morrow night, my lady, your hot blood will hardly bouiiil 'J ■''{ ( I' ESTELLA'-fl HUSBAND. 80 high. 1 know what a night among rats is like, if yoa don't. Away with you, Darrell! Your bride will not go with YOU to-night." ** One laat ciiance, Estella,** said Roysten Darrell, start- ing up and drawing near. ** Come with mo! You are my wile, and Til treat you well — I will, upon Uie honor of an outlaw I Come — you'll find me better company than the rata in the attic." But at his approach the shrieks broke out again, and she fled away to the remotest end of the room. *' Go!" said Peter Fiaher, sternly; ** waste no mora words. I'll make her repent her obstinacy to the last day of her life. Light him out, Judith, and — you needn't come back. " ** Good-night, then," said the captain of the ** Raven," swinging round, " since you will have it so. I will live in the hope of a more favorable answer to-morrow. Good- night, Fisher! Temper justice with mercy — give her a light and a switch to scare oS the rats. " He was gone. Judith followed him out with a candle. From first to last she bad not uttered a word. She had stood looking about, as grim and unmoved as a Chinese idol. ^* Now, then, mistress!" exclaimed the old man, with a diabolical grin; " now for your choice — now for the attic, now for the rats! Come!" Estella held up her clasped hands and white, wild face. ** Have pity on me!" she cried. ^'Oh, Uncle Fisher, don't — dov?t shut me up in ^^hat dreadful place!" ** The choice is your own, he said, furiously clutching her by the arm. ** You it^ould have it, and, by Heaven, up you go! I will teach you what it is to defy and enrage me ! Stop that whining. I won't have it Up you go, though an angel were to descend from realms celestial to plead your cause. Come!" He grasped her furiously, and dragged her along. She struggled and screamed, but old as he ^vas, her strength was as nothing to the roused old tiger. He drew her to the door, and met Judith returning with the light. " Go on before!" thundered her master. ** It is as much as 1 can do to drag this vixen up." Without a word, without a look, the woman turned to obey, deaf to the victim's wild cries. EtiTELLA's HUSBAND. 39 If as to '* Save me, Judithl Oh, .Tiidithl Judith: help mo! Don't let him look me in that awful pluuel Oh, Judith, help me! help niu!" lUit Judith stalked grimly on, neither looking to the right nor left. "Aha!" chuckled EstoUa'H tormentor, '* you begin to dread it already, do you? Well, it's not too late yet. (Shall I send Judith out after Koynten Darrell?" " No — no — no! a thousand times no! liut oh, Uncle Fisher, pity me — save me! For the dear Lord's sake, don't lock mo in the attic!" She might as well have spoken to the wall, lie beat down the struggling hands and face furiously, and dragged her after him by main force. Past her room, up the creak- ing, rotting attic stairs — up amid dust and darkness, and silence and desolation. ** Throw open the door, Judith," ordered Peter Fisher, *' until I fling her in!" She obeyed. A rush of cold air came out and almost extinguished the light. Estella had one glimpse of the pitchy blackness^ of the horrible creatures scampering nois- ily over the floor, of the bloated black beetles and spiders on the wall, and then she was thrust in headlong, the door drawn violently to, the key turned, and she was locked in the attic. Her last long scream might have curdled their blood, so like that of a maniac did it sound. Old Judith turned to her master, and spoke for the first time. *' That girl will be raving mad by morning," she said, with a stony stare. "Let her," snarled Peter Fisher. "She deserves it. No one in this house shall defy me with impunity! You mind your own business, old beldame, and go to bed. " He snatched the light from her, gave her a vicious push as a hint to precede him, and followed her down the grimy stairs. She spoke no more. She stalked on ahead, silent and grim. But at her own chamber-door she paused, turned, favored her master with a second death's-head stare, opened her lips, and spoke: " '^^he girl will be mad or dead by morning! Mind, I've war»*^ you!" V'^iore he oould speak, she had disappeared, slammed tlm w^oor and locked it in his face. ♦ V r ' 1 '1 I I' ! i II! 40 estella's husband. » ** I'd like to lock you with her, you brimstone witch! snarled the old man, viciously, his little eyes glaring. '* Let her go mad! What do I care? Mad or sane, she is married, and Monsieur the Count shall pay me many a bright gold piece before he gets his daughter. '* He walked on to his room and went grimly to bed, and Estella was alone in the attic. Alone, in the inexpressible horrors of that most horrible prison. The wind shrieked madly; the rain beat in tor- rents upon the roof and poured in through a dozen aper- tures; the blackness was something palpable —something to be felt; the raw cold pierced to the none; the sea roared like a thousand wild beasts let loose. Without and within, horrors and tempest untold. She stood in the spot where the old man had thrust her, benumbed. The uproar without, so plainly heard here, deafened and stunned her at first. But only for a few mo- ments; then she awoke — awoke fully to the greater horrors within. She could hear the rats scampering back with the noise of a troop of horses. She could see the glitter of their fierce eyes in the dark; she could hear their shrill cries. She seemed to see again the myriads of loathsome, crawl- ing things that blackened the walls, and now — and now the rats were upon her! Her shrieks broke out afresh — mad, mad shrieks of in- sanest terror. But they were upon her — crawling over her feet, beneath her clothes; more than once their sharp teeth fastened in her flesh. She could not shake them off. She rushed to the door; she beat upon it madly; her hands were all cut, and torn, and bleeding; her screams were something fearful to hear. In vain — all in vain! Still they came — fierce and count- less; they swarmed around her — upon her; they bit fiercely at the yielding flesh. One last, agonizing cry, and then she fell, face forward, among them — dead to them and all mortal agony. CHAPTER VI. ** SICK AND IN PRISON." Old Judith had gone to her room, but r:ot to bed. Be- neath that grim, iron surface, somewhere beat a woman's estella's husband. 41 heart, or the callous remains of one. She knew what the attic of Fisher's Folly was like; she knew the horrors of darkness and hordes of fierce rata. She sat down on the edge of her bed> and listened to the mad uproar of wind, and rain, and sea. '* Fit night for such a marriage/' she thought — ** fit night for such demons' babes as Roysten Darreil and Peter Fisher. Brave men both to pit themselves against one lit- tle, helpless girl — both heroes each! Will I sit here and let that child go raving mad up there? She called upon me for help, in her agony, and I — 1 had a daughter once. " The grim old face worked. Another wild gale shook the old house, rattled noisily at doors and windows, and beat the rain in a deluge against the walls. '* A horrible night," Judith thought, with a shudder; ** a horrible house to live in, and horrible wretches to live among. And I am as bad as the worst if 1 sit here and see that child go mad. No, Peter Fisher, turn me out to- morrow upon the cold world, if you will — 1 will defy and disobey you to-night." She seized her candle, strode to the door, and up the creaking stairs to the attic — just in time, and no more, to hear that last, frenzied shriek and that dull, heavy fall. "Estella!" she called, rattling at the door, ^'Estella, child! it is Judith. Speak to me. I am going to break the lock and let you out." But there was no reply. Only the frantic raving of the tempest, the noisy scampering of the rats. ** Lord have mercy upon us sinners!" cried the old wom- an, remorse-stricken. *^ She has fallen in a dead laint^ and the rats are eating her alive!" She looked around; a heavy bar of iron lay among a heap of rubbish in a corner of the passage. To seize this, to batter down the old lock, was hardly the work of three minutes. But the noise had reached the keen ears of the master of Fisher's Folly. Before her work was done she heard the shuffling tread of his slippered feet, and saw his fierce, wrathful old face glaring upon her from the head of the stairs. " What in the fiend's name are you about, you hag?" he cried, furiously. ** Have you gone mad?" No," said Judith, never pausing in her work^ '* bat i 'M 4( 42 ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. 'H li! ii M,^ll! Jour yictim has. Pm bad enough^ the Lord knows, or 'd not be housekeeper for tea years to an incarnate devil like you^ Peter Fisher; but I'll not stand by and see a murder done, while 1 have hands to help or a voice to cry out.'* The old man rushed forward, his eyes literally blazing with fury. ** ru throttle you, you diabolical old hag! Stop that this instant and go back to your room!" But Judith raised her formidable bar, with an unflinch- ing face. ** Don't come near me, Mr. Fisher — don't try to stop me! I'm not often roused, but I'm the more dangerous when 1 am ! I'll take this child out of her prison, or I'll know the reason why! Stand back — I'm not afraid of you! Stand back, I say, and let me work!" He recoiled, absolutely frightened. In all his ten years' experience of her he had never seen that look on the gaunt face of his housekeeper before. It was dangerous to thwart her now. She beat down the rusty lock with one last blow, and flung the old door wide. ** You shall pay for this to-morrow, you beldame!" he hissed, in impotent rage. But she never heedS him. Still grasping her bar in one hand, and her light in the other, she stalked in, scaring the army of rats. There, face downward on the floor, lay the unhappy vic- tim, the blood oozing from a deep cut in her forehead. ** Come in, Peter Fisher," Judith called, ** and look at your to the girl, she had ever heard; *' but you are not to talk. You are to drink this, and go to sleep." She obeyed — too fetble even to wondci — and slept long and soundly. When she again awoke, many hours after, the dark face was still there. (* I don't know you," she said. ** Tell me your name. " ** My name is Carlotta. I am your nurse. You have been ill." " III, have Ih'* very faintly. " What has been the mat- ter?" ** BrPiin fever; but you are better now. Only you must not talk until you have grown a little stronger. " Again Estella obeyed, through sheer weakness. Bu»Iife and strength cam' pidly, and beat strongly in bo r breast. Before the end o ine third week she was able to sit up in bed and eat the dainty little messes the young nurse con- cocted with her own hands. Memory returned with that new life, and slowly Estella remembered all the events of that horrible night. It seemed a long way off now, and with a thrill of terror she realized her present situation. Sick and a prisoner — in the power of Peter Fisher and Roysten Darrell — alone and friendless in the wide world. Where was Dick Derwent? What must he think of her? "Was he, too, in the clutches of those merciless men? She asked no questions — some vague intuition told her the owner of that dark, unsmiling face would answer none. She lay, and thought and thought, and realized fully all her helplessness and misery, until a sick despair took pos- session of her body and soul. " Why did I not die?" she ihought, wearily. " Others die for whom the world is bright, but I — I, who have noth- nig to live for, nothing to hope for, I grow well. " No; Estella had nothing to hope for. Peter Fisher's ward knew very little of that other radiant world, where all the misery of this lower life ends, and perfect joy be- gins. She was little better than a heathen, poor child, with a very vague idea of that blissful land where the crooked things of this earth are made straight and patient womanly martyrs receive their crown. It was all daik to her, lying there on that forlorn sick-bed — past help, pait hope, past every thin}?o i\ i I" (H* .i./ii ESTELLA 8 HUSBAND. ** I should like to see a copy of the Rockledge * Kews,' Carlotta," she said, suddenly, one day to her nurse. Sho was sitting up now, wan and white as a spirit, but daily growing stronger in spite of her despair. It was the first wish she had expressed, and her nurse hastened to gratify it. She left the room, and returned in a few mo- ments with a recent copy of the pappv. Estella took it, glanced eagerly up and down its columns, jind at length, amid the advertisements, found what she wanted. It was an offer of fifty dollars reward from the editor of the journal for any information of Richard Der- went, sub-editor, who had mysteriously disappeared on the night of the eleventh of May. Her pale face grew a shade whiter. She laid down the paper, and looked at her nurse. ** What day of the month is this?" she asked. ** The second of June. " The girl uttered a low cry, and covered her face with her hands. Her worst fears were realized. Poor Dick was in the power of Roysten Darrell — like herself, a prisoner. "It is time you returned to bed. Miss Mallory,'* Car- lotta said, at length. " Let me undress you and put you back to bed. You must have your supper and go to sleep." " I can't take any supper to-night, *' Estella said, mourn- fully. *' I want to see Mr. Fisher." The fathomless black eyes looked at her in surprise. ** Indeed! Well, I will tell Mr. JFisher as soon as you are in bed.'' She helped her patient in, arranged the clothes, and quitted the room. Estella lay very still — white as the pil- lows — the brown eyes, the pale, patient face full of inex- pressible despair. The old man came at once, shrinking a little, hard as he was, from those mournful eyes. But there was no anger, nore proach, in that sad, young face — the look was infi- nitely more touching to see. " How do, Estella? You're better again. I*m glad of that," the old man said, shuffling uneasily. ** Yes, I am getting better," the girl said, slowlj. ** If my life was a happy one, I suppose I would di& Mr. Fisher^ where is Dick Derwent?'^ estella's husband. 51 She asked the question so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that ihe old man started back. " Dick Derwentl" he said, confusedly; " what do I know of him?" ** You know where he is, Mr. Fisher. Please don't try to deceive me now. He is a prisoner, in Royston Darrell's power. " ** Hey?" cried the startled master of Fisher's Folly. ** How do you know that?" ** Because he has disappeared. There is a reward ofifered for any news of him, and no one but you and Roysten Dar- rell can have any object in spiriting him away. Ho disap- peared on the night of the eleventh — the night on which — " She paused, shuddering convulsively from head to foot. " Yes, yes, yes!" said Peter Fisher, hastily. ** Well, Estella, I don't know. Captain Darrell — Dare-devil Dar- rell — stops at nothing when his blood is up. He mai/ have this young fellow a prisoner for what I can tell. But, if he has, of one thing I am certain, his release depends upon you," "Upon me?" " Consent to be Roysten Darrell's wife, and from that hour Richard Derwent is free." She raised herself eagerly on her elbow, and looked at him. ** You swear this!" she cried. ** If I consent to become the wife of Captain Darrell, Richard Derwent shall be set at liberty?" ** I swear it!" said Peter Fisher. ** Consent, and he is a free man." ** Then I consent!" exclaimed Estella, her eyes flashing. ** I will marry Roysten Darrell — for mind, I am not mar- ried to him now — on condition that, the day before the marriage, D'ok Derwent is set at liberty." "It is a bargain!" said the old man, eagerly. ** He shall be freed, and you shall have proof of it under his own hand. But, remember, if you fail to keep your promiiso after—" " I shall not fail! What does it matter what becomes of me f" she answered, with a strange laugh. ** I would do more than that to set Diok at liberty. Dear old Dick!" she said, softly, " he loved me — the only being on earth i i ; i -i! %:: i ':! m '' 19 estella's hushand. who cv'or did. It is tho least I can do to sacrifice myself that ho may escape." " Thuii this is settled?*' asked the old man, his little, greedy eyes gleaming. ** You will remarry Koysten Dar- rell, ill liie presence of witnesses, on condiLion that he lib- erates Richard Derwent? And you swear not to deceive us — not to fail?** *' I swear! Keep your part of tho compact, and I shall keep mine. I will marry Koyston Darrell. ** Straiigw fire this in her eye — strange energy this in her voice. But Peter Fisher is blind and deaf, and only knows that the summit of his wishes is won. They KJiake hands over it, and he leaves her and hobbles back to his room, rubbing his palms and chuckling hoarsely. And Eslella, left alone, turns her face to the wall and broods darkly, and never closes an eye the long night through. CHAPTER VII. THE HAND OF FATE. The sun was setting — a glorious summer sunset — on the sea. Estella Mallory sat alone in her room, alone by the window, and looked with dreary, listless eyes at the glori- ous sunburst in the west flooding earth and sea with crim- Bon glory. Little pools amid the marshes turned to pools of blood. Tho soft evening wind came freshly in, and the fishermen's boats, glorified in the radiant sunset, flashed ovei- the sparkling waves. The girl sat idly, her thin hands folded, the large brown eyes strangely dull and weary. " Will I ever see it like this again?" she thought. ** Am I looking at the beautifnl sunset for the last, last time? Is there a heaven beyond that gorgeous sky, and do they know how miserable and friendless I am, I wonder? In all this wide earth is there another lost, lost creature like me?" There was a letter lying on her lap — a letter in the hand- writing of Richard Derwent, received within the hour. She took it up, and xAii over its iQW brief lines for the dozenth time: " Dear Estella, — They have told me all— they have set me free. I owe my liberty to you^ and you have my estella's iiusuand. ■inoere thanks. In a day or two I will bo at Fishor's Folly, hoping and trusting to see you. Until then, dearest Essie, farewell. Kichakd Dekwent. " \ There was no date to this scant note, but the writing was surely DicK Derwcnt's familiar chirography. No suspicion entered the girl's earnest, truthful mind that this note, and that other given her by the butcher's boy, were Roysten Darrell's clover forgeries. '* They have not told him of what is to take place to- morrow night, then,*' the girl thought — *' my marriage. Well, bettor so — he will know all soon enough. And he will be sorry, too— poor Dick! The only one in all the world to be sorry for Estella.'* There was a tap at the door. Before she could speak, it was opened, and Carlotta, the nurse, stood before her. ** Captain Darrell is down-stairs, Miss Mallory, and wishes to see you.'* Estella arose instantly. An imperceptible shudder crept over her, and her face turned a shade paler, but she never hesif 'T i;^ I ■ !i ! i I U estella's husband. row night, you se« — what was the use? He'll be here t« see you in a day or two, I dare say, and will find you gone/' " Yes," said Estella, in a low, strange voice, "he will find me gone." " "i ou will be ready to-morrow evening, by eight o'clock. The Reverend Mr. Jacobs, of Rockledge, is coming to tie the Gordian knot, and half a dozen of fiueads with him. Before morning, the * Raven ' weighs anchor, and bears off Roysten Darrell and his bonny bride to fairer lands. Trust me, Estella, we'll have a free life and a merry one, and all the ink-smudged printers this side the Styx may go hang!" Estella listened, cold and pale. ** May I go now?" she asked. "If you have nothing more to say, Captain Darrell, I should like to return to my rcom." ** You're in a deuce of a hurry. But go, if you want to, and try and recover your spirits and your re ^ cheeks by to-morrow night. You are whiter than the foam of the sea." She bowed slightly and left the room, going straight to her own. A strange, dull gleam burned in the brown eyes; the pale lips were set with resolute compression. " It is easier to die," she thought, slowly — " it is easier to die at once. I should go mad and jump over the ves- sel's side before I had spent one day with that man. Yes, Boysten Darrell, I will fulfill my compact, and then — ' ' She looked out, with a tearless, rigid face, at the dark- ening sky, at the wide sea. Twilight was falling, gemmed with stars, and the evening wind sighed mournfully over the dreary marshes and n:3adows. With a long, weary breath, the girl laid her head against the cool glass, and loo' .ed up at the starlit canopy. ** Where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest," she thought — " will such a sinner as I am ever enter that blissful land?" It grew dark. She sat there moveless until the door opened and Carlotta entered with a light. " Time you were in bed. Miss Mallory," said the young nurse. "It is past your usual hour, and you will catch cold in the draught of that window. " She rose immediately, with a prompt obedience that wm bstella's husband. 55 9f H ti quite a new feature in her character, and began slowly to undress. Are you going to bed, too, Oarlotta?" she asked. In half an hour. Miss Mallory. Mr. Fisher objects to our burning his candles.'' She began to prepare her bed as she spoke. Since her coming she had always slept in her patient's room, on the old-fashioned lounge. ** Has Captain Darrell gone?" inquired Estella. ** I have just let him oat, miss." Estella asked no more questions; she went to bed, but not to sleep. Carlotta arranged her couch — literally her couch — set the room in order, disrobed, blew out the light, and fol- lowed her example. An hour passed — two — three. The old house was very still — only the complaining sea wind, and the racing of the rats overhead, were to be heard. Carlotta's regular breath- ing betokened peaceful slumber, but Estella lay, with wide- open, glittering eyes, waiting — waiting! A loud-voiced clock down-stairs struck twelve. As the last stroke died away, she softly rose, drew on her stockings, wrapped herself in an old morning-drese, crossed the room softly, and bent above the nurse. " Sound asleep," the girl thought. *' Now or never is my time. Shall I light the candle? No — 1 can find my way in the dark." it was not quite dark; the starlight lighted the room. From her table Estella took a small medicine bottle, capa- ble of holding two ounces, and, grasping it tightly, tiptoed to the door, opened it gently and passed out. The old door creaked weirdly, as it is in the nature of old doors to do at dead of night. Carlotta was the lightest of sleepers— would the noise arouse her? No; all remained Btill. She turned and descended the stairs. They, too, creaked, as though bent on betraying her. The lower passage was in deepest darkness, but she groped her way along, without noise, to the door of Peter Fisher's sleeping-room. With her hand on the handle she paused. Was he asleep? Yes — regular and sonorous came his loud snores — she might enter without fear. She tamed the look and went in. The old man lay t I J: ^ ? i 56 ESTELLA'S HUSBAJrn- sleeping as soundly as though evil consciences were fables, locking ugly and grim in the pallid light. One glance sufficed to tell her no noise she was likely to make would awake him. She crossed the room softly, and paused before a table upon which stood a medicine-chesL It was not locked. She lifted the lid, peeped among the bottles, drew forth a large one, after some searching, filled with a dark liquid, and labeled ** Laudanum — Poison." As she did so, a slight noise, like the rustling of a wom- an's dress in the passage, made her start. She paused to listen, but all was still. " Only the wind,'* she thought, " or a rat." She drew the stopper out of the bottle and nearly filled her own vial. Her hand shook, and she spilled the liquid, and the face, on which the starlight shone, was deathly pale. She replaced the bottle, closed the chest, stole to the door, shut it noiselessly, and, with the vial still tightly grasped, slowly made her way upstairs, and back to her own chamber. There lay Carlotta, her dark eyes sealed in sleep. ** Safe," whispered Estella, laying her hand upon her throbbing heart. ** What would become of me if I had failed? I can defy you now^ Eoysten Darrelll" with a strange smile. " This little bottle is stronger than you. I will keep my word, but a darker bridegroom will claim your bride!" She hid it away, and went back to bed. And scarcely had her head touched the pillow, when sleep took her, and wrapped her i>i merciful unconsciousness. It was late when she awoke. Carlotta was moving si- lently about the room, and her breakfast lay spread upon a tray. *' Your wedding-day. Miss Mallory," the nurse said, with Ji strange smile. " High time to get up.*' Her wedding-day! Estella turned away her face for a moment, growing cold as ice in the warm June air. Only for a moment, then she arose, pale and impassive, her young face set and rigid as marble. It seemed very easy to die in comparison to life with the man she hated and loathed, and no fear of the dread here- after held her back. The day passed — the hours dragged on. They were ESTELLA S HUSBAND. 57 mercif a] enough to leave her alone. They brought her her meals, but she tasted nothing. Eating and drinking were nothing to her now. Hidden in her bosom lay the yial — her one remaining hope. The twilight fell. Again the sun had gone down red into the sea — glorious beyond the power of words to tell. Again the silver stars swung out, and a pale, young sickle moon gleamed amoug them. Again Estella sat and watched them — for the last time! As the daylight faded entirely out, Carlotta entered, her arms full of white garments, that gleamed ghostily in the gloom. ** It is time you were dressing for your bridal, Miss Mal- lory," she said. ** Here are your clothes, and I have come to help you to dress.'* In what a strange, ringing tone she spoke! And when she lighted the caudle, what a strange, streaming fire there was in her black eyes! what a hot, fierce glow on her sal- low cheeks! Even Estella noticed it in that supreme mo- ment. ** flow oddly you look, Carlotta!" she said. ** Is there anything the matter?'* Carlotta laughed — a weird, mirthless laugh. ** Only the excitement of a wedding. Such things al- ways throw me into a fever. Come, it is past seven. The clergyman and the guests are in the parlor; the bridegroom will be here presently, and his bride must not keep him waiting." She took forcible possession of the girl, combed out her fair, brown hair, and let it hang in a rippling shower of waves and curls over her shoulders. Then she arranged the dress — a white muslin robe, the work of her own hands — a simple blonde veil, edged with lace, and wreathed with orange-bl assoms. "1 made all myself," said Carlotta. *'Look in the glass, my pretty bride, and praise my skill as a seam- stress. Roysten Darrell will be proud of his bride to-night. " Again she laughed — that hard, mirthless laugh — and turned the girl to the little mirror. White as a vision — white dress, white veil, white face, white flowers — &h.n looked like a corpse tricked out in bridal gear. '* There never was so pale a bride," said Carlotta; " but brides are always pale. A three-months' trip in the ':n r I 58 estella's husband. ! * Baven,' with Captain Darrell, will bring back jour lost roses. " Estella turned away from the glass. ** C*irlotta," she said, ** I have eaten nothing all day. I feel sick and faiiit. Will you fetch me some wine and a glass — a largr glass?" A strange request for a bride. But Carlotfca turned to go at once. *' Hark!'' she said, as she opened the door, " hear that?" A sounding step, firm and heavy, crossed the lower hall; a deep, melodious bass voice rolled out aaiong less sonor- ous tones. " Captain Darrell," she said. *' The bridegroom has >f come. She flitted away with the words, returning in a mo- ment with a bottle of port wine and a goblet. ** Thanks!" said Estella, calmly. " Leave it on the tablcp Cariotta, and give me ten minutes alone." Carlotta obeyed. Estella secured the door, and drew from her bosom the vial of laudanum. ** There is enough here for the strongest man alive," she thought; " more than enough for me!" But she emptied it all into the goblet, nevertheless, with a steady hand. It filled it about one fourth. Then she took the wine-bottle and replenished it to the top. Still, with a steady hand, she lifted it up. " And this is death!" she thought — ** the fabled water of Lethe! This brown drink ends all the miseries of life, and sets me free!" She raised it to her lips. But at the cold touch of the glass the strong young life within her leaped up in fierce refusal. She sat it down, untasted, trembling for the first time. At the same instant there came a soft knock at the door. ** It is I — Carlotta! Your uncle wishes to see you most particularly, and at once, in his room." Estella could hear her flitting away. Again she lifted the goblet — again some invisible force pushed the fatal draught away. '' I will wait uctil I come back," she thought, with a \ ).f estella's husband. Sf siok shudder of repulsion. ** I will hear what he has t« say." She replaced it on the table, unfastened the door, and glided down to Peter Fisher's room. if ♦ ♦ >ie 9H >l« Ht In the parlor the few guests were assembled — the Rev- erend Mr. Jacobs among them. Silence and constraint reigned; every one felt there was something strange and abnormal about this wedding. Roysten Darrell waited a few minutes, yawned loudly in their faces, turned abruptly, and stalked out. *' I'll see Oarlotta," he thought. " I feel more uneasy about her than 1 do about the other one. She's a very devil when her blood's up. " He ascended the stairs in search of her. But the rooms into which he looked were all empty. Estella'b came last — he recognized it at once — but it, too, was deserted. ** She's with the old man, I suppose. What's that on the table — wine? Upon my honor, the little girl knows how to prime herself for her part! I'll try your port, my dear, and wait here for your reappearance. It mayn't be quite de rigueur, but ceremony be blowed!" He threw himself into a chair, and coolly took up the goblet of poisoned wine. " Here s to your very good health, my pretty bride, and to your jolly bridegroom!" He raised it to his lips, and drained it to the bottom. The last mouthful he spat out with a wty face. '*Bah!" he said, " it's not fit for pigs! Logwood and red ink!" He took out a cigar, lighted it hastily, and began to smoke. Still the minutes flew by, and no one came. The dock down-stairs struck eight. *' The fatal hour!" thought Roysten Darrell. ** I won* der Where's the bride?" As if his thought had evoked her, the white figure cam« flying up the stairs, pausing on the threshold in blank amaze at sight of Roys*^en Darrell. Then, quick as light- ning, her eyes flashed upon the goblet. It was empty! She understood all. She paused before him, her blood turning to ice. *' Come in, my dear, come m!" cried Captain Darrell. ^' I have no business here, I know; but it looked cosy, and i\ . f V ■ ■ fa .1,1 I •}\ n 6C estella's husband. ' ' I I* III 'I your wine looked tempting. I took a chair and helped myself." " Helped yourself!" Estella repeated, mechanically. ** Drank your glass of wine, my dear, and beastly stuff it is! I'll give you better vintage on board the * Raven.' Come, it is i lie time. Take my arm, and let us go down. " Helplessly, she obeyed — numb with terror. As they turned to descend, they met Carlotta face to face. She, too, had heard Roysten Darrell's last words. " You drank Estella's wine?" she asked, in a strange, metallic voice. ** Yes; what difference does it make to you 9 There's plenty left, such as it is. Come along, Carlotta, and be m at the death!" In at the death! Ominous phrase! Already the poison was beginning its work — already a dull, sick torpor was stealing over the strong man. " 1 don't know what is the matter with me," he said, impatiently. '* I am turning as sick as a dog, and I feel half asleep." There was no reply. Frozen with terror — speechless, paralyzed — Estella allowed herself to be led in. Already the victim staggered as he walked The lights, the faces swam in a red mist before the bride as they entered the parlor. What had she done — what had she done? She stood there with a ghastly face — wait- ing — waiting. They took their places — the clergyman opened his book. A leaden pallor was creeping over the ruddy face of Captain Darrell; his eyes were growing dark and dull. The first words were spoken; but ere the ceremony had well begun, the bridegroom reeled like a falling pine, and dropped like a stone at their feet. A long, wild shriek rang through the house. Then Estella turned and fled frantically from the room. CHAPTER VIII. carlotta's warning. In a moment all was wildest confusion. No one heeded the flying bride — all gathered around the fallen bride^ groom. They lifted him up, ghastly as a dead man. estella's husband. 61 >9 <( (« ** He is poisoned!" cried a clear voice — ** he hiis swal- lowed a dose of laudanum large enough to kill the strongest man alive! Se^i for the doctor it once!" It was Carlotta who spoke^ her dark face ashen with terror. The physician who had attended Estella chanced to be one of tne guests. He stepped forward at once. How do yov know that?" he asked, suspiciously. What does that matter, so long as 1 know it?" cried Carlotta, her black eyes flashing. *' I tell you he drank over an ounce and a half of laudanum!" ** Did he take it purposely? Did he intend to commit suicide?" inquired the startled physician. ** No; he took it in a mistake. Why don't you do some- thing for him?" she broke out passionately. *' While you talk and gape, you will let him die at your feet. " *' It may be too late, nevertheless. Who will riuo to Eockledge and fetch me a stomach-pump?" There were two or three eager volunteers. The doctor calmly selected one. ** My horse is at your service — don't spare him. Ride likft the wind — lifo or death depend on it." The messenger departed. They bore the drugged man to Mr. Fisher's own room and laid him upon the bed. Then, in the lull which followed, and in which nothing was done, the old man thought of his ward. " Where is Estella?" he asked, suspiciously. " She has fled to her own room, "answered Carlotta, in a strangely calm voice. ** I am going to her there." " Does she— " Peter Fisher stopped in sudden horror at his own thought, and looked at the dark face of the creolo nurse. But that; colorless face told nothing. *' Go to her!" he said, hurriedly. ** See what she is about, Carlotta. In the confuson, she may try to escape." Without a word, Carlotta obeyed. She went straight to the bride's room, her face set in that locked, sfony calm. The door stood wide, and there, crouched in the furthest corner — pale, panting, with wild, dilated eyes, and the look of a stag at bay — stood Estella. The Creole paused before her, shut the door, and black eyeb and brown met in one long, fixed look. I n I 'N' il istella's husband. ** Well," said CarjV>tta, at last, ** you have done your work. I hope you are satisfied? Your viotim lies lifeless below. Poisoner! murderess! is your hatred satisfied at last?" The white hands flew up and covered the whiter face. She uttered a long, wailing cry of despair. ** I never meant it — I never meant it! Oh, Carlotta, as Heaven hears me, I never meant it for him ! 1 mixed the poisoned wine for myself. How was 1 to know he would enter my room and drink it?" " I believe you,'' said Carlotta, coldly; ** and, hut that 1 believe jou, I would have denounced you on the spot. Do you think 1 did not know as well as yourself what you intended to do? Why, you little imbecile, 1 followed jou last night — I saw you steal the laudanum, and I knew m a moment how you intended your bridal to end. When you asked me for the wine, an hour ago, do you suppose I could not surmise what it was for? Ah, bah! I read you like a book, and you had not the courage to drink it, little cow- ard, when mixed. You left it until the last moment — you went down to the old man's room, and he, Roysten Darrell, came in here in your absence, and drank the poisoned draught. I knew it all — I knew it when you left this room together, and still 1 did not speak. Do you wish to know why?" " Yes," said Estella, recoiling at the suppressed fury in her voice and face. "" Because 1 love Mm. Because I worship him with a mad idolatry that you j to the worst, I can sell them for food. If my mother wtio alive she would not keep them and see me starve." Was there anything elsi? She looked around the room. Yes, her book! It, too, hi : been her mother's, and it con- tained a lock of that dead u; other's hair. She took it off the table— i^ little volume, bound in pur- ple velvet, with tarnished cli ^ps and corners, containing a text of Scripture for every da in the year. It opened at the fly-leaf. Uhere was writing upon it — writing pale and faded — that turned the tide of Estella's destiny. She looked at the dim, pale letters: pur- nga it— Vila's / estella's husband. '• IIklen Mali.ouy, To her beloved sister, Estella, No. — Poplar St., Chelsea, Mass., March 18, 18- " 63 ** The date was three years before Estella was born. The faded sorawl flashed upon her now like a burst of sudden light. ** Why not go there," she thought, ** to my mother's sister — to my aunt? She is still alive — still in the same place — the old homestead. Mr. Fisher told me so to-night, and that he was going to write to her of my marriage. For my mother's sake — the sister she loved — she will surely befriend me.** Her eyes lighted, her cheeks flushed. New hope kindled in her hopeless heart. What did it matter, in that instant, that she was penniless — that she knew about as much the way to Chelsea as to Copenhagen? Hopeful sixteen saw light and liberty at last. She hid the precious volume in her bosom with her cross and chain, and went to work upon her ladder. In a quarter of an hour the sheets, strong and coarse in material, were torn in strips, knotted firmly together, fasteued within to a strong hook in the wall, and flung out of the window to the ground. All was now complete. She took no bundle — she would hamper herself with nothing that could obstruct her flight. She paused, pale and breathless, a moment to listen. Down-stairs she could hear the tramping of feet, the hurry- ing to and fro; upstairs she could kear the noisy scampering of the rats. She clasppd her hands, and looked up at the star-gemmed sky. ** Save me, Oi., Lord!" she prayed. ** Help a helpless orphan girl escaping from her foes!" With that earnest, half-breathed prayer, she made her way through the window and laid hold of her ladder. If it should break! But her weight was light — the re- sistance was little. She was on the ground almost in an instant — free! She turned and fled, running breathlessly, headlong, over fields and marshes. She reached the high-road; sIm 8 I •! it V i 11 i m 96 xbtella's husband. turned her face regolutely from Rookledge, in the opposiU direction. *' Brooklyn is but seventy miles ofi6>'* she thought. ** The first step to Chelsea is to reach Brooklyn. Good-bye, dear old Dick I We may never meet again. " One brief, backward glance at the wide sea, at the lone- some marshes, at the long, low, gloomy old house where she had sutlered so much — at the darker " Haven," lying, like a huge bird of ill-omen as it was, in its sheltered cove '—at the distant lights of Bockledge, twinkling like pale stars — and then off and away like the wind. CHAPTER IX. estella's flight. Away along the deserted country road, past swelling Weadows and lonely fields, past dark and silent farm- houses, Estella flew. She ran until she could run no longer; then, panting and exhausted, she paused, nearly a mile from Fisher's Folly, and leaned against a way-side tree to draw breath. She was out of sight of the sea and the marshes. Wind- ing and winding away, until it lost itself in a starry belt of horizon, went the winding, dusty road — the road that led to liberty. It was almost midnight now, and very still. The inex- Sressible hush of night and slumber lay over the quiet earth, 'nly the bright stars kept vigil, and a pale, young cres- cent moon sailed slowly up the purple vault through a sea of misty white clouds. " Have they missed me yet, 1 wonder?'^ thought Estella. ** Will that strange creature, Carlotta, tell them of my flight, and set them on my track? And is Boysten DarreU to live or die? Oh, if 1 only knew that /" She started up and hurried on again, like the hunted creat- ure she was. On, and on, and on, that long, interminable road, feeling neither c'aintness nor fatigue, in her burning eagerness to escape. Bhe met no one. She had the long, lonely road all to herself— poor, friendless waif, adrift on the world! Morning was dawning. Slowly the stars began to pale —slowly the moon waxed dim and melted away — slowly the ' i; EBTELLA S IIUSBANI^ 67 first pink cloud of the sunrise blushed in the eastern iky. brighter and brighter grew those lines of orimson glimmer; one by one the birds awoke and began twittering drowsily in their nests. The cattle, asleep in the way-side fieldi^, lifted their dull heads. Signs of Viw everywhere awoke with the awakening day. Farm-houses and farm-yards were astir; the houses were growing more and more numerous, and Estella felt she was drawing near a village. ** It must be H ,'' she thought, '* and 1 am nearly ten miles from Fisher's F'olly. Sixty long, long miles yet before Brooklyn is reachocl." She sighed wearily. These ton miles were beginning to tell upon one unused to lengthy walks. Her limbs ached, her feet were sore, and she felt faint and sick from inani- tion and want of food. The few early pedestrians she met stared at her, and looked back ai; the pale and jaded face and weary walk. To avoid them, and obtain a brief rest, she turned into X field, through which a sparkling brook ran, and threw herself on the yielding grass. '* How soft it feels! she murmured; " how cool, how tender! Mother Nature — the only mother I ever knew." She removed her hat, bathed her face and hands, and smoothed her hair. Next she took oft her shoes and stock « ings, bathed her blistered feet, and arose, feeling infinitely rested and refreshed. ** If I only had something to eat!*' she thoiight '* I fee} as though 1 could walk all day. " She had half a dozen pennies in her pocket. She counted over her scanty hoard with wistful eyes. ** Poor Dick! the last of his last gifts — a bright silver half dollar," she murmured. ** At least it will buy me a bun for breakfast. 1 will go into the village and find out if 1 am on the right road to Brooklyn. " She walk^ briskly along, relieved and refreshed by her bath, and reached the straggling outskirts of the village as the church clock was striking seven. The bustle and stir of the new day had begun — shops were opening, house doors stood wide, many people passed her up and down the dusty street. She stepped into the first bake-shop she met, and laid down her handful of pennies. 'VTen cents' worth of buns, please," she said to a fat woman behind the counter. 68 E8TELLi.'s HUSBAKP. The woman did them up in paper and handed them t« her, looking curiously at the pale young face. ** You're a stranger here, am't you?'° she asked, famil- iarly. *' I know most every one in H , but 1 don't know you,'* " Yes," said Estella, ** I'm a stranger. I'm going to Brooklyn, if I can find the way. " ** Find the way! Why, Lor'! you don't mean to walk it?" " Yer; it is straight on, isn't it?" " It's straight on, sure enough," said the woman, with a laugh; ** but it's rather a piece — sixty milet: from H . Hadn't you better take the stage? It passes at noon." ** No, Jiank you," replied the girl, with a sigh. ** 1 must walk. Good-morniDg. " She passed out of the shop into the sunlit morning. Sixty miles to Brooklyn, and Brooklyn only the first stage of that weary journey to Chelsea. What a wild-goose chase it looked! Wandering on an unknown journey to a strange land, as it seemed to her, in search of a relative she had never seen, who might be dead for what she knew; or, if alive and still at the old place, a relative who might scorn- fully refuse to acknowledge the wandering vagrant's claim. Her heart sunk in her bosom like lead. " It is all useless, all in vain!" she thought, with a de- spairing sob. " 1 had better lie down by the road-side and die. What will become of me? Why was I ever born, since I have no home, no parents, no friends no place in the wide world at all?" There had been a time when Estella had thought it a fine thing to be let loose upon the world to shift for one's self, to bo a heroine, a second Jane Eyre, adrift on the moors — but not now. The bitter reality of that most bitter fact, that she was homeless, houseless, a lost waif, wrecked upon the world, came home to her with its full despair. But she wandered on. Sixteen j^ears will not readily lie down and die, while one glimmer of hope remains. She wandered on, eating her buns by the way once the village was left behind, and the dusty stretch of road lay long and bright before her once more, losing itself in the sunlit sky. ** I used to wish I had been born a gypsy," thought Es- tella, with a hysterical little laugh at her past folly, '^ free ^STELLA'S HUSBAir». 69 n and happy, to stroll over the world, and sleep under waving trees, and tell fortunes in a scarlet cloak and blue petti- coat. 1 am getting my wish now, and I don't seem to care for it; and yet if I had company 1 thinly 1 should prefer it to life at Fisher's Folly. If Dick were only with me! But even to be alone — to be like this — is a hundred times better than being the wife of Roysten Darrell." The day wore on — the sun sailed higher — noon came, scorching, burning. Estella was growing unutterably weary, and yet she had hardly walked six miles. She had reached and passed a second village larger than the first, but she had not stopped — every hour of delay was an hour lost. She had plodded wearily on, hot and dusty, sun- burned and tired, hungry and thirsty, and faint. The quiet high-road was again reached, with swelling meadows^ spreading endlessly away on either hand, green and cooL Still on, still on, only pausing once beside a sparkling way- side well for a long, long draught; then again on, eating the last of her buns as she walked. The stage-coach from H to Brooklyn rattled past her in the early afternoon, filled with passengers, and, ah, with what wistful, hopeless eyes the girl looked at the lumbering conveyance bowl- ing along so swiftly to the goal she longed to gain I The afternoon was drawing to a close — her long day of ceaseless walking was coming to an end. Lengthy shadows fell athwart the road; the western sky was growing lumi- nous with the splendor of the sinking sun; farm-laborers passed her on their homeward way. She heeded nothing of it all. Her head and eyes ached until she seemed grow- ing blind; her blistered feet were like leaden weights; every bone in her body seemed a separate agony. Her throat felt parched and dry; the solid ground seemed heaving be- neath her feet; she felt she must drop down and lie where she fell. Fatigue and want of food were rapidly telling on this poor little wandering waif. As she staggered on, half blind with pain and weariness, an open barn-door caught her eye. It was nearly filled with hay. No one seemed to be near. It looked cool and inviting She tottered rather than walked forward, entered, made her way to the darkest and remotest corner, sunk down in a heap, and in five minutes was sleeping m though she were dead. That merciful sleep wrapped her for hours. Once, long ro BSTELLA'S HUSBAND. after midnight, she av^oke; all was dark, and the nlencd of the grave reigned. Too weary to feel either fear or loneliness in that strange and lonely place, she turned over, and slumber took her again in its blessed embrace. The sun was shining brightly, when, for the second time, she awoke. She arose on her elbow, drowsy and confused, and with an aching sense of unutterable weariness from head to foot. Those poor little feet felt sore and blistered, her joints felt stiff and numb, and she put back her tossed hair, and gazed around, with a dull sense of pain and be- vtrilQeriTipnt " Where am I?" Estella thought. " What place is this?" And then memory came back like a flash, and she remem- bered all. She arose stiffly, cramped and unrefreshed, from her hard bed, smoothed her hair, shook out her dress, and, kneeling down, said her simple morning prayer. ** Take care of me, oh, Lordr' prayed poor Estella, •* for in all this cruel world there is no one to care whether I live or die. " She walked to the door. If she could only pass out, as she had entered, unobserved! But it was not to be. Face to face, on the threshold, she encountered a stal- wart young man. Both recoiled and stood staring. ** The — deuce!" said the young man. ** Who are you?" Estella stood trembling — the pale picture of guilt. The young man eyed her in surprise and suspicion. " Who are you?" he reiterated. ** And what are you doing here?" ** Nothing, please," the girl faltered. " I have done no harm — indeed, indeed, 1 have not! 1 only slept on the hay last night. " ** Slept on the hay! Do you mean to say you have been all night in the barn?" " Yes, please," still more falteringly. '* 1 was very tired-, I had walked all day; 1 could go no further, and so I — I saw the door open, and went in and lay down, and fell asleep before I knew it. Don't be angry, please — I don't think I have done any harm." ** Good Lord!" cried the young farmerj ** listen to her! No harm! Why, you'll get your death, whoever you are! A young girl sleeping in such a place as that! Why the dickens didn't you come to the house and ask mother to let you stay there?" ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. ?1 Estella lifted her eyes for the first time — those pathetic, liouid brown eyes. It was a rough face, this young farm- er s, but a good one, and two kindly gray eyes stared at her in frank wonder. Then she looked down again, and a loTely, flitting color rose in her pale face. ** I had no money," she said, simply. " How could I «sk?'' *' Money be — darned! We don't keep an inn. What's your name?' ' " Estella Mallory." ** And where do you come from?" '* From Rockledge," answered the girl, in whose truthful nature deception was unknown. "Whew! You don't mean to say you've walked all that?*' *' Yes, sir." ** And where are you going, pray?" ** To Brooklyn, if I can. I am trying to find my friends. " '* Have you friends in Brooklyn?" ** I have friends further on. Please let me pass — it is time I was going." '* Not just yet," said the young man, resolutely; ** not without your breakfast. Here — come along with me!" He led the way in long strides without more ado. Es- tella followed him across the road, to a commodious farm- house, through whose open door she could see a bounteous brefikfast-table spread. A comfortable-looking matron met them at the door, and gazed wonderingly at her son's pale companion. " Here, mother," said the young man, ** give this girl her breakfast. She's going on to Brooklyn, and — didn 1 1 hear you say Deacon Miles was going up to Brooklyn to- day?" *' Yes; but he's gone, I reckon." " I'll step across and see. Go in, my girl, and eat your breakfast. You look as though you needed it. Make her comfortable, mother, and don't bother her with questions until I come back. " He strode off, whistling. The woman looked at her son's protegee from head to foot, but not unkindly, while poor Estella hung her head, mortified and ashamed. m * I ii ^. ^' If f| n bstella's husbakd. ** Come in," said the woman, gently. ** You do look beat out. Here, nit down, and eat as much as you can." She placed a chair at the table, and poured out a cup of fragrant coffee. She asked no questions, and Estella wai ft great deal too hungry to stand upon ceremony. She eat down at once, and eat and drank with keenest relish. Before she had finished her meal the young man was back. ** It's all right," he said, with a nod to his mother. '* The deacon's going, and he'll make room for her. Don't hurry yourself, you know; but, as soon as you've finished, come along with me. " ** I have finished, thank you," said Estella, rising; *' and I am very, very much obliged." "Not a bit! Come along." She followed him out, down the road, and paused with 4im before a house at whose gate a horse and wagon stood. A fat, good-humored-looking man sat in the Front seat, folding the reins. ** Here's the girl, deacon," said the young farmer. ** She iui't quite a ton weight Now, my lassie, pile in." ** But—" Estella faintly began. "* All right! all right! exclaimed the farmer, impa- tiently. ** The deacon's going to Brooklyn, and he's gomg to give you a lift. In with you! My time's precious." He hustled her into the back seat, and before the be- wildered Estella could fully realize it, the light wagon was rattling merrily along over the sunlit country road. She gave a backward glance, and saw her sunburned champion trudging swiftly back to his breakfast. ** That's John Styles, my dear," quoth the deacon, *' and the best young man I ever knew. How lucky he chanced to come across you this morning! Slept all night in his hay>barn, he tells me, and meant to walk all the way to Brooklyn. You never could do it, my tl^/r — never! What are you leaving home for?" " I have no home," Estella said, mournfully — " no rightful home. The person I lived with at Rockledge was very unkind to me — so unkind that I had to run away." The old man shook his head. *' Bad, bttd, bad!" he said *' A young girl could hai-dly do worse. And where are you going?" " I have JO. aunt in Chelsea, Massachusetts; I am going bstella's husband. 73 to her if I can ever find the way. Perhaps you know, sir? Will you kindly tell me what I must do when I get to Brook- lyn?'*' The trembling eagerness of the question — the tears in the large, earnest eyes — touched the old man. ** You poor, unfortunate baby I" he said. ** It's a shame and a sin to have any one so youiig and so pretty tospiug loose about the world like this. How will you get rhere? Why, you'll cross over to New York, and go down to the pier and buy your ticket, and get on board the steamer. That's what you'll do. The boat leaves at six. You can start this evening." *' Thank you, sir. And will the steamer take me to Boston?" " Not dir 3t Never mind; I'll fix that. Have you any money?" " No, sir," blushing hotly; " but I have a gold chain and cross. They were my mother's. I meant to sell them to pay my way." **Poorcnild! Well, don't talk about it now. Try and go to sleep again. You look fitter for a sick-bed than traveling about. I'll see that everything's right. I have a girl of my own — ^your age, too, but not half so pretty— and I know how I should feel if she were knocking about like you. Go to sleep, and I'll send yon to Chelsea all right." The girl obeyed, worn out in body and mind. Her hea^I drooped heavily against the hard back of the wagon, and sleep, the pitiful, took her once more, and folded her in peaceful unconsciousness. The sudden stoppage of the wagon aroused her. She started up, broad awake, and found herself alone in the vehicle. A rough-looking boy held the horse's head, and they stood outside the door of a public-house. It was past noon^ and the day had changed while she sslept. Dark clouds scudded over the sky, and the damp, rising wind gave promise of speedy rain. " Where is he?" asked Estella, terrified. ** Where has he gone?" *' He's here, my dear," replied the cheery voice of the deacon, appearing at the door. ** Come, it's two o'clock, and high time you had some dinner. Get down. " ** But I am not hungry, thank you." ** No matter — ^you will be, and there may be no time t« In % f f m m i: 'i.y :4 i 74 I :iL ,* I I i i estella'3 husband. spare when we roach Brooklyn. Qet down at onoe, and '.ake a cup of tea. " He was not to be refused. He assisted her out, and led her into th? house, and into a room where a dinner-table was spread, and a woman presidmg. " N'>v,% then," said the deacon, ** the sooner you let ue have dinner, Mrs. Beers, the better." Dinner was served immediately — beefsteak and potatoes, with tea and apple-tart to follow. Estella scarcely touched anything; her head throbbed, her limbs ached — every joint was sore and stiff. She was glad when it was over, and they were baci<: in the wagon. ** How long before we reach Brooklyn?" she timidly inquired. In two hours or less. 1^11 take you straight to the city, and see you safely on board the boat. " ** But the trouble. You are very, very kind; but it is too much to ask." ** You haven't asked, my dear," said the good-humored old deacon. ** I do it for my own peace of mind. Why, that pale face of yours would haunt me the rest of my life-time if I deserted you in that big, bad city. And be- sides, Where's the use of being a professed Christian and a deacon in the church if we don't act up to it? Don't you fret, my little girl; I'll see you safely through." There was no reply — Estella's heart was too full for words. Ah! all the world were not Peter Fishers and Roy« sten Darrells, and the Father of the orphan had heard her prayer, and taken care of His helpless child. The afternoon wore on, darkening fast. The threatening rain would fall before night; and Estella shivered as the damp wind struck her. Would she be really safe this night, or would she be houseless and adrift in the storm? They reached Brooklyn before five, and Estella's head reeled with the magnitude and bustle of the City of Churches. The deacon did not stop; they crossed the Fulton Ferry at once, and plunged into the noise, and bustle, and uproar of mighty New York. ** What do you think of this, my deav?" shouted her companion, above the din. ** Goes a leetie ahead of Rock- ledge, doesn't it?" But the girl was incapable of reply. Pale and f rightened« II estella's husband. 75 she gazed around her, deafened, stunned. The old man langhoil at her terrified face. • ' I don't think you like it much better than I do myself, and yet I suppose these people prefer these horrid streets to the peaceful country. They're to be pitied, I think; but it takes all sorts of folks to make a world." The country gig rattled up West Street to the particular Eier he wanted. Calling a boy to take charge of the ve- icle, he helped Estella out, left her standing in a quiet spot, and approached the ticket-ofhce. In a moment he was back beside her. '* Come on board now,'' he said. *' Here's your ticket for Boston. Not a word — this is opposition time, and it only cost a trifle. This way. " He led her to the ladies' cabin, at first sight of which abode of splendor she literally gasped for breath. A great many ladies were moving about or seated, and the deacon took his charge to a vacant sofa, and placed her there. " Now, then," he said, " I've done all for you I ca7i do, and 1 don^t think you'll haunt me for neglecting my duty. I'll speak to the stewardess about you, and she'll find you a berth. At six to-morrow morning you'll reach Newport; there you'll take the cars for Boston. Once you get to Boston, ask the first policeman vou meet to put you in a car for Chelsea — you understand?" "Yes, yes!" " Tell the conductor of the car where you want to get out. Have you your aunt's street and number?" "Yes, sir." '* You're all right, then. Now, good-bye and God blesg you!" He gave her hand a squeeze and hurried away, and once more the desolate wanderer was alone. She covered her face, and her tears fell. "How good he is!" she thought; "and I may never see him again! Ah, what a happy girl his daughter must be!" There was little time for tears, little chance for loneli- ness. As the deacon had said, it was opposition time, and the boat was literally crowded with passengers. The pale little country-girl sat and gazed around her, v^ith wide, wondering brown eyes, at the numbers and gay 'lir I I I 1.1 If 7« estella's husband. i ii dresses of the ladies. How much at home they all seemed, flitting hither and thither, laughing, chatting, and she — she was literal] v afraid to stir! The boat moved off from her moorings. The summer day had closed, wet and windy, the ram dashed against the cabin- windows, and the long gale sighed over the Sound. Bat within ths ladies' cabin all was brightness and plonsant bustle. The lamps were lighted, the ladies tripped about, gentlemen came and went, stewardesses sped swiftly hither and thither with refreshments — all was new ard novt^'. iat (ttella's head throbbed with that dull, torturing pai - h limbs^still ached. In the cosy heat of the cabin she . ( ch'iW to the bone. Her head ^ ik heavily against the back of the sofa— her burning eyes closed. Again sleep, that was almost stupor, took her, and everything around her was blotted out. A sound shaking awoke her. She opened her eyes and sat up, and stared vacantly into the face of a young mulatto woman. ** Newport I" said the woman, sharply. " The boat will touch the wharf in five minutes. Wake up!*' She hurried away. Estella started to her feet, still be- wildered. Ladies, wrapped warmly up, and laden with bags and baskets, hurried by her and out to the gangway. Mechan- ically, the girl arose and followed the crowd. Not a mo- ment too soon— they were already at their moorings, and the rush for the cars had begun. Carried along, resistless — whither, she knew not, still only half awake — she found herself on the wharf, pushed on board the cars, amid a din and tumult that might have shamed Babel. A vacant seat, by some fortunate chance, was near. She dropped into it, her breath quite taken away. ** You look as though you were half asleep still," said a voice »,t her elbcw — a laughing voice. " It iv rather con- f usinf'', this being routed out of bed in the gray and dismal dawr. Are you alone?" Eiitella looked at the speaker — a handsome, well-dressed young woman, who occupied the inside of the seat, and who was regarding her curiously. '* Am I alone?" repeated Estella, a little dazed. ** Yes, estella's husband. 7T all alone. Please, where are we? and where are we going nowf ** We are at Newport, and we are going to Boston, I hope, if nothing happens. Do you want to go to Boston?" ** I want to go to Chelsea?" " Chelsea! Oh, you're all right, then, and v- yy fortu- nate in having secured a seat. How the cars ai. crowded, to be sure — half the poor wretches will have to stand. That comes of oppo-itiou lines and cheap traveling. Do you belong to Chelsea?" " No. Rockledge, New York. " **Ah! I don't know it. You're sick, ain't you? You do look dreadful miserable!" Estella pressed her hand to her burning forehead. That ceaseless, terrible pain "s still there; but this morn- ing she seemed to be one l *iu arable pain from head to foot. ** My head aches," sh'^ su d, confusedly. ** It feels all wrong and stupid, somehow I'm not used to traveling — to being exposed. I'm afraid I'm going to be ill!" Her companion drew )k a little, with a look of alarm. *' It's not catching, is ic? I thought you looked sick when you came on board last night. It's not fever, or small-pox, or anything?" ** No," replied Estella, drowsily; *' only I'm tired, and I think I've caught cold. I ache all over, and my heal burns. I didn't know I was sick before." And then her voice died away, and the poor head dropped, and that dull stupor came over her again, and she saw and heard nothing distinctly. Some one came and took her ticket and spoke to her, and there was a great deal of noise, and a sickening, uneasy motion everywhere; but nothing was real — nothing was distinct. She saw and heard as we see and hear in a dream. Presently, she was standing on the platform, borne along once more by the crowd. All around her din and tumult, uproar and confusion. She stood lost, dazed, stupefied. *' Do you know the way to Chelsea? "What on earth ails the child? Shall I put you on a Chelsea car?" She lifted her heavy eyes, and saw the face of her late companion — the lady of the train. "Yes, r^lc^se. No. — Poplar Street." She rt mbered the street and number dimly, but sht III '1 t i(» 11 1 I I I.. . 78 ESTELLA's HUSIIAND. was incapable of further effort. The lady drew her im- patiently iilong. ** CoLMB this way — quick! I never saw such a bewild- ered face in all my life, and you're aH ill as you can be. Have you any money?" ** Yes — no; I'm going to sell my crt)ss. That will take ne. Gracious me! is the girl an escaped lunatic? I never beard anything like this in all my life. I'll put you on board the car, and here's a dime to pay your fare. I de- clare, if you have any friends, they ought to be ashamed of themselves.'' " I have no friends," said Estella, slowly. '* I ran away; I am all alone." Her companion eyed her with a whimsical mixture of compassion and distrust, but just then, their particular car appearing, she motioned the conductor, with an air of in- tense relief. An instant later, and Estella was on board and seated, and the lady was speaking a hurried word to the conductor. ** She is a perfect stranger, and utterly incapable of tak- ing care of herself. She wants to go to No. — Poplar Street. Let her down as near it as possible, and direct her which way to go." The man nodded, and the car rattled on. They crossed the bridge; they rattled on again. Directly the car stopped, and the conductor tapped Estella on the shoulder. ** You get out here," he said; ** turndown this way, and you are in Poplar Street. Go along up until you come to No. — ." He helped her off, and left her standing in the street She stood a second and then turned as he had told her, and walked into Poplar Street. Looking at the houses as she walked along, she came at last to the number she wanted — a large, white house, with cool, green blinds, and a couple of green trees in front. She ascended the painted steps and rang the bell. While she waited she leaned against the door-post to keep from falling. A strange dizziness made her head reel and her eyes half blind with the intensity of pain. A drizzling rain was falling, but she never felt it; she shiv- ered in the summer wind without knowing it. estella's husband. 79 at th 11. CHAPTER X. HELEN MA LLOR Y. The door opened, after a weary while, it eeemed to the waiter, and the face of an elderly woman, framed in a black cap, looked out. ** What ia it?*' a sharp voice asked. Estella lifted her heavy eyes by an efifort. ** Does Helen Maliory live here?'* '* Helen Mall cry ?*' repeated the woman, angrily. ** Miss Mallorv lives here! Who are you, with your * Helen Maliory?' *' ** I am Estella Maliory." The woman recoiled with a shrill cry. An instant she stood spell-bound, as it seemed, by that answer; then, seiaing the girl by the arm, she drew her in. *' For the Lord's sake, come in and let me look at you! Estella Maliory! Here, sit down — you look fit to drop! Miss Helen! for goodness gracious' sake, come here!" " What is it, Norah?" asked a soft voice — ** what is the matter?" ** Come here, for mercy's sake, and look at this girl! She says she's Estella Mallorv^ and she's asking for you. Come quick! She looks as if she were dying." Some one ran swiftly down-stairs, and Estella saw a lady in a gray silk dress, with pale face, and large, dark eyes, bending above her. She drew her little book, her chain and cross from her bosom, and held them out. ** They were my mother's, and you are my mother's sister. 1 am very tired and ill, and — " She said no more. The floor heaved— the wall spuiL ' She put out her hands, blindly, to save herself, and NoraL, caugnt her as she fell. 4: ♦ ♦ 4c * 4r ♦ ** How does she seem now, Norah?" ** Better, miss, 1 think. She's had a nice, long sleep, and I am going to give her her beef -tea." Estella, waking from a long, heavy sleep, as it seemed, leard these words dimly. Some one raised her L ad — some one held a cup of something to her dry lips. I %■ I?; M'ha has wickedly fled from her home and her husband. If that v/ere her only crime, one might try to forgive it, but she is also — 1 tell it with grief and horror — an attempted murdartsss! Before she fled from Fisher's Folly, dio tried to t;ike her hu» I! In II' r i I' b/v kstella's husband. band's life — she tried to poison him. That she did not succeed, no thanks is due to her — she administered an over- dose. Captain Roysten Darrell has recovered, and has quitted Rock ledge. He is a seafaring man, and a husband worthy a better wife. There was no time for him to pur- sue and recapture his fugitive bride, but he will be back here in three or four months at the f urtherst, fully pre- pared to press his rightful claim. Let your niece, Estella i )arrell, deny these facts, if she can. If you. Miss Helen Maliory, choose to shelter a runaway wife, you can do so, and abide the consequences when her husband returns. If she will come back to my protection, all will be forgiven, and Captain Darrell, who is iiifatuatedly fond of her, will thankfully overlook the past, and take her back. 1 re- main, madame, yours to command. " Peter Fisher.' " Miss Maliory paused, very pale, and looked at her old servant. " 1 have finished," she said. '* What do you think of this terrible letter, Norah?" *' What you thought five minutes ago," burst out Norah, indignantly — '* that it is lies from beginning to end! That girl a wife! that girl a poisoner! The wicked old sland- erer! 1 wish I had Peter Fisher here, and my ten finger- nails sunk in his face!" *'Hush!" said her mistress, starting up. *' You have awakened her!" She hurried to the bed ; she had heard a stifled sob. Estella lay, her face hidden in her hands, crying as she had never cried before in her life. '* Oh, my dear! m^ dear!" exclaimed Miss Maliory, in deepest distress, '* I never meant you to hear. 1 thought you were asleep. My child, my child, don't weep so! We don't believe one word of this bad, cruel, lying letter. " The girl looked up, her sobs ceasing suddenly, and the sad brown eyes gazed full into the face bending abo ^e her What a kind face it was — so full, so patient, so sweet! *' And yet it is true," she said, slowly. They were the first words she had spoken. Helen Maliory recoiled in alarm. "True!" In the letter, not in the spirit. 1 may be married to (< estella's husband. 83 juglit We the her to Roysten Darrell for what I know. I may have almost poisoned him. I only know I never meant it. " Miss Mallory stood gazing upon her, shocked, bewildered. "Married without knowing it! Guilty of poisoning without meaning it! My child, I don't understand you at all.'' ** No," said Estella, mournfully. *' How should you? i hardly understand it myself. Dear lady, sit down beside me, and let me tell you all. I would have told you the day I came if I had been able. But I was ill, was I not?" '* Very ill, my poor child — like to die. But that is all past now." '* Ah! better for me perhaps if I had. How loiter is it ago?" " Over two weeks. You have had a fever, and been de- lirious nearly all the time. You are very weak still, and must not talk too much." '* Dear lady, it will not hurt me. I will never be at rest again until you know all my sad, miserable story. I am a very, very unfortuuatti glil. As you said a little while ago, I have suffered as few g rls of my age ever suffered before. Mr. Fisher has been so merciless to me that I don't think I can ever forgive him." '* I never knew him when he was anything else," said Helen Mallory. " I only wDnder — miser that he is — he has burdened himself with you so long. I wrote to him repeatedly to send you to me; but, out of pure contrari- ness, I suppose, he always refused. And he forced you into marrying this Captain Roysten Darrell? But, oh, my child, my baby! are you really, really married?" '* No!" said Estella, with sudden energy — " not in the sight of God. I am no man's wife, although I have stood up and gone through the marriage ceremony. I abhor Roysten Darrell from the bottom of my heart. He is a pirate — a lawless outcast — a murderer! 1 would die ten thousand deaths rather than be his wife for an hour!" And then Estella, slowly and brokenly — for she was piti- fully weak — told the story of her strange midnight mar- riage, of her terrible mistake. " I thought it was Dick Derwent. Poor Dick! I liked him; he was always good to me; he was my only friend. I would have married him to escape these two cruel men, and he would have done his best to make me happy, I In •till: ill*' f If (;:' ■ri' il w V ■ i 84 estella's husband. know. But Roysten Darrell overheard, and had him ab. dacted by his lawless, outcast, smuggler crew, and came in his place, and took me away. I don't know who per- formed that mockery of marriage, but surely no minister of the church would be guilty of so heinous a crime.*' *' Did you love this Dick Derwent.^" Helen Mallory asked. *' Love Dick? Oh, no! But he was very fond of me, and very good to me, and I would have done anything al- most in my desperation to escape Roysten Darrell. Poor Dick! Who knows what those bad, cruel men have made him suffer?" *' And then,*' said Helen, vividly interested, " what hap- pened when you found out your terrible mistake?'* The sick girl shivered from head to foot as she recalled that horrible night. Brokenly she told her listeners the story of her passionate refusal of Captain DarreH's claim — of the dreadful hours of that stormy night spent in the at- tic among the rats. ** Pitiful Heaven!" Helen Mallory said, deathly pale. " To think that any human being could torture a helpless child in that manner! The merciless, horrible old man! And then?'* Estella related the last recollection she had — of falling senseless to the floor; of her waking to find Carlotta, her nurse. She told the pathetic story of that weary coming back to life, hopeless, in despair — of her compact with Peter Fisher. ** I meant to kill myself when I made it,** she said. ** It seemed easy to die. What had I to live for? And I thought it only right to give my miserable life to save Dick. I promised to marry Roysten Darrell in the presence of witnesses if they would liberate poor Richard, and they agreed. But from the moment I made the promise I meant to end my life. Ah! it was wicked and dreadful, I know, but I think I was half mad with misery and despair. I mixed the poison with the wine, and Roysten Darrell came into the room and drank it when I was gone. I never meant it; I wanted to harm no one. I would far rather have died. I fled from the house, in the first confusion, and how I ever got here I don*t know. I think I was ili and delirious half the time.** ESTELLA^S HUSBAND. 8d «( The good God guided you," Helen Mallory said, rev- erentially. '* My poor child — my poor, little, persecuted niece! Will such men as these ever find forgiveness, here or hereafter? But 1 know the reason of this compulsory marriage. I know why Peter Fisher tried to force you into hecoming the wife of his unprincipled friend in such mad haste." Estella looked at her in wonder. ** You know?" she said. " Why, it has been my great- est wonder all through. I can't understand it at all. Koysten Darrell never cared for me, never took the slight- est notice of me before; and as for Mr. Fisher, I am cer- tain he never used to consider me in any way at all. What luas the reason?" *' The sudden discovery of your parentage. Yes, my child, you are no longer the poor, dependent waif, name- less and fatherless, an outcast in a cruel world, but the ac- knowledged daughter of a rich and distinguished nobleman. It sounds incredible, does it not — wildly and romantically improbable? But it is true," Estella lay and stared at her in silent wonder. ** I wrote to Peter Fisher," Helen Mallory went on, *' early in May of my discovery, telling him to break the news to you, giving him your father's address, and the promise of a large reward, in that father's name, as soon as he would yield you up. I know now I was a fool and a spiteful enemy not to take your father straight to Fisher's Folly, to assert his right and claim you on the spot. But I had little love for him — little reftson to do him a good turn — and how was I to know you would suffer for my folly and vindictiveness? And Peter Fisher never showed you that letter?" " Never," said Estella, in breathless wonder. ** I never heard a word of all this. And I have really a father alive in the world?" ** Very much alive, my dear," said Miss Mallory. ** Meaning to keep so, I fancy, for an indefinite time. Not only a father, but a rich, and titled, and most aristocratic father. No less a personage than Count Gaston Amadie de Montreuiil" Her listener gave a little gasp, then lay perfectly still, listening with all her might. *' I had better tell you t^^e whole story," said Helen, 'III. i» r 1^ ' r ,1 I 1! If h^ iH. m estella's husband. slowly — " the story of your mother's wrongs and suffer- ings. Norah, it is an old tale to you. You had best go and see after dinner. Our little patient will be hungry, I dare say, by the time I have done." Norah rose and left the room. Helen looked at her niece with a sad smile. ** She has been with us from my childhood — this faith* ful Norah — until now. She is more an old friend than a servant. She knows all I am going to tell you — your poor mother's mournful story. More than you know — is it not, my dear?" *' Except that I was born at Fisher's Folly, that she died there, and was buried in Rockledge Cemetery, and that her name was the same as mine (Estella Mallory), I know nothing. " *' Her maiden name, my child; she bid a right to a far prouder one, as you have, also, Estella de Montreuil. But we did not know it; she was faithful unto death, and kept her heartless husband's secret to the bitter end. For ne was heartless, dear child, though your father — as cruel and cold-blooded an aristocrat as ever brok- i loving heart I suppose it is romantic and sentimental m an old maid like me to believe in that standard dehifc^'on of poets and novel- ists — broken hearts; but if ever honian heart broke with sorrow and lost love, hers did. My poor, tender, faithful little sister!" The steady voice broke down -dhe tirned away her face. Great tears rose in Estella's brown eyes, as she gently took one of Helen's si .i u >r hands. *' Go f)n," flio waid. softly. ** Let me b after a pause; " wnen ne came to us nrst — an exue — an impoverished foreigner, under a false name, as a teacher of his native language. Monsieur Kaoul he called himself — a handsome fellow enough, though I never liked his looks- or his manners, faultless as were both. Ho was like a hero of romance, dear — I suppose you read romances? — tall, and dark, and distinguished, and melancholy-looking, with great, pathetic, black eyes, a sallow face, and waving masses of jet-black hair. Yes, he was very handsome, and very elegant, and very accomplished. He could talk in that deep, musical voice of his for hours, and hold us all spell-buund with tales of fai:- foreign lands — of his own agin ac the beginning," Miss Mallory said, ** when he came to us first — an exile- .,-(-!: ]l estella's husband. 87 beautiful Paris; he could sing, he could play, he could waltz, as only Frenchmen can. He could do everything, in fact, that was fascinating, and shallow, and irresistible, and the short of the matter was that poor Stella fell madly in love with him before she had known him a month." "So should I," said Estella, with kindling eyes. "I only wonder yo2i did not. Aunt Helen." ** That is right, my dear — call me Aunt Helen. No, I did not fall in love with him. I did not even like him, and besides I was hardly twenty then, and very much in love with somebody else. But my sister Stella loved him enough for both; she was blind, and mad, and utterly in- fatuated; the sun rose when he came and sunk when he went, and Monsieur Raoul bounded the whole scheme of the universe to her. Before the end of the second month all was over; she fled from home, from kindred, giving un all the world for him. We never saw her again. Peter Fisher's letter, telling us she was dead and buried, a year and a half after, was the first tidings of my lost sister we received. My child , if I were to talk for a century, I could never tell you how bitter the blow of that disgraceful flight was. We thought it disgraceful then- i know now that a week before ever she left her home she wa? hi"^ wedded wife. I know it now from his own lips— told i i sorrow and remorse when too late; but he had bound her by a solemn promise to keep his secret until he gs,ve Ler leave to reveal it, and she obeyed him well. She lied 'inJ made no sign that she was a wedded wife, sham fully deserted, and that her child had a right to bear one »of the oldest and most patrician names in France. For ht deserted her, Estella — cruelly, coldly dp ted her — v/hen tli^ ?!ews came that the star of the Frenc t]mpire had once more arisen, that Louis Napoleon had ascended the throne, aad that the name of De Montreuil v> as to shine once more in all its old luster. ** The news came tc him in New York, where he and his wife were starving Logethor, and he left her alone and friendless, penniless and ill, and went back to France, burning with ambition. *' What was the pale, sickly girl he had married and lured away from her home, that she should stand between him and the glory that wrrt to be his under the Napoleonic dynasty? He left her to ive or die as she chose, aad it ill 'till '"^ II' ir if ' 4,'..' 5^ Am lilil ESTELLA S HUSBAND. WM mercifully death. She would not return to the home she had left, since the secret of her marriage was to be kept a secret still, and by the strangest of all strange elections she chose to go to old Peter Fisher. She had known him when a child — he was remotely connected with our moth- er's family; she knew his address, and, sick and starvmg., she sought the shelter of his wretched home — to die! " He took her in — you were born, and three months after he laid her beneath the clay. Then, and not till then, he wrote to us the ending of that bright young life! There was no one to receive the news but me — a miserable, lonely girl—our father and mother had followed one another to the grave, broken down, disgraced, heart-sick with sor- row and shame. My sister Stella was dead, and had left her baby daughter with him, and he meant to rear her and bring her up to be a daughter to hiia in his old age. How well he kept that promise we know, don't we, Estella?" " I have had a lonely life and a hard life," the sick girl said; *' but he never turned out a merciless tyrant until of late. Go on. " ** I answered his letter — a few sharp, bitter lines. My heart was very sore — my life was blighted— I had given up my betrothed husband when our disgrace came— proudly and passionately I ^iud refused him. I would disgrace no name, I said — cast dishonor upon no honorable name. " So George Bartram left me and wedded another bride, and I had little reason to care whether my dead sister's nameless child lived or died. I settled down to dreary old maidenhood, with rancorous bitterness in my heart for Monsieur Raoul, hating the whole French nation for his sake, and with my faithful Norah, dragging out my lonely, loveless, imperfect life. \ ** But as years went on I softened. My sister's memoi-y grew less bitter. I felt a desperate longing for something to love. I yearned to look upon the face of her child. I wrote to Peter Fisher then, asking him to send you to me, but he persistently refused. At last I gave it up. I ceased writing to him altogether until your father cam« and changed all. " It was one day, late last April — a dreary, wet day — as I sat here alone, that the door-bell rang, and Norah an- swered it. An instant later I heard her wild scream. I \ estella's husband. 8S me, I pame t — as an- J started up, hurried down-stairs, and found myself, after over seventeen years, face to face with Monsieur Kaoul! *' I knew him instantly, and he knew me. Time had changed him but little. Handsome as ever, elegant as ever, self-possessed as ever, he looked me full in the face, held out his hand and spoke my name. For me, I turned sick as death. My dead sister rose up out of her grave, a reproachful ghost; and I think if I had had strength, I would have struck him in the face with my open hand. But I leaned speechless against the wall— sick and tremb- ling from head to foot. ** * Then you don't know,' were the first distinct words I heard him utter — * she never told? Helen Mallory, I come to you for news of my wife!' " * Your wife!* I gasped. * Your wife — was my sister JJstella— ' " * My wedded wife — yes, before ever she left her fa- ther's house to follow my fortunes. Where is she now? I come to claim her at last!' ** I looked at him, growing cold and calm all at once. ** * You come rather late in the day. Monsieur Raoul,' I said. * Death — a more faithful bridegroom than you — claimed her sixteen years ago. You will find a handful of bones and ashes in "Rockledge Cemetery, if you choose to go there and seek. But she was your wife — thank God for that! Though you have murdered her — thank God for that!" ** He turned ghastly white. Estella, full as my heart was of horror and hatred of thai man, I almost pitied him then. "'Dead!' he said. *Dead! I feared it. I knew it! Oh, Estella, my wife, my wife!' " ' You murdered her,' I repeated, steadily, ' as much as though you had plunged a knife in her heart — only hers was a more lingering death. But she kept your secret well — she was faithful to the end. I never knew she had the honor of being your wife. Monsieur Raoul, until this moment. ' '* * Spare me,' he said, in a broken voice. ' If I could give my life to recall her, I would. I loved her, Helen Mallory, better than I ever loved earthly creature; but my accursed pride and ambition were still stronger than my love. And yet I never meant to desert her. I left her, I It' 90 estella's husband. l-i know, in poverty and loneliness, and went back to France; but, my fortunes retrieved, I wrote to her at once. I never received an answer. I wrote again and again, but always with a like result. I could not return and seek for her, and so I — I gave her up. I took it for granted she had returned to her home, had told all, was safely sheltered here, and too indignant at my long silence to reply when I did write. Heaven help me I and all the time my poor darling was dead. ' ** * Yes,' I said, *your remorse and repentance. Mon- sieur Raoul, come sixteen years too late. Let your pride and your ambition console you now if they can. Or, per- haps, monsieur has wedded a fairer and wealthier bride — one he need never desert or be ashamed of? Surely all these years he has not been faithful to the memory of the poor, little, love-struck girl, who gave up all the world for sake of his handsome face, and whose heart he broke?' " He looked at me, deathly pale, with eyes of unutterable reproach. " * Yor are merciless,' he responded, ' but I deserve it. Yes, Miss Mallory, I have been faithful. No other love has ever supplanted your sister. Will you tell me how she died? Will you try to forgive, as you hope to be forgiven, or must I leave you to find out for myself?' ** * I will tell you nothing,' I answered, passionately. * I wonder you dare ask it. She is dead, and at rest — let fchat suffice. But her daughter lives, monsieur — her child and yours — render justice to her, if you like. Justice to the dead is beyond even your reach. ' '* And then, Estella, I told him of you — only keeping the place of your residence a secret. Peter Fisher's wishes, and your wishes, should be consulted first, I thought. What claim had this Frenchman upon the daughter he had never seen? ** He listened in breathless, eager interest, his face glow- ing, his eyes kindling. ** ' Let me go ' her!' he cried. ' Tell me where I may find my Stella's child. Everything her heart can desire shall be hers; for listen, Helen Mallory — he whom you call Monsieur Kaoul is Count Gaston De Montreiiil, one of the richest and most powerful noblemen in the French realm. Let me find my child, and atone through her to her dead mother. ' estella's husband. 91 mg Iht. lad ►w- ** But I refused — coldly, resolutely refused. I will write to her guardian/ I said, frigidly, *« * to the protector in whose care her dying mother left her. If he chooses to resign her — well; if not, I will never tell you, Count Gaston De Montreuil. What claim have you upon her? Come back to me, in a fortnight — you shall kave her guardian's answer then.' ** He pleaded, he begged, all in vain. I was inexorable. I turned my back upon him, and left him standing in the hall, my heart harder and more bitter to him than ever. I went up to my room, and wrote that letter to Peter Fisher — that letter you never saw, and which he never an- swered. ** I suppose Count de Montreuil was too proud to plead further, but at the end of the fortnight he came again. No reply had been returned to my letter, and I took Peter Fisher's silence for refusal of my proposal. I told him so, and he looked bitterly disappointed. ** ' And I am obliged to return to France in three days,' he said. ' The diplomatic business which has brought me to this country is satisfactorily concluded. 1 77iust return, and there is no time left to search for my child. But, Helen Mallory, you are a more pitiless enemy than ever I thought it possible for you to be. " * I am what you and your doings have made me,' I answered. ' I would not swerve an inch out of my way to do you a good turn, Monsieur le Comte. I have done for you all I will do, unless your daughter's guardian relents — in that case I will write, if you choose to leave me your ad- dress. I have the honor. Count De Montreuil, to wish you good-day.' " And so we parted — he to return to France, I to resume my lonely life. But he left me his address, in case I should ever have occasion to write to him of you. " And now, Estella, you know all. Your father is a rich and powerful nobleman. As his daughter, all the splendor of this world may bo yours. You may shine in brilliant foreign courts; you will be feted, and flattered, and caressed; you will be Mademoiselle de Montreuil, sole heiress of a princely fortune. " You have but to say the word, and I will write. But remember, Estella," and Helen Mallory'sdark eyes glowed with tlie deep vindictiveness oi long years, ** he broke youi Itl iir ^ f ■I Mr m il J' il It 92 estella's husband. 11 mother's heart, he blighted her life — he loved the power and glory of wealth and ambition a thousand times better than ho over loved you or her. He left her to d'n}, cruelly, heartlessly — no after remorse can alter that fact. In going to your father, you go straight to the murderer of your mother/' *' I will never go!" exclaimed Estella, passionately. ** 1 would die first! What do I care for his wealth or his title? Let him keep both, and bestow them upon whom he likes, since they were the price of my mother's life. I will never go to him, never acknowledge Count De Montreuil as my father!" ** Think well," said Helen, ** there may be no after- choice. Take time, and think of all you give up." ** There is no need. If I thought for a year long, my resolution would be the same. I never knew him; I don't want to know him now — a father who would be ashamed, beside, of the little, awkward, ignorant country girh Let him go, let us forget him; I never wish to hear his name more. But you, Aunt Helen — you will give poor Essie a little corner of your heart and home?" She held out her arms. Helen Mallory folded her close to her breast, with almost a mother's passion. ** Forever, my darling! And, when Aunt Helen dies — and she will not be along liver — dear child, all she has will be yours. It is no princely fortune I can offer, but still a fortune with which all the pleasures and gayeties of this life may be yours. Only love me, Estella — for I am a lonely, loveless woman — and promise never to leave me while I live." " I promise!" Estella said, solemnly. And then silence fell between them, and both were lost in sad thought. There was a little pang of remorse at Helen Mai lory's heart for what she had done, but she resolutely refused to harken to its sting. *' I have done right," she said,, obstinately, to herself. *' What claim has this bad, ambitious Frenchman to my dead sister's child? As she says herself, he would be ashamed of her. He was ashamed to acknowledge my sis- ter Rs his wife, and this poor child is still more unformed and under-bred. Let the haughty Frenchman go— she ESTELLA S HUSBAND. tf3 **1 chooses to stay with aio. T will provide for hor — make her happy — and leave her all when I die." Make her happy? Ah, human blindness! If flelen Mailory could have foreseen the future — have lifted one corner of that invstic curtain which hides our destiny — how she would have shrunk in iiorror from the future she was Slanning for her niece I Hut that tragic future was hid- en, and Estella went on blindfolded to her Fate. lose a me ost I to my be she CHAPTER XI. THE CONQUERING HERO. Estella Mallory recovered rapidly. Youth, and hope, and a strong constitution speedily triumphed over the weary illness that had held her a prisoner for weeks. And they were so kind to her — Aunt Helen and the faithful Norah. No mother, over her tirst-born, could be more devoted than Helen Mallory to this beloved niece. By night and by day she hovered about her, never tired of ministering to her invalid wants, of coaxing that sick ap- petite, of reading aloud, of conversing. All Estella's former life, as far back as she could remember, was hers, and, in return, Aunt Helen told her of the one romance of her own lonely existence — that little love story, blighted forever by her only sister's supposed disgrace. ** Perhaps I was wrong,'' Helen said, with a sigh, ** for I loved him dearly, and he loved me, and no act of any third person should have come between us. But I was proud and bitter, and I gave him up, and made both our lives desolate. For, though George Bartram married an- other, he never loved his wife as he loved me. I knew it from his own dying lips. And I — ah, Essie! the dreary, weary, lonely years I have dragged through — my heart empty and cold and heavy as stone! I never look upon his brother's face but that the old pang of parting comes back, bitterer than death!" ** His brother?" ** Yes, my dear— Alwyn Bartram, his only brother, many years younger than poor George, and his living im- age. He comes here to see me sometimes. He knows our story, Essie, and his presence seems like a link between the iiving and the dead. For George left no children, and hia It II Hi tl 11" IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // /- r/. f/. 1.0 I.I IM 12.5 ^ 1^ 12.2 11.25 III 1.4 IIM lim lllll 1.6 V] / ^-^ f 94 estella's husband. wife is married again, and Alwyn is the lasfc of the Bar* trains. You ought to see him, Essie, my little hero-wor- shiper. He is handsome as a demi-god, and an author, and an artist, and everything that is deh'ghtful. If I could see my little girl Mrs. Alwyn Bartram, I think I would cease to regret all the lost years of my life.'' Estella laughed and blushed, but her face darkened also. ** You forget. Aunt Helen," she said; *' I can neyer marry. Captain Darrell may oome here and claim me." ** Let him try it I*' impetuously cried Helen. '* Let him dare to try it! No no! he and Peter Fisher know better than that. ^ The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft aglee,' and theirs have gone in this case. Set your heart at rest, Estella. You might marry to-morrow, cor all they dare interfere. Captain Darrell has no more claim upon you than he has upon me." ** You think so. Aunt Helen? You really think so?" ** I know so, my dear. In the first place, I do not be- lieve any clergyman was ever base enough to perform that ceremony. In the second, even if a clergyman did, such a marriage would be null and illegal, and lay both him aDd all concerned open to prosecution. Forget all about it, Estella. It is only an unpleasant episode of the past that can never harm you in the future. Y'"ou are as free as the wind that blows, and may marry my favorite, Alwyn, to- morrow, and snap your fingers at lioysten Darrell." But Estella was in no hurry to marry. She had enough of that for one while. It was very pleasant to know that she was free and safe; and convalescence went on so rap- idly that in another week she was able to move about and spend the bright summer days in her arm-chair by the window. Very pretty looked the pale invalid m her delicate white wrapper, lighted up with rosy ribbons, her bright brown ha'r freshly curled and perfumed, and the tint of a blush- rose dawning in the thin cheeks. *' Alwyn ought to see you now," Helen Mallory said, her dark eyes fall of love and pride. '* You might sit for one of the Madonnas he likes so much to paint, with that Bweet moonlight face of yours, so spiritual and so lovely. Perhaps I ought not to tell you, my pet; but you know i) ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. you are pretty, I dare say, and Alwyn, with his artist's eyes, will go wild over you when he comes." And Estella laughed, and blushed beautifully, and was pleased beyond everything, and took a prolonged survey of herself in the mirror when injudicious Aunt Helen went out. ^^ Am I pretty?" she wondered. " I never thought about my looks before, and I always was ugly in the horrid, dingy, shabby things I wore at Fisher's Folly. Dick liked me; but then — poor Dick — there weren't many beauties among the sunburned girls of Rockledge. I should like to be pretty — I should dearly like it; aud I hope — 1 hope this handsome artist rnat/ admire me when he comes! Alwyn Bartram! such a dear, romantic name! And then^ oh, to think of his being a poet^ and an artist besides, and to know a poet and an artist has been the dream of my life!" And so, thanks to Aunt Helen and her foolish match- making, Estella's silly little head began to be filled to over- flowing with vain conceits and dreamy of this dark, unknown hero. She had read a little book, all blue and gold, *' Summer Dreams," by An Idler, and she knew the ** Idler " to be Mr. Alwyn Bartram, and to her the pretty, tender jingle of his love songs was the sweetest music on earth. It was an unconscious mixture of Alfred de Musset and Alfred Tennyson, and it had been a failure in the literary world, as all early volumes of poems seem destined to be; but to Helen Mallory and her niece it was as the music of the spheres, with every line worthy to be written in letters of gold. She had read his only novel, ** The Lady Olaribel," another literary failure — a tender, dreamy, misty, love-idyl; she had seen a portfolio of his drawings and water-color ■ketches, and all, all had been perfection. She had gazed on his portrait, painted by himself — a handsome, dark-eyed fellow, with a high forehead, and a beautiful, sensitive mouth, and her heart had thrilled — that silly, romantic heart! — and had almost stopped beating at the delirious thought that one day she was destined to see, to speak to this wonderful being in broadcloth. The last of August found Estella quite well, and able to race np and down-stairs, and to explore her future home. A very nice house — full of large, airy, pretty apartments, lit'; •r,, r *: .11 ii I III! j i "\ 96 estella's husbanb. i:l Ifl '1 with an elegant drawing-room, where a grand piano held solitary state, and Mr. Alwyn Bartram's portrait smiled serenely down from the papered walls. A beautiful room to unsophisticated Estella, with its velvet carpet^ its amber-stained curtains, its carved and gilded chairs, its grand gasalier, its pictures and flowers and splendidly bound books. Aunt Helen laughed at the little country girl's raptures. *' Foolish child! it is only a very commonplace apart- ment, after all. Wait until you go into society — wait until you * come out,' and go to parties over in the city, and then you will see. My poor little drawing-room will look contracted and shabby enough in comparison with the un- told glories of Beacon Street. I seldom enter it myself, except now and then for an hour's practice. You can't play, of course; well, I shall teach you." And then Aunt Helen opened the piano, and sat down and played a few waltzes and marches, and threw her niece into a second ecstasy of delight. ** Will I ever be able to play like that. Aunt Helen? Oh, how beautiful it is, and how happy you ought to be!" *' Ought I? Yes, I suppose so — if I were not the most nngratoful, discontented wretch alive. But I am happy now, since I have got my darling Essie, and I mean to oe happier, teaching her all I know — which isn't mnch. And," pinching the bright cheeks, ** happiest of all, when Alwyn Bartram comes and falls headlong in love witk her." Estella listened complacently. She heard such speeches as this so often that it was growing to seem quite a settled thing that her unknown hero should fall in love with her at first sight, and make her his wife out of hand. Miss Mal- lory had written to New York, where thisdemi-god resided, to invite him to Chelsea, and the demi-god had returned a few dashing lines, in a big, masculine fist, accepting the invitation for the middle of September. There had been a second letter also from Mr. Peter Fisher, demanding an account of his runaway ward; " Mrs. Roysten Darrell." And Helen had sent him such an an- swer, in the indignation of the moment, as had effectually stopped all further communication. She had exposed all his villainy — threatened both him and Roysten Darrell with in- stant prosecution if they dared molest her niece — informed estella's husband. 97 him of that niece's decision to live with her, and not to return to her father, and ended hy the announcement thar. Estella was neither his ward nor Boysten Darrell's wife, and that all his plotting and cruelty had failed. Peter Fisher was effectually silenced at once and forever. Estella's new life now fairly began. Helen constituted lierself her teacher, and gave her lessons in music, in French and drawing, and from the first the girl made rapid prog- ress. Ah, how bright those September days were — passed in delightful study, with the most indulgent of teachers — or in delightful reading of novels and romances, in driving, walking, shopping and visiting! She grew so brightly pretty that you would never have known her for the same little pale-faced, sallow girl, and sometimes gazing in the mirror at her own radiant face, Estella wondered S. "The I." The crowning glory of her life was very near — her day of fate was close at hand. Coming home one evening from a long walk, she found Aunt Helen waiting dinner, and reading the ''Evening Herald.'' She threw down the paper at sight of her niece and took her place at the table. " Booth plays * Hamlet ' to-night at the Boston, Essie," she said. *' Wouldn't you like to go and see him.'* You were saying the other day you had never been inside a theater in your life. " '* I should like it of all things, auntie. But you — you never go to such places." " Then I will begin for your sake, my dear," Miss Mal- lory said, brightly. *' I have played recluse long enough. We will engage a box and go to-morrow night. " Estella was charmed — theaters, operae, and all that, were like the fabled glories of the Arabian Nights to her — something to dream of and wonder over. And now she was to behold their splendors and enchantments with her own eyes. She passed that night and all next day in a fever of expectation, and when the hour came to dress, took more pains with her toilet than she had ever taken before in her life. " Will I do. Aunt Helen?" she asked, with sparkling eyes. Aunt Helen's own eyes lighted up almost as brightly ai the girl's as she surveyed her. i'< 11'-' m III •in II : n ; til I 98 estella's husband. " Little Conceit! look in the glass! You know quite afl well as I do how pretty you are. Ah! why won't Alwyn hurry, and be dazzled by my brown-eyed darling?" Estella laughed and shook out her summery robes. Yes, she was looking pretty — very, very pretty in her blue silk dress, her white opera-cloak, and coquettish little white kat and blue plume. Very pretty, with all her gold-brown ringlets falling in shining shower to her waist — her eyes full of golden light, her cheeks like June roses. And the little witch knew it, and smiled brightly back at her own image. ** I am glad your little countrified niece won't disgrace you. Aunt Helen. And you — but then you always look stately and elegant, my handsome auntie., so where is the use of telling you you are both now? Ah, what a change a few weeks have made in my life! If any one had told me three months ago when I was moped to death at Fisher's Folly, like Mariana in her * Moated Grange,' that to-night I would be going to the Boston Theater to see Edwm Booth — robed in silk and lace — I would no more have believed it than I could have believed in the fabulous tale of Cinderella." ** Very likely, my dear, and tJiis is but the beginning. Wait until you make your debut, and it is the theater, the opera, and two or three parties each night, over and over again. I foresee that my little girl is going to be the belle of the season. " They were rattling along in the carriage over the tortu- ous streets of Boston, and Estella was gazing delightedly out of the window. To her the brilliantly lighted stores, the crowded sidewalks, the bustle and life, were a never- ceasing delight. ** It is like a tale of enchantment," she said, dreamily; ' I can't quite realize it. Somtimes I grow almost afraid ^such happiness can not last." Miss Mallory smiled indulgently. The carriage stopped — a moment later, they were being shown to their box by the obsequious usher. Of course, the theater was crowded — was not Booth playing? — and the orchestra was crashing out some grand but deafening overture as they took their places. The lights, the music, the vast throng! The little country girl caught her breath with one ecstatic gasp, and sank into her seat and gazed around her like one in some estella's husband. 9i some rapturous trance. Helen Mallory looked in her dazzled faoe, and laughed outright. *' You little, rustic goose! You little, excitable enthu- siast! I never saw such an entranced countenance in my life! What is it? This bit- building — the gas-blaze — the people — Lhe music— what V *' Everything! All together! Oh, Aunt Helen, it is like fairy-land." *' Indeed! But I never was in fairy-lnnd. How de- lightrul it must be to be young, and fresh, and able to go into raptures only at sight of a theater! Ah! there^s the bell; now use your ears as well as your eyes, for Edwin Booth is worth listening to.*' The play began. Estella leaned forward, rapt breath- less, drinking in every word. It was all familiar — had she not spent the day reading *' Hamlet?'* — but to see it played — that was different. She hardly moved — she hard- ly seemed to breathe until the curtain fell upon the first act. More than one glass in the crowded house turned admiringly upon the pretty, rapturous, youthful face; but Estella never saw them. Among them was that of a tall, dark gentleman, who had lounged in with a party of friends, and who was paying more attention to the people about him than to the busi- ness of the stage. *' Look, Bar tram," said one of his companions — *' look at that face in the proscenium box opposite — the girl with the white opera-cloak and jockey-hat. If you ever feel inclined to paint ' Enthusiasm ' there is your model ready to your hand. " " A pretty face, too,*' said a second. ** Bartram might paint her for the goddess Hebe, so bright and roseate she is. It does one good in this age of chalky pallor to see such celestial bloom as that. " The gentleman addressed leveled his glass, and took a long stare at the pretty, rosy face. Then, quite as care- lessly, he glanced at Hebe's companion, and dropped his lorgnette with a sharp exclamation. ** By Jove!" he said, " who'd have thought it?" " What!" exclaimed the first speaker, *' you don't know them, do you? You've luck always, Bartram — the luck of a good-looking artist. Who are they? What's the earthly name of our golden-eyed divinity?" f\ ll s\ li III! 100 ESTELLA^ HUSBAND. ** I don't know your golden-eyed divinity, Lawlor, but the* handsome, uplifted-looking lady beside her is Misi Helen Mullory, of Chelsea, one of my dearest and oldest friends. I must pay my respects at once. Allans, messieurs." *' And you don't know the ' Girl with 'be golden eyes?' " Lawlor said, in a disappointed tone. " Never saw her before, but I more than suspect that she is the elder lady's niece. Shall I plead your cause, Lawlor? tell her it is the tenth case of loTe at first sight with you within a week? An revoir until to-morrow. I go to bask in the smiles of your goddess. " Five minutes later, and the door of the box opened, and the tall, dark gentleman sauntered easily in. ** Can I really believe my eyes?" he said, holding: out his hand. *' Is this Miss Helen Mallory, the Recluse of Chelsea, or only an optical delusion? Please shake hands, and relieve me of doubt." Miss Mallory turned sharply around, and barely repressed a cry of delight. Her whole face lighted up with pleasure at the sight of the dark, handsome, smiling face. ** You, Alwyn?" she cried. ** Oh, what a surprise this is! The last person on earth I should have dreamed of seeing here!" ** Exactly what I have been saying to myself ever since I first set eyes on you." But I thought you were in New York?" Did I not say I was coming about the middle of Sep- tember, and is not this the middle of September? I have but just arrived, and dropped in here with some fellows to have a look at Booth, on my way to Chelsea. Verily, you might have knocked me down with a feather when I lifted my eyes and beheld you." ** I came on Essie's account," Helen said, smiling. ** The stage lost its charms for me long ago. Estella, my dear, let me present Mr. Alwyn Bartram, of New York. My niece, Alwyn, of whom I made mention in my letter.'* ** I thought as much," Mr. Bartram said. ** I knew it could be no other. And, then, she resembles you. Miss Helen. Miss Estella, we must be verv good friends^ since we are both the property of * Aunt Helen.' " He shook hands gayly. And Estella? She knew from the first moment it was he^her kero — her demi-god in (t <« ESTELLA'S HLSHAND. 101 the flesh! Was not that duskily handsome face pictured already indelibly on her sentimental little heart? Artist, author, poet, he stood before her, beautiful with " man's best beauty " — a being for other men to envy, and women to adore. And they expected her to lift her daring eyes to this modern Byron, to dare to talk to this author of " Lady Claribel," this writer of entrancing poems? The foolish heart of the dreamer of sixteen actually seemed to stand still with unutterable admiration and awe. Mr. Alwyn Bartram, all unconscious of the havoc he was making in that wildly beating breast, leaned lightly over the back of her chair, and talked away animatedly to Miss Mai lory. If he had not been an author and a demi-god, and handsome as an angel, Estella might have thought his rapid flow of remarks commonplace and trite enough, but being both, every word took a depth in her eyes not intrin- sically its own, and were as the pearls and diamonds drop- ping from the lips of the girl in the fairy tale. And then, the voice that went on so fluently was the deepest, the richest, the most melodious of masculine tones, and the slender hands that lay on the crimson velvet back of Es- tella 's chair were the white, shapely artist's hands the girl admired so much. Altogether he was perfect — better than the hero of any novel she had read. *' And Aunt Helen expects him to admire me — a little, awkward, silent, plain country girl like me !'* she thought, with a sudden sense of despair. *' He is too bright and beautiful and talented for a Princess Royal!" As the thought crossed her mind, he suddenly bent over her with an electric smile that was like a flash of light Aunt Helen had been speaking of her^ and he had been listening with an amused face. ** I am so glad you like my dreary scribble. Miss Essie," he said. *' I may call you Essie, may I not, since Aunt Helen gives me permission? I wish those horrible critics could have done the same, but they tore my two unfort- unate little books to atoms. They'deserved it, I dare say, but it was none the less excruciating at the time.'' *' And you authors are such a thin-skinned race," Aunt Helen said. " Still, I suppose you have got over it before this." Mr. Bartram laughed. I hope so; nevertheless I shall be in no haste to launch 'III. ill" r ¥ il 1vi Is M if (( 102 estella's husband. **That is books, donH a third literary craft upon these troubled waters. I haT« given myself up to art, and left the sister profession so, " ** And your uncle's business, Alwyn — what of that?*' *' Stock-broking? Oh! I have given that the go-by alto- gether, and so ouended the old man mortally. 1 haven't seen him in six months, but as ho duly remits my allow- ance, I manage to drag on existence without the light of his countenance. k ** And your pictures sell, I suppose?" Alwyn Bartram made a wry face, then laughed once more. the worst of it! No, my pictures, like my sell. Either the world has lost all taste, or else I — Bat the other supposition is too horrible to be thought of. I shall awake some day, no doubt, and find myself famous. Meantime, with full coffers, life in New York goes agreeably enough. " *' There is no danger, I trust — I am silly to think of it Your uncle has no one else to leave his fortune to, of course. " ** But he has, by Jove! and a very blue lookout it will be for me if he does it. He thinks his other nephew, Rob- ert Bartram — * Robert the Devil,' as he used to oe called — is still alive somewhere. I was his prime favorite until I re- fused to go into the office; now his thoughts turn to scape- grace Robert. But I shall hope on until the end comes, and trust to my old luck." He laughed again — the cares of life evidently sat lightly on Mr. Alwyn Bartram's handsome shoulders. He talked away animatedly to Miss Mallory and her niece until the play ended, and they drove home together, for he was to be their guest while in Boston. But Estella talked very little in return — monosyllables were all she could find in reply to this hero of her dreams. SShe stood looking at herself again tha^. night before re- tiring, in the silence and solitude of her own room. The rose bloom was as bright, the golden lusterdn the hazel eyes as brilliant as ever, but in hor heart there was noth- ing but despair. ** I can not talk to him — I hardly dare lift my eyes to his face; I am not even pretty, with those milk-maid cheeks and red-brown hair. And he— oh^ how handsomOi I> estella's husband. 103 how beautiful he is! And I love him already with all my heart!'' once yes to -maid some, CHAPTER XII. MR. ALWYN IJARTRAM. Kr. Alwtn Bartram lingered two weeks in that pleas- ant old house in **dull Chelsea'* — two brighly bfissfui weeks — and turned it into Paradise. To Estella Mallory, the little girl in love for the first time in her life, those two celestial weeks stood out ever after from the story of her life as a time passed in Eden. Kever shone the sun so bright, never sped golden summer days so swiftly; never was there so glorified a being in all the wide earth as this dark-eyed artist and poet, and never was there half so blessed and happy a girl as little, foolish Estella. Come what might, she had been blessed; no after misery — and the misery was very . ear — could alter that. Mr. Bartram was one of those happily constituted people who are immediately at home wherever they go; whose smiles shed sunshine around them, who are destined to be spoiled, and petted, and caressed by the whole world. Men liked him, women fell in love with him, matrons indulged him, and young girls went wild for love of his handsome face. He did everything, or a little of everything that soci- ety liked. He playeJd the piano brilliantly, he sung in the richest of superb tenors, he waltzed to perfection, he painted lovely little pictures, and scribbled more lovely little poems. And if he made love to every young lady he met, who can blame him, since those young ladies made love in their own pretty roundabout way to him first, showering smiles upon him and turning their backs contemptuously upon less favored mortals? He was the '* darling of the gods," with the purse of Fortunatus in prospective when that stock-broking uncle should see fit to die; a genius in the present, blessed with a light heart, an elastic conscience, a sound digestion, and the beauty of an Apollo Belvidere. Lucky Alwyn Bartram ! And Estella adored him. That is the word for it. And the pretty, youthful face grew celestial in its bright bliis and blushing happiness. m III II f il II': Jf 104 ebtella's husband. I ! Hurely Alwyn Bartrani would have been stone blind oonld he huvu misutulei'Btood those radiant eves that told their innocent story 80 plsiinly; thosu rosuatu blushuB that came and went so Ijeautifiilly at his bidding. I^iit ho w;3 very well urfud to that sort of thing, and took it qui to as n mutter of course, lie admired Jlelun Mal- lory s bright-faced niece very much, after a lazy artist sort of fashion, and looked at the glowing blushes with a cool, professional eye. '* The very model 1 want for my Uniline," he said, crit- ically; " the face I have been searching for everywhere and failed to find — youthful, innocent, trusting and sweet. I shall sketch that exquisite face and head of yours. Miss Essie, and immortalize you in oils when 1 get back to New York. 1 am going to be very industrious next winter — ignore the opera, give all my Bohemian friends the cut di- rect, turn my back upon the best metropolitan society, and take the world of art by storm. My Undine ' shall make my fortune.' '* And forthwith Mr. Bartram fell to work, and enthusias- tically dashed ofi a sketch of blushing Essie on the spot " It's a thousand pities 1 can't carry you off with me, Essie," he said. " Such a model might inspire the veriest dauber that ever spoiled canvas. Ah! how I should work with you in my studio — my Undine's sunshiny face light- ing its dingy walls! What a picture I should paint! howl should astonish those old academicians, who sneer so mer- cilessly at my piteous failures now! I wish I had a nice old mother to play propriety, and make you her guest. 1 would carry off my Undine, Miss Helen Mallory, will- ingly." Helen Mallory smiled, very well pleased; this was just what she wanted. Mr. Bartram might carry off her pretty niece any day he liked, even without the ** nice old mother " to play propriety in New York, and light up his studio with her loveliness, and paint ** Undines '' for the remain- der of his mortal career. A plain gold ring and a bridal wreath would make that all right. " You will turn Essie's head with flattery, Alwyn," she said, aloud. *^ So she makes a nice Undine, does she? Who is to be your traitor knight — yourself?" '' If 1 can find no bet-ter modeL But 1 should never be )/ EST Ella's hushand. 105 "she she? ft '3 to 8uoh an Undino," he suid, gayly. '* Were I Uilili brand, I would never seek a fairer bride. '* *' It is ooiiiiijg,** tliouj^ht Heltm, j^Iaiicinj; aoross at Eb* tolhi's liappy, «5lowiiij( face; *' the dream of my life will be realizi (I at last. 1 will live to see my darling Alwyn Har- tram's wife. And she loves him— my little dove-eyed dar- jing — her inTiocunt face shows it every iioiir of tlie day. 1 ought to tell him iier story, J suppose, and yet why need 1? lie knows as mueh of her mother's liistory as I did before thu Count Montreuil turned up. What neces;iity is there for his knowing more? Essie and her father will never meet. And as for her history — that painful episode of Fishur's Folly — the poor child shrinks so sensitively from all allusion to it, that I hate to betray her; and yet, if he marries her he ought to know. However, when he speaks it will be time enough to decide all thaL" So Miss Mallory put o£f the evil time, and let events take their course. But the glowing days of that sunny September wore on, one after another, and still the handsome artist did not '* speak.'' He was as delighted as ever, as irresistibly fascinating. He walked with Essie, drove with her, sung for her, gave her lessons in drawing, took her to every place of amuse- ment open in the city, sketched her pretty face in a hun- dred different ways, paid her lazy, artist-like compliments; but he never ** spoke." If Helen Mallory had not been thoroughly out of prac- tice in everything pertaining to the grand passion, she must have seen at once that his open, outspoken admiration foreboded the very worst of her pet scheme. Mr. Alwyn Bar tram, smoking his endless cheroots, and sketching Essie's charming face, would have opened his lazy, dark eyes in wide wonder, could he only have known what was passing in Miss Mallory's mind. Even Norah saw that to which he was stone blind. "Drat the man!" exclaimed Helen Mallory's faithful tire- woman. ** Where's his eyes? Can't he see that poor little girl is dead in love with his handsome face, and that Mifis Helen is set on the match with all her heart? There he goes dawdling and meandering about, smoking contin- ual, and painting of his good-for-nothing little pictures, and as blind as a bet to it all And by and by he wiU rH Ml.' ill IIP i ¥ 106 ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. take himself off, and leave the house as desolate as a dnn- geoQ; and poor Miss Essie to pine her heart out, for all he car OS. They're all alike, these men! Thank the Lord I never had anything to do with them!" The possibility that Mr. Alwyn Bartram might be as " dead in love " with somebody else as Estclla was with him never seemed to enter into the range of their thoughts. But the fatal truth came home to the girl herself, as she sat by her idol's side one misty September twilight, the drawing-room all to themselves. It was a hazy, overcast afternoon, with a threatening of rain in the lowering sky, and a bleak, easterly wind whistling shrilly up the deserted street. That easterly wind had driven Helen to bed with nervous headache, and kept Mr. Bartram and Esteila confined to the hoase. He had been reading aloud to her her pet poem, " Lock- sley Hall,'' charming her for the thousandth time with those deep, melodious tones. Now the book was thrown aside, and in the tender twilight dreamy silence fell be- tween them. ** When shall I read Tennyson to you again, Essie, I wonder?" Mr. Bartram said, dreamily. " You will for- get all about me, 1 suppose, when I am gone. And 1 go on Monday, " " On Monday!" Esteila said, with a sort of gasp; " and this is {Saturday evening!" And then her voice suddenly failed her, and she looked at him with wild, wide eyes. Alwyn Bartram saw that look, and his heart smote him. Her cherished secret, so closely hidden as she thought, was very large print — poor child — and easily read. And he had not meant to make love to her, either — this innocent little girl — and yet in a thousand indirect ways he had done it from the first. Ke saw that sudden whiten- ing of the fair face, that wild dilation of the wonderful brown eyes, and the sharpest pang of remorse he had ever felt pierced his careless heart. ** What a wretch I am!" he thought; " what a frivol- ous, heartless wretch! And this child is as innocent of the meaning of the verb * to flirt ' as the babe in its cradle. I have made her think 1 care for her until she has grown to care for me; I have treated her as I would have treated any hardened coquet in Vanity Fair, and now- » ) i estella's husbakix 107 He woald not finish his mental sentence; he turned Away from the sight of thiit pale, startled young face, from the clear gaze of those guiltless eyes. ** I must go, Essie/' he said, more gravely than w&9 his wont. ** My uncle is very ill — my uncle in Hichmond, Virginia — my sole living relative, the rich stock-brdker, you know. I had a letter to-day from his lawyer, telling me if I would see him alive I must hasten South at onc«. There never was much love between us, heaven knowi% but blood is thicker than water, and then " — with one of his old, somewhat heartless laughs — *' he is a rich man, and I am his prospective heir. If I lose my inheritance, I will be an object of compassion indeed. So you per- ceive I must go." *' Yes," Estella said, slowly; ** you must go. But you will come back?" ** Oh, some time — surely!" the young man said, gayly crossing over to the piano; " but Fm afraid not very soon. I have stayed longer than I intended — longer than 1 should have stayed, in fact — longer, I suppose, than I will ever stay again. New York is my home, Essie — I have a thousand ties to bind me there — and so, no matter how my uncle Wylder leaves his fortune, it will be a long time, I fear, before I can return to dear old Chelsea. But you must not quite forget me, you know; and when 1 get married — which folly 1 expect to commit before very long — you must come to Gotham, and make me and my wife a long visit. You will, won't you. Cousin Essie?" Without waiting for a reply, Mr. Alwyn Bartram rattled over the keys in a brilliant prelude, and he began to sing Gumpert's little cynical song, in his most delightful voice: ** ' Smile again, my dea,rest love, Weep not that I leave you; I have chosen not to rove — Bear it though it grieve you. See the sun, and moon, and stars Gleam the wide world over. Whether near or whether far. On your loving roverl 'its' Hh I 111 « ' And the sea has ebb and flow — Wind and cloud deceive us; Summer heat and winter's snow Seek us but to leave us. iff?' I llil mii' ',' ■»"!• 108 estella's husband. Thus the world grows old and mew— Why should you be stronger? Long have I been true to you— Now I'm true no longerl ** * As no longer yearns my heart, Or your smiles ensl»ve me; Let me thank you ere we part For the love you gave me. See the May flowers wet with dew Ere their doom is over. Should I not return to you. Find another lover!' " And Esiella! She sat still as stone, her hands crossed apon her lap, her eyes fixed on the darkening street And this was the end of all! ** Horrible little song, isn't it?" Mr. Bartram said, ris- ing from the piano. *' You haven't answered me yet, Essie. You will make me that visit, will you riot?" ** When you are married?" — how strangely her Toice sounded, faint and far-off even to herself! *' When are you " — it died entirely away. '* Very soon — I think — I hope. Look, Essie, 1 never showed you this before." He drew from beneath his vest some' f here a locket, richly inlaid with sparkling stones, and touching the spring it flew open. He handed it to her — not looking at the white, drawn face. ** See, Essie — my darling, and my bride that is to be!" There was a little tremor in his steady voice — the tremor of a deep, passionate love. Estella took it There was still light enough left in the darkening sky for her to see the pictured face. Such an exquisite face J A face of perfect beauty— the fact of a girl not much older than herself, perfec<.ly paint- ed. A darkly beautiful face — not of doubtful^ untormed prettiness, like her own, but one concerning whose exqui- site loveliness there could be no two opinions. You might not choose to like, but you could not fail to admire. Won- derful eyes — large, black, luminous— looked up at you; wonderful waves of rich black hair rippled over the snowy shoulders; and the low brow, a mouth like a rosebud, a nose that was simply perfect, tinted oval cheeks — that waa what Estella saw. Beneath was the name '* Leonie,'* 1 ,1.1 estella's husband. 109 She looked a moment. In that moment the beautiful dark face was pictured on her mind, never to be forgotten. Then she closed the locket, and handed it back " It is beautiful! I wish you every happiness, Mr. Bar- tram, and — your bride." Again her voice failed. She was so young, so utterly unschooled, and Aunt Helen had talked such terribly fool- ish things. The door opened, and Norah came in to light the gas. ** Miss Helen is down. She is waiting for you both in the dining-room," Norah said, briskly. " Her headache is better, and you had best not keep her waiting dinner. " ** My head aches," said Estella, passing swiftly by her. ** Ask her to excuse me. 1 don't want any dinner. She was gone like a flash. Norah lighted the gas, and stared blankly after her. ^* That child has caught cold. She is as hoarse as a raven. You haven't been keeping her in a draught, I hope, Mr. Alwyn Bar tram?" *' No," Alwyn Bartram replied, a second sharp pang shooting through the heart that beat beneath the jeweled locket, as he turned away from the woman's sharp eyes and left the room. And up in her own chamber, while the rainy night shui darkly down, Estella Mallory fell on her knees by the bedside, her face lying on her hands, as if she never cai*ed to lift it again, the world locked out, doing battir with her shame and despair. CHAPTER Xm. LEONIE. A CHARMINO picture! a radiant vision! There was a shimmer of gold-colored silk, a gleaming of opals, a misty cloud of rare old lace, a slender, willowy figure, robed like a princess in a fairy-tale, a dark face of exquisite loveli- ness, a fall of rich black hair crowned with a circlet oU red gold — and that was Miss Leonie De Montreuil. A low hum of suppressed admiration ran though the crowded rooms as she appeared, floating in her golden robes and flashing opals, a perfect picture of youth and boauty. M'^ m HI r It' ¥ If. if: t|4 ■I"- IS. I' pi 110 estella's husbanb. A little group of gentlemen, hovering aloof, stopped their flow of society small-talk to stare with all their might. *' The little Parisian is in full feather to-night,*' one said; ** radiant as one of the black-eyed houris of the Mussul' man's paradise. By Jove! old Rutherford has taste!*' ** No more a Parisian than you are," said a second, ** in spite of her Frenchified name. She was born and bred here in New York, and never saw Prance until within the last three years. Then this rich uncle, or cousin or some- thing turns unexpectedly up, wants an heir or an heiress, sends for the little Leonie, places her in a Parisian convent to be polished up, and finally brings her back here, and leaves her. Political business brought over the elegant Count De Montreuil, and took him back in a hurry. I fancy he is not over and above devoted to his fascinating little ward, since he was so willing to leave her behind. " " She wished to stay,*' said another; ** whether for the sake of old Rutherford's countless rupees, or Alwyn Bar- tram's handsome face, it would be hard to say. Fools, both of them! The little belle has no more heart than a grindstone. " '* She likes Bartram," remarked the first speaker, de- cidedly; *' and, if that mythical uncle in Virgmia makes him his heir, she will marry him. Where is Bartram? He should be here to see her to-night. " *' He has been out of town for the past few weeks, on a visit to some friends in the wilds of Massachusetts. He re- turned to-day. I met him this afternoon in Broadway, and he told me he was en route for Richmond. The stock- broking uncle is sick — in articulo mortis — and Alwyn goes to take possession of his fortune." *' If he gets it," said another, with a shrug. ** * There is many a slip,' and in this case there happens to be a sec- ond heir. But his case with the little De Montreuil lies in a nutshell. If he gets the inheritance, he gets hex ; if he doesn't, he doesn't. I shouldn't mind backing old Ruth- erford, ten to one, if you want to make a book, Roosevelt " Meantime, the object of all this^ cold-blooded discussion sailed along to pay her respects to the hostess of the even- ing, serenely unconscious. She saw the admiring looks, she heard the admiring whispers, but she was so used to admiration that she took it quite as a matter of course. Her perfect beauty and her exquisite dress made her al' estella's husband. Ill it 3r al- ways a sort of surprise — made her bloom and brightness ever newr. " I had almost given you up, Miss De Montreuil/' her hostess said; '' and Ethel has been fidgeting her life out far the past half hour lest you should fail to come. You will find her in the boudoir, waiting as impatiently as a stricken lover." Miss De Montreuil smiled faintly. She was a very languid little beauty, as radically and unaffectedly non- chalant as a duchess; but the faint smile was wondrously beautiful, and lighted up the whole dark, exquisite face. ** Mrs. Manners and I are on our way to Clara Leesom's birthnight ball," said she, in the softest and most silvery of feminine voices. '* We are very late, but 1 would not on any account have missed looking in upon you. How is Ethel to-day? I have been so busy, really, I have had no time to call or send. " *' She is much better — strong enough to receive her moat intimate friends in the boudoir, but not strong enough to appear in the rooms for general society. They told her, Leonie," with a little laugh " that you are on the eve of matrimony, and, as somebody is a particular favorite of hers, she is all anxiety since. " The fairy belle shrugged her pretty, plump shoulders in very French fashion indeed. *' 1 am on the eve of marrying Mr. Rutherford, I sup- pose, and somebody means Alwyn Bar tram. The world takes a great deal of pains to settle my destiny. 1 must go and ease her anxious mind.*' She moved away — a walking poem, floating in her shim- mering robes. She passed down the long room, nodding and smiling right and left — a dazzling little beauty as ever turned the heads of men. A curtain of sea-green silk hung over the pillared arch- way at the further extremity. She lifted this lightly, and passed at once into an inner room. A little bijou of a room, all cool white and pale green, lighted by dim clusters of gas, in crystal cups, with frail exotics perfuming the air, and dim white statues gleaming against dusky green backgrounds. It was like a sea nymph's grot — an ocean cave — and the pale girl, with the floatmg yellow hair, who lay on a sofa m l|i 'If'*', l)h\ 1 ■ i u 4 ■:i ! -I 113 estella's husband. " iii in a cload of green areophane, lighted dimly with milky pearls, looked not unlike some deep-sea siren. She was quite alone in her cool little nest, and started eagerly up at sight of her golden-rohed visitor. °* At last!" ehe cried; " and I had given you up! At last, Leonie; and how late you are!" ** 1 could not help it, dear,'* Mias De Montreuil said, sweetly, taking her place beside her. " We went to hear the now tenor in ' Lucrezia Borgia,' and stayed until the end of the opera. Ah, he is charming, and handsome as an angel on the stage; although I suppose, like the rest of these people, he owes half his beauty to wigs and paint We are on our way now to Clara Leesom's; but, of course, disgracefully late as we will be, 1 insisted upon looking in lor a moment to see you. And how are you to-night, dear?'' ** Better, but a little tired now. My illness has left me weak as an infant. Leonie, I am dying to ask you if it is true about you and Mr. Rutherford?" ** Your mother told me you were," Leonie said, adjust- ing her bracelet. " If what is true, Ethel?" ** Oh, you know well enough! It is the talk of the avenue. They say you are going to marry him." '* Do they? 1 dare say they do. Well, and suppose I *' Oh, Leonie! And Alwyn Bartram?" " My love, I have not seen Mr. Bartram for three weeks. What would you have? One can't be faithful forever to the absent. He shouldn't stay away so long if he wants to keep his memory green. And then, Mr. Rutherford — ah, words fail, my dear, to tell how devoted that poor old man is!" She laughed — the sweetest of little tinkling laughs, but hollow as ^ silver bell. Her companion looked at her almost indignantly. '* And you are engaged to Alwyn, and you talk like thisJ Are you heartless, Leonie, as they say you are?" Leonie shrugged her dimpled shoulders again. ** Do they say so? I dare say they are right. I dare say I am. As to being engaged to Alwyn Bartram, 1 am not so sure of that. We have been frightfully serious together — have exchanged pictures and rings, and all that — have talked more nonsense, and vowed more vows, than 1 care I* estella's husband. 113 to remember. But still — there is always a but, you see, Ethel — one isn't Mrs. Bartram yet; and — ah, well I the Butherford diamonds are superb, and he doesn^t know the depths of his own coffers. The temptation is strong, and poor little Leonie is pitifully weak." ** That means, then, you intend to throw Mr. Bartram over for the wrinkled old millionaire and his family dia- monds?" " How painfully matter-of-fact you are, my dearest Ethel! Still, it is best in these cases. Yes, my dear, in 6.ain English, 1 am very strongly tempted to throw Mr. artram over for Mr. Rutherford. The one is young and handsome as a god — the other is old and ugly as a satyr; but, oh, my Ethel! he counts his dollars by millions, and dollars are the glory and bliss of life! What a shocked and horrified face you wear! It sounds very mercenary and very horrible, I dare say, but one may as well tell the truth. You see, Ethel, I nave known what it is to be poor, and you have not, and that makes all the difference m the world. 1 have worn print dresses, and shabby bon- nets, and old shoes, and lived in stuffy little back rooms, and dined on weak tea and smoked herrings before my uncle De Montreuii sent for me to France, and the horror of that horrible time has never been forgotten. 1 will never be poor again, Ethel — never, never, never!" " You need not be, and still remain true to the man you love. For you do love Alwyn, do you not, Leonie?" Leonie JDe Montreuii put out one little, dark hand, all a-glitter with diamonds and opals, and laid it in that of her friend. ** They say I am heartless, Ethel, and I know I am not like you, and not in the least like those superhuman girls one reads of in novels, who give up the world for love; but I do— I (/o like poor Alwyn! If he inherits his uncle's fort- une, I will marry him gladly, although then he will not be half so rich as Mr. Rutherford. If he does not, 1 never will! No, Ethel, I never will! I can not be a poor man's wife." ** No need to be poor. He has his art. He can win his way to fame and fortune." " Ah, bah! when both our heads are gray? No, no, Ethel, that will never do! If he inherits a fortune I will be his wife; if he does not, then I marry Mr. Rutherford. III II" lit It! li^' ! \i Mr M cni; t I U ?l s h IV ;il '^ ii 114 estella's husband. That is vrhy I have remained in New York. I am ready for either fate. I must make my own future. My uncle De M'^ntreuil cares very little for me — cares less than ever since he has found out he has a daughter alive.'' " A daughter! Is it possible?*' " Komautic, isn't it? out quite true, and here in Amer- ica somewhere. When quite a young man, and foolish, as young men are apt to be, he fell in love after the most ap- proved fashion, married, and ran away with a pretty, pen- niless Yankee bride. He was Monsieur Raoul, a teacher of music at that time, with very little hope that the fam- ily inheritance would ever be restored to him. But it was, and with the rise of Louis Napoleon, he arose, too. He left his wife, and went back to France, and once there — who knows how it was? — he never returned to her. But, when he came here with me this summer he sought out her friends, found she was dead, but had left a daughter. That daughter the indignant friends refused to restore him — not in the least dazzled by his wealth and his title. And, as he could not remain to enforce his rights, he has re- turned to France without her. He told me the whole story — less the names of the parties; and ever since 1 have felt my position as his future heiress most doubtful. He will return and find his daughter, 1 know; and where, then, is poor Leonie? No, Ethel, I should like to please you, to please Alwyn, to please myself; but 1 can not marry a struggling artist! His fate hangs on his uncle's will, and that is speedily to be decided now. He is back in the city — Alwyn. 1 had a note from him to-day, and expect to meet him at the ball. The uncle is very ill. He goes South to-morrow. As soon as the will is read, I shall know, and then — " She paused, rose up, shook out her flashing skirts, and laughed lightly. ** I am a cold-blooded wretch, am I not, my dear, en- thusiastic Ethel? 1 don't deny it. Mr. Bartram, after the fashion of loves and artists adores me as an angel of light now. If 1 fail him, 1 will sink to the lowest depths of in- famy in his estimation. And yet, I am neither so good nor so bad as he makes me out. 1 am simply true to the teachings of my life — to the doctrine of society. All the nicest girls marry for money nowadays. They leave home on the same principle as their house-maids leave theirs — lo h ebtella's husband. 115 better themselves. Oh, what long speeches 1 have been making, and what a stupid talk we nave had! But 1 want you to know me as I am, Ethel, and for the rest of the world I don't care a fillip! We won't talk of this any more. We will hope for the best. I may marry Alwyn, after all. And now, adieu, and mi revoir! My chaperone will think I am lost." She stooped and kissed her friend, and floated, like the fairy she was, in a golden mist away through the sea-green curtains and out into the glare and flash of the gas-lighted drawing-room, that was the only heaven she knew of or cared for. Bet tiful, ele^rant, heartless — a creature to drive mankind mad for love, and never know the meaning of that sweetest word of all words herself. Half an hour later, among the many beauties shining re- splendent at Miss Leesom's birth night ball, floated in the beauty of the season, eclipsing everything around her, as a meteor eclipses common stars. She floated up, in her sylph-like way, tc the daughter of the house, and murmured sweetly her few words of congrat- ulation appropriate to the occasion. " We are terribly late, 1 know," she said, plaintively, ** but we went to hear the new Italian tenor, and then looked in at poor, dear Ethel's. She is much better, and, of course, 1 lingered for a chat. Every one is here ages ago, no doubt?" "Every one!" the young lady responded, laughing. *' Mr. Rutherford and Mr. AlwynBartram included. Mr. Rutherford is absorbed in whist in the card-room and Mr. Bartram is — " " Here!" said a voice at her elbow. He stepped forward as he spoke, with a glow on his handsome face, as ho held out his hand to Leonie. ** It seems centuries since we met. How late you are, Leonie! I began to think you were not coming after all." Miss Leesora, with a conscious smile, had glided away at once. Alwyn Bartram drew the gloved hand oi the little belle through his arm with the air of one having the right. ** You received my note? You expected to meet me here?" he said, bending above her. ** Certainly," responded Miss De Montreuil. She was infinitely calm. No flush had arisen to her clear olive m III ! IM' It'' :M;t|i| ?r 'h 116 ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. \¥r)k\ cheek — no added sparkle to her eye at sight of her lorer. ** How long you have been away, Alwynr' ** Has it seemed long to you, Leonie? Have you really missed mer'*' *' Of course," with one of her Parisian shrugs. ** Are you not the best waltzer on my list? Apropos, I keep the first for you to-night. Ani you positively go South to- morrowi"' ** Without fail. My un 'le lies dangerously ill. I should have been on my way now. 1 may not see him alive as it is. But 1 could not go — 1 could ?iot. Leonie, without com- ing hero to see you. " Miss De Moiitrouil pressed her pretty littb patrician nose into her bouquet — a bouquet of rarest exotics sent her that afternoon by Mr. Rutherford, the millionaire. ** Very flattering, but very foolish. You risk your in- heritance, do you not? But, perhaps, you have discovered that it is already secured to you?" *' Unfortunately, no. The issue is still doubtful. I have ofTended my uncle by rejecting his business, and he still labors under the impression that his favorite nephew, Robert Bartram, is alive. It is nine jears now since Rob- ert broke wild and fled from home and friends, but some- where in the scheme of the universe hQmay still (3xist. My chance of inheriting my uncle's fortune would be wretch- edly slight, indeed, if he ever turned up." ** Very unfortunate for you," Miss De Montrerli said, coolly; " beyond that inheritance you have nothing but your art?" " ^Nothing, Leonie; but that art shall yet win me wealth and fame. And you — oh, my darling! you will be equal to either fortune, will you not? You will not fail me?" He looked down upon her for the first time with a pang of dread and doubt. He had drawn her away from the crowded ball-room into a dimly lighted conservatory, where a wilderness of camellias and magnolias hid them, and the air was heavy with the perfume of rose and jessamine. It was quite deserted — only the pallid P'loras and Cupids among the rose and acacia-trees gleamed about them like marble ghosts. Miss Le Montreuil leaned lightly against a tall statne of Hebe, holding forth her cup of ambrosia, with a smile on her stone face. In the dim light she made a rarely lovely "iJtit "» f ' E8TELLA*8 HUSBAND. 117 picture, her shimmering rohe flashing like spun gold, her opals glimmering, her graceful little head drooping for- ward, her dark, velvety eyes fixed on the frail blossoms she held. A rarely lovely picture — one any mun who loved her might never forget — one that haunted Alwyn Bartram for weary years to come with a pang more bitter than death. He loved her passionately — intensely. You could see it in his glowing face, in his burning uyes, in the flush that mantled hotly his dark face. He towered above her — fairy sylph that she was — tall, strong, black-browed, a fitting mate for her; beautiful, in his man's beauty, as herself. ** You love me, Leonie, do you not? Oh, my darling, say it again! Nothing will ever make you false to the vows you haro plighted? No loss of fortune will ever make you false to me? My Leonie! my own! tell me once more that you love me!" ** Hove you!" she answered faintly, not lifting her eyes. ** And you will wait for me? I may not lose this fort- une, but if I do you will wait? The waiting shall not be long. I feel that within me that tells me I am destined to achieve success. And if this fortune comes to me at once, then, Leonie, you will be my own without delay. You will bless me for life with this dear hand?" He caught it fast, covering it with rapturous kisses. ** Yes, Leonie De Montreuil said, '* if this fortune be- comes yours, Alwyn, I will be your wife. Oh, surely — surely your uncle will make you his heir!" ** 1 hope so — 1 trust so. But still, if not — still, if it be- comes Robert Bartram's — still you will be faithful and true — still, my dearest, you will wait?" " For how long?" " A year, perhaps — two at most. In two years 1 will have a name to offer my peerless Leonie, of which she will be proud, or I will burn my easel, and never touch paint- brush more. Two years is not long to eighteen and seven- and-twenty. My own dear girl will be true to her lover?" She looked up suddenly, boldly, her great, black eyes flashing with a look that was almost defiance into his im- passioned face. *' Alwyn," she said, ** 1 will never marry a poor man. 1 do love you — Heaven knows 1 do — and I hope to be your wife! But 1 am not what you think me — what your en- thusiastic fancy has made me. I also love wealth and lux- III ' \ r f -It! I r Mj ■r V (!, i 118 estella's husband. urj, fine hoases, fine dresses, rioh jewels — all the glory, and brightness, and luxury of life I I should go luid, or die, as a poor man's wife. Look at these hands — were they made for labor? Look at me— am I of the clay they make household drudges? Inherit your uncle's fortune, Alwyn, and 1 will marry you and love you all my life. Fail, and—" Her voice died away; her eyes fell; the color that had flushed for an instant mto her rounded chooke died out in ashen pallor. She dared not meet the earnest face above her. He stood gazing down upon her, the truth slowly coming home to him for the first time that the woman he loved was cold-blooded, selfish and mercenary to the core of her heart. " And if 1 fail," he said, slowly—" if 1 fail? In the hour I lose my fortune, do 1 also lose my bride?" ** Don't let us talk of it!" Leonie broke in, hurriedly. ** Don't let us think of it! We will hope for the best. You will inherit this dying man's wealth, and Leonie will be all your own. Take me back to the ball-room, Alwyn; I shall be missed." She took his arm, to draw him away, looking up with the piteous, im^ loring face of a naughty child. ** Don't wear that rigid scowl, please. Don't be angry! If you go to-morrow, let us part friends. You will write to me at once, will you not? You know how impatient 1 shall be to hear how events turn out. There is our waltz. Come, Alwyn — come!" ** I shall waltz none to-night," he said, moodily. ** I only came here to see you, and it is time I was gone." ''Then let us say good-bye where we are, and part," Miss De Montreuil responded, readily, holding out her hand. ** Bon voyage and all success! I shall count the hours until I hear from you." He caught her suddenly in his arms — a fierce, passion- ate, straining clasp. ** Leonie, Leonie! be true to me!" he cried. "" I love you more than my life! If I lost you — great heavens, 1 should go mad I You will not be poor — 1 swear it! I will work for you like a galley-slave! I will toil my fingers to the bone! Oh, my love, my bride, be true!" " I will be true — if I can," she added, mentally. ** For pity's sake, Alwyn, let me go. Some one comes !^ I" n 18TELT.A'8 husband. 11» \'d. She let him kies her; then she flitted out of his arms like a spirit, and was gone. Ba(;k to the ball-room — back to the crashing music — to the lights, the splendor, the admir- ation — all that life held that was wortii living for to hor. And Alwyn Bartram stood for an instant alone, amid the tropical plants, and pallid statues, with the same dull sense of despair at his heart that had tilled Estulla Mai- lory's, not many days before. ** If I lose my fortune 1 lose my bride!" ho thought, with that dull sense of horrible pain. ** She loves me, but she loves wealth better. And if 1 lose hor — *' He could not finish the sentence. Ten minutes later, when he came to say farewell to his hostess, she almost screamed aloud at sight of his white, drawn face. '* Good heavens! Mr. Bartram, you are ill! You look like a walking corpse!** ** Yes, 1 am ill, he said, hoarsely. ** Pray excuse my hasty departure, and — good-night.'' He turned abruptly to go. As he did so, hu caught a last glimpse of his idol — not waltzing, but. leaning ou the arm of old Rutherford, the millionaire, her exquisite face luminous with smiles. He ground his teeth in jealous rage, and a second later was out under the chill morning stars. CHAPTER XIV. MISS DE MONTREUIL DECIDES. The October afternoon was closing down rainy and raw as Alwyn Bartram sprung from the cab that had conveyed him from the station, and rang the door-bell of his uncle's house. It was a dull old house, in a dull back street, with the noises of the city coming far and faint — doubly dull this wet October twilight. The whole front at the house was closed and dark, and the young man's impatient ring had to be repeated thrice before an answer came. Then the door swung back, and an elderly woman looked out. " What do you wish?" was her sharp query. ** Mr. Wylder is very sick, and can see no one. If it's a letter, the doctor don't allow him to read letters any more." It isn't a letter, madame, and Mr. Wylder will see m$. (< "Ml HI ht l|v 1)11 4 '.: 11 120 ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. IM hi Be good enough to tell him his nephew, Alwyn Bartram, has come.'* He made his way resolutely into the dim hall, despite the woman's resistance. But, at the announcement of his name, she suddenly subsided into civility. ** I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure, but I'm Mr. Wylder's nurse, and I only act up to my directions. So many gen- tlemen try to see him on business, you know, sir, and he isn't equal to business now. Please walk in; he expects you, I beliove." She closed the door again, and Mr. Bar tram found him- self in a long, dully lighted entrance hall, bare and bleak, with a wide, carpetless stairway at the further eud. *' How is Mr. Wylder?" he asked; " any better. ?*" ** No better, sir; he never will be better again in this world! He is sinking fast; he will hardlv last the month out If you will wait here, I will go up and tell him you have come." She left him in the dark, chill hall, and ascended the stairs. Ir ten minutes she reappeared. ** Mr. Wylder will see you at once. You know his room, sir — please come up." The young man ran up th^ stairs, along a second half- lighted hall, covered with a faded carpet, and tapped at the door of a room at the remote extremity. A weak, shrill voice called ** Come in," and opening the door, he found himself in the presence of the sick man, upon whose Sat the happiness or misery of his whole future life depended. It was a large room, but chill and draughty, and lighted by a shaded lamp. A wood fire burned dully on the hearth, a threadbare carpet covered the floor, cane-seated chairs stood primly round the walls, and in the center of the floor was the large, old-fashioned fonr-poster, whereon the sick man lay. A patch-work quilt covered it, a round table stood near, strewn with medicine vials, glasses, gruel-bowls, and a slippery, leathern-covered arm-chair stood beside it, close to the bed. Altogether the chamber looked dreary, and comfortless, and cold, and impoverished, and betrayed, in every thread of its worn carpet, in every creaky, time- worn chair that its occupant, if a rich man, was a miser. He half -sat up in the bed now, supported by pillows. In the dim light the old face looked gaunt and pinched. ^'t- J / \ estella's husband. 131 vith sunken cheeks and hoUow eyes. But the hollow eyes burned keenly still, and the thin lips were firmly, obstin- ately compressed. " So you have come,*' he said, fixing those glittering eyes sharply on the handsome face of his nephew; " you have come, Alwyn Bartram, and in time. You see the old man is down at last, never to rise again. I knew you would be here, and in time for the death!" *' Let us hope better things, ancle,*' the young artist said, gently, bending above him, and taking the cold, limp hand lying loosely on the counterpane. ** You are far from an old man jet, and people do not die with every illness. Let us hope a few weeks will see you restored again.** " Sit down,*' responded Mr. Wylder, harshly, '* and don't be a hypocrite! I am going to die, and you know it, and you wish it." Alwyn Bartram dropped his hand, and recoiled as if he had been cut with a whip. His dark face flushed deep, angry red. " I do not wish it!" he said. ** 1 have never wished the death of my worst enemy. Illness gives many privileges, but it gives you no right to insult me, Mr. Wylder." *' Well, sit down — sit down!" Mr. Wylder said, testily, but not displeased. '* How touchy the boy is! Like his father before him — proud and high-stomached. There! take a seat, and don't let a sharp word from the old man mount you on your high horse. If you did wish for my death it would be nothing unnatural — nothing out of the ordinary course. The heir's feet always ache to stand in the dead man's shoes." «( I have never looked forward to your death or your wealth. Uncle Wylder," Alwyn said, rather coldly. *' Your generous allowance has amply sufficed for every want, and I am not ambitious — in that way, at least. Live a score of years if you can, and enjoy the money you have earned; no one will rejoice more heartily than 1." " Well, well, well, don't let us talk about it. We will speak of yourself. What have you been doing since I saw you last?" *' Much the same as usual. Nothing of any great im- portance, I am afraid." n\ lit' r it Wvv 122 estella's husband. ** And our wonderful art — our divine profession — in which we were to achieve such miracles — what of that?" The young man reddened again at the sneer^ this tinze not without a sense of guilt. ** The miracles are still unachieved. I paint, but my paintings are rejected. Yet still I hope I will one dav be a painter.'' ** A modern Raphael, no doubt,*' the old man said, with bitter sarcasm. *' Permit me to offer my congratulations beforehand. With such brilliant hopes of speedy fame and fortune, old Wylder, the money-grubbing, miserly stock- broker's wealth can matter little to you. It sets my mind at rest to know your future is secured, and leaves me free to follow my own inclinations.'' " You are always free," Alwyn Bartram said, though his heart sunk within him. ** The wealth you have amassed honorably, in the course of a long life, is certainly yours, to dispose of as you choose. You have been very gi od to me. Leave it as you may, I have no right to be anything but grateful." " Ah, philosophic, I see! How coolly the young men of the present day take the ups and downs of life! Mt. Al- wyn Bartram will scarcely miss what he values so lightly." " You are determined to misunderstand me, uncle," the young man said, repressing his anger by an effort; ** but you ahoays misunderstood me. I suppose I am to conclude," looking him full in the eyes " that Robert Bartram is your heir?" " If Robert Bartram be alive," the old man said, slowly — "yes." On, Leonie! His thoughts went back to her as he had seen her last, bright, beautiful, heartless, with the sharp- est pang he had ever felt in his life. " If your uncle leaves you his fortune, I will be your wife; if not — " Alwyn Bartram turned very pale, but his dark, resolute eyes met those of the old man on the bed without flinch- ing. ** Your fortune is your own, Mr. "Wylder. You have every right to leave it to your favorite nephew. For me, I am hardly surprised. I think I expected this." ** There is still a chance," the sick man said, eagerly. ** I can make a new will, and Robert Bartram was never my favorite nephew. Give up this nonsensical art; make / / *^^ / n estella's husband. 133 slowly have me. 9, bonfire of your easel and paint brushes; take to my bus- iness, and — " He stopped short His nephew had made an imperious gesture with hi? hand. *' I will never give up my art! It is dearer to me than anything else in the world — save one. I can never take to your business. I would be, indeed, what you called me when I entered this room — a hypocrite — if I promised that. Let Robert Bartram take your wealth, if Robert Bartram be alive, but I will never give u; ) my profession while my fingers can wield a brush!*' The dogged resolution, characteristic of the race they sprung from, looked invincibly out of the defiant eyes of both. " Be it so, then!" cried Mr. Wylder, setting his teeth. " You have chosen. The will that gives all to Robert Bartram is made; that will shall stand,, For you, you lose everything — your yearly allowance and all." Alwyn Burtram bowed, still with that fixed, resolute face. " And if Robert never appears?" he asked, steadily. ** In that case,'* said Mr. Wylder, coldly, " the wealth shall not go out of the family. For the space of one year, vigorous search and inquiry shall be made for the missing man. If, at the end of the year, he appears, all shall be his. All! If he fails to appear, then, Alwyn Bartram, having no other living kin, it goes to you, undeserving as* you are. I am iiot of the sort that found asylums and en- dow hospitals. But Robert Bartram will be found." ** Have ^'ou any reason for thinking so?" ** None, except the old axiom that bad shillings always come back. And now, as I see by the clock yonder it is time for my supper and composing draught, you will be good enough to ring the bell for the nurse, and leave me. Your old room is prepared. How long do you mean to stay? Until all is over?" " I will stay until you are better or — " ** Dead. I understand. Vwy well; but remember, my will is made. No act of yours now — no waiting, no devo- tion—can alter it. Robert Bartram takes precedence of you. I leave you nothing — nothing — not the price of a mourning ring." ** You are exceedin^y candid. Still, I will stay." He rang the bell. The nurse appeared. •ikl,. M !■■ |j«5) \ \\ lit' :«; u M / 124: BSTELLA'8 HUSBAND. I ;i; ' 'd'-' ill! •* Good-night, uncle!" he said, kindlv, pausing an in- stant by the bedside on his way out. ** 1 wish you a good night's rest." But the sick man turned away his head sullenly, and his nephew quitted the chamber and went straight to his own. So it was all over, and he knew the worst. He sat down in his shabby little room, drew writing materials before him, and, without a moment's delay, began the promised letter to Leonie De Montreuil. Decision, resolution, were the young man's character- istics. He told hor the truth at once. •*1 have lost all," he wrote, with tragical intensity — •* even my yearly allowance. For the first time in my life nothing remains to me but my art. I am penniless — a worker for my daily bread. Well, be it so — that way honor lies. My future is my own to make, and it shall be one my Leonie will be proud of. Only wait, my darling. Be true and faithful for a little while; all will come right in the end. I remain here until the old man is better or dead; then back to New York, to love, to you, and my glorious idol — Art. Next winter 1 shall send a picture to the Exhibition that must succeed. Write to me, my own, my dearest, and let me see the precious words that tell my Leonie will wait for her adoring lover." Leonie De Montreuil sat alone in her room — a room beautiful and luxurious as its beautiffil and luxurious oc- cupant. She sat by the window, still wearinc; her morning neglige, although the October gloaming was settling down over the avenue. She lay back in her cushioned chair, two open letters in her lap, and an expression of unmitigated faulkiness on her dark face. One little, slippered foot beat an angry tattoo on the carpet, and the slender black brows were drawn in an impatient frown. ** And after all my waiting, after all my hoping," she thought, bitterly, " this is the end. Nothing out disap- pointment on either hand." There was a soft tap at the door. ** Come in, Clara," she said, in French; ** the house is thine own." The chamber door opened slowly, and her friend and hostess, Mrs. Manners, a pretty young matron, swept M estella's husband. IDS in, in rustling dinner-dress, ribbons fluttering, jewels sparkling. "Not dressed yet?*' she said; *' not even commenced, and past six, my dear Leonie! Ah, letters! No bad news, I trust?'' *' As bad as bad can be," Leonie said, bitterly. *' 1 am the most unfortunate girl alive, I think. Turn which way I will, there seems nothing but vexation and disappoint- ment for me." Mrs. Manners threw herself into afauteuil, and drew out her watch. " An hour yet until the dinner-bell rings. 1 am glad 1 dressed early. Tell me all about it, m' amour. Who are your odious correspondents?" '* Count De Montreuil and — Alwyn Bariram." " Ah, Alwyn Bartram! And what does our handsome artist say for himself? Is the rich uncle dead, and ths * curled darling of the gods ' disinherited?" '* Yes, he is disinherited. All goes to a distant cousin." " Robert Bartram — mad Robert. 1 knew him once. Poor Alwyn! What will become of him now?" " Oh, he is to work woLders — to win for himself an im- mortal name, and wealth, and glory, with a few tubes of paint and a few yards of canvas! I have no patience with such ridiculous nonsense. Rubens and Raphael died along ago, and the race of immortals died with them. When Mr. Bartram has crows' -feet and gray hairs he may pos- sibly have achieved a decent competence, if he has the tal- ent he gives himself credit for. As it is — " The young lady shrugged her shoulders, and deliberately tore his letter in two. *' And the other? What says the stately count?" " That he is coming back to America to search for his lost daughter. A pleasant prospect for me ! He will find her, of course. She will be his heiress, his idol, and I — 1 will be the companion, the poor relation — one step higher than mademoiselle's maid!" She seized the second letter fiercely, and tore it also into fragments, as she spoke. There was a soft rap; then the door opened, and the face of Aglae, Miss De Montreuil's maid, appeared. The French girl held in her hand a magnificent bouquet of rarest exotics. If! hi II' • If II :' \ jj.ill 126 estella's husband. '■'fV t"-: ** With Monsieur Eutherford's compliments/* she said, placing it before her mistress. '* When will mademoiselle DC pleased fco dress?" ** In half an hour, Aglae. You may go." She lifted the bouquet, her dark eyes sparkling. The bright iittle brunette was passionately fond of flowers, but even in this her taste was artificial. Only the frailest and costliest hot-house blossoms pleased her luxurious eye. ** Beautiful! Are they not?'' she said, inhaling their rich fragrance. '' Mr. Eutherford has exquisite taste." ** Or his florist," Mrs. Manners said. '" But Mr. Ruth- erford's taste is undisputed — in some things. He admires you, my pretty Leo^iie. After all, let uncle and artist both fail, and Leonie De Montreuil need never sink into playing second fiddle. There are not a dozen wealthier men in wide America, my husband says, than William Ruther- ford." There was a pause. Miss De Montreuil flung the torn fragments of her letters contemptuously away, and bent her face above the tropical blossoms. " He dines here to-day?" ahe said. '* Yes. He haunts this house like a shadow of late. All's not lost that's in danger, Leonie. The wife of old Rutherford, the millionaire, will be a lady to be envied." ** Ah, but he is old Eutherford," Leonie said, plaint- ively, " and 1 don't like old men." ** Of course not; but, you see, unfortunately one can't have everything in this lower world. If one likes unlim- ited diamonds and pocket-money, a box at the opera, the best metropolitan society, a villa in the Highlands, a cot- tage on the Hudson, a brown- stone palace on Fifth Avenue, one must be content to endure a few drawbacks. If one prefers an artist, young, handoome, clever, penniless, a shabby tenement on the east side, print dresses, and a din- ner of hash and weak tea at high noon, why one can have that, too. Only, if our friends cut us dead, and love flies out of the window after the honey-moon, and our beauty withers, and we find ourselves an object of compassion to gods and men, we have no right to complain. We have made our own election, and must abide by it." There was blank silence. Miss De Montreuil was look- ing steadfastly out of the window. Mrs. Manners a second time glanced at her watch. in estella's husband. 137 Half past six. Really, Leonie, yonr maid will not have time to do herself justice this evening. I will go and send her up at once. Look your prettiest, and wear Mr. Ruth- erford's flowers, and be as sensible when he takes you in to dinner as it is the nature of eighteen to be. For the pres- ent, adieu!'' Mrs. Manners tripped lightly away, and sent Mile. Aglae upstairs at once. She was very fond of her pretty guest, and the rich Rutherford was a remote connection of her own. *' I hope she will have sense," she thought, as she sailed into the drawing-room to receive her guests. ** I hope she won't be silly and sentimental. And 1 don't thinK she will." The dinner-bell was clanging forth its summons as Miss De Montreuil floated — she always floated — into the gas- lit drawing-room. Very pretty she looked in her pink silk dinner-dress — the color of strawberry ice, with pearls in her rich black hair, and eyes like ebon stars. A cluster of Mr. Ruther- ford's waxen flowers nestled amid the foamy lace of her corsage, and Mr. Rutherford's old eyes absolutely lighted up as he recognized them. He came toward her, and took possession at once, as one having the right — a short, stout, red-faced old man of sixty, with a protruding under lip and two or three double chins. " Beauty and the Beast," whispered an envious adorer, hovering in the distance — '* Venus and Vulcan, Miranda and Caliban, May and December!" His companion laughed. *' Don't be slanderous. Is it a match, I wonder? 1 thought Mr. Bartram was first favorite there?" ** Mr. Bartram has been out of to^n over a week. Miss De Montreuil is a ' girl of the period. ' How can she pos- sibly remain faithful to an absent lover so long?" " Don't be sacrastic. I think your May and December will make an eminently suitable pair. She has no more heart than a mill-stone, that girl. There she goes on old Rutherford's arm in to dinner." " I pity old Rutherford. Come." Miss De Montreuil and her companion were very silent all though dinner. Mr. Rutherford did not understand III li'- (i #;' i ,1; 111! ' 198 estella's husband. :,' 1, the small-talk of sooiety, and the pretty brunette was e?er too languid to converse much. But all through the meal his eyes wandered to her ex- quisite face, with a doting infatuation only to be seen in the eyes of old men making idiots of themselves. *' I am gJud you wear my flowers/' he said, in a fat whisper. 1 hardly expected it. *' '* Ko? But they are so pretty, and I am very fond of flowers." They had adjourned to the drawing-room, and Mr. Ruth- erford had drawn the little belle to a remote sofa just big enough to hold both. A young lady at the piano was sing- ing a noisy operatic song, under cover of which more than one flirtation was carried on. ** Are you? Ah, how 1 envy the flowejs! If I thought it would give you a moment's pleasure^all the c0nserva- tories in New York would be at your service." ** You are very good." Miss De Montreuil did not lift her eyes. She felt what was coming, and her resolution y/iiV/A^ give way if she looked in that vulgar red face. " Do you know why I have come here to-night? Why I accept every invitation to this house? Why 1 am never happy out of it of late?" ^' How should 1?" ** Because you are here!" burst forth the millionaire; ** because I am madly in love with you, beautiful Leonie, and want you for my wife!" There it was! Loonie's heart seemed to stand stock still, and she felt herself growing cold all over. The odious red face was very near her own now. *' Tm an old man. Miss De Montreuil, but 1 am also a rich man, and I lay my heart and my fortune here at your feet. I will only live to gratify your every whim — 1 will be your slave, your worshiper — my gold shall flow like water at your bidding. Only say you will be my wife!" His hot breath was on her cheek — his hateful face al- most touched her own. Leonie De Montreuil turned for an instant so deathly sick with repulsion that her parted lips refused to obey. And yet the bad, ambitious purpose within her never faltered. ** Speak!" the old man said. '* Some one may come. Speak, and tell me you consent. Promise to be my wife. " estella's husband. 139 Some one was coming — Mrs. Manners. Leonie found her voice by an efTort. ** You are very good/' she repeated, shrinking back a little as she said it, ** and I promise. I \fill be your wife.'' CHAPTER XV. ** OH, MY amy! mine NO MORE!" A SUNLESS and gusty November day late in the month, the dead leave?? whirling in wild drifts before the chill wind, a threatening o( snow in the loaden air. A dull and cheer- less November afternoon, the black sky low-lying, a wail of coming winter in the sobbing blast tearing through the trees. And on this desolate autumn afternoon all that was mortal of Mn Wylder, the wealthy stock-broker, was laid in. its native clay. *' Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" The clergyman's teeth chattered in his head as he rattled over the burial service, and the group gath(3red around the grave, while the sods clattered down, shivered in their great-coats. There were not many mourners — the miserly stock-broker had made but few friends. Foremost among those few stood the dead mail's nephew — the rejected heir, his handsome face very pale and grave, the wind blowing back his dark hair as he stood liat in hand. Disinherited as he was, he was yet, generous enough to be sincerely sorry for the old man, his faole living relative, and hitherto his kindest friend. The funeral over, Mr. Bartram made no longer delay in the Southern city. There was nothing now to detain him there, and he was feverishly impatient to get back to New York, to love, to Leonie. He had heard f i om her but once — the briefest of brief notes, in answer to that first impas- sioned letter. She was sorry for his ill-fortune; she hoped his bright dreams of future greatness might be realized; she hoped his uncle might yet relent, and — that was all. There was no promise of fidelity, no word of love or cheer., no as- surance that she was ready to wait even one poor year. It closed coldly and abruptly, and ao other letter had fol* lowed it. Alwyn Bartram reached New York, and went to hie? Jodgings at once to change his dress, preparatory to calling* :ipon Miss De Montreiul. A pile of letters lay awaiting III lit. m m I* ! 1;^ ; - r'.r . ;. 1: »> . ■'1''' > /j;f.r »?"'■ -^ if 130 estella's husband. him — chiefly duns. Ill news flies apace, and already the tailor and the bootmaker, and the florist and tho jeweler, were sendiut; in their liiitlo reminders to the discarded heir. Some half dozen cards of invitation were there, too — one to a conversazione at Mrs. Leesom's for that very night. He flung the duns aside, in angry impatience, and began his evenmg toilet at once. ** * And the spoilers came down!' How soon the vult* ures alight on the dead carrioni It is no longer Mr. Bar- tram, the prospective heir to the Richmond stock-broker's wealth, but Alwyn Bartram, the impoverished artist, whom those gentlemen dun. I begin to And out the pleasantness of poverty very soon. I suppose I must give up these apart- ments with the rest," glancing around the elegant rooms, ** and play Sybarite no longer. It must be bread and poor beef, and an attic chamber, and a threadbare coat for the future. No more little suppers at Delmonico's; no more lunches at the Maison Doree; no more the opera, diamonds to give and to uear; no more party-going or a faultless taste in horseflesh. No more the old life — nothing but hard work for the next twelve months at least. Well, so that Leonie is true, that fate has no terrors for me. How strange she has not written — not one of my letters an- fTer^i Surely, she is ill or out of town!'' No; Miss De Montreuil was neither. Mr. Bartram dis- covered that, when, an hour later, he stood on Mrs. Man- ners's marble doorstep, she was well and still in town, but " not at home." He remembered afterward the odd look with which the servant regarded him as he said it, but he turned away carelessly, leaving his card. "It is only a question of an hour or two," he said to himself. ** She is certain to be at Mrs. Leesom's." But again he was disappointed. When, a few hours later, looking wonderfully handsome and interesting in his mourning, Mr. Bartram presented himself in Mrs. Lee- som's elegant drawing-room, he saw hosts of people he knew, but no Leonie. " She is always late; she will be here presently," he thought. The disinherited heir found that his story had preceded him, and was forced to listen to speeches of condolence light and left. Bat the handsome face was so infinitely V' !" istella's husband. 191 calm and serene that people began to think their condo- lences a little out of place. His placid countenance only clouded for the first time when midnight came and his black-eyed enchantress still appeared not to light up the rooms with her beauty. " How very late Miss De Montreuil is to-night!" he said, carelessly, to Clara Leesom. ** And yet one invariably finds her here." Miss Leesom turned suddenly round upon him, with a broad stare. *'What!" she exclaimed. *' Is it really possible you don't know? Why, 1 thought of all people — " She stopped abruptly, coloring a little. A dull, quick pang of apprehension shot through the heart of the lover. He was right, then. Something had befallen his idol. ** Nothing has happened, 1 trust?" he said, fixing his eyes, with a powerful glance, upon the young lady's em- barrassed face. '* Miss De Montreuil is well? " Perfectly well, I believe; only — Is it really possible, Mr. Bartram, that you have not heard?" His heart was plunging like a frantic courser against his side, and his voice was not quite under his control. ** I have heard nothing. Remember, 1 have but just returned to the city, within the past few hours. I called upon Miss De Montreuil, but she was not at home." "Ah!" Clara Leesom said, and there was a world of meaning in the brief ejaculation. " Miss De Montreuil is invisible to most of her friends just now. And you really do not know? Yoii, of all people! How very odd! I took it for granted every one knew it." ** Knew what ? For Heaven's sake. Miss Leesom, what do you mean? Surely, surely," as a horrible pang of doubt shot through him, " she has not gone back to France?" The young lady laughed. ** Oh, dear, no! quite the reverse. She is a fixture in New York now, I fancy. Mademoiselle Leonie is not here to-night because one has no time for society the week be- fore one is married." " Married!" "Certainly, monsieur," gayly. **0n Thursday next we will have the grandest wedding of the season. Grace Church will be crowded to see the bride — undisputably the pi ill Hi' ■■ii 18X^ estella's eusband. handsomest of tho year. And so you did not know? Yoq really oaoie here ex|Mcting to see her? i£'./>traordinary!** Miss Leesoni settled her bracelets, with a light laugh^ and glanced sidelong up at her compunion. Truth to tell, she was not sorry to shoot a Parthian arrow or two at this handsome target, who had so often utterly overlooked her- self for the fairer Leouie. If she had ever felt a jealous pang, she was amply avenged now. The face of the young artist had turned to a dull, dead white. *' Married!*' he repeated, the word dropping mechan- ically from his lips. '* Married! and to whom?" *' Oh, Mr. Rutherford, of course — the best parti in the market. You see, Mr. Bartram, Miss I)e Montreuil is an eminently sensible young lady, and, to be a little vulgar, knows on which side her bread is buttered. Mr. Ruther- ford is rather a determined old gentleman, and when he proposed, rumor says, it was after the fashion of the lady m the Irish song — * Take me when Fm in the humor, and that's just now.* Miss Leonie's coquetry would not do here. It was * take me or leave me, and decide at once.' So she decided, of course — who could say ' No ' to a million- aire? — and on Thursday next they are to be married. I am so surprised you have not heard it; it is tho talk of the city. They say the trousseau is one of unparalleled mag- nificence, and the Rutherford mansion, up the avenue, is being refurnished in a style of princely splendor. Mr. Mamies gives the bride away, and there are to be nine bride-maids — myself among the j nber. The happy pair go to the cottage in the Highlands for the honey-moon. The marriage has been hurried on preposterously, I think; but old men are so impatient, and Leonie seems to yield to all his whims with a docility one would never expect from her. At eleven o'clock, next Thursday morning the cere- mony will take place. Of course you will make one of the bridal guests. You and Leonie were always such friends." A second sidelong look of feminine spite and triumph. Miss Leesom's vengeance was complete. He had heard every word — every cruel, pitiless word — of this chatter. And this was the reason of the unanswered letters — of iJeonie's dead silence. False! But his white face told little. Even his voice, when he spoke — and it seemed to him he paused for an hour or two before finding it — was but slightly changed. liiih £6TELLA S UUSltAM). 139 ** This is all news to mo. As yoa say. Miss Leesom, it 18 most extraordinary some of my many friends did not im- Sart tho aj^reeablo intelligence sooner. And so Leonio J)e [ontreiiil id to bo married to old Rutherford, and next Thursday is the day? 1 shall not fail to be at tho wedding. Permit me." He led her to a seat, dropped her arm without a word of «xcuse or apology, and walked straight out of the house. He forgot to go to the cloak-room for his overcoat, and tho November night was windy and cold. But he never felt it. He walked straight on, whither he knew not, through the deserted city streets, his face set, his eyes fixed, his hand clinched. On and on; streets, streets, streets; homeless women flitting by him like dark phantoms; drunken men reeling on their way; policemen straggling along their beats. Overhead sparkled the frosty stars and the keen, yellow moon — the ceaseless watchers in heaven. He neither felt, nor saw, nor heard, nor suffered — he was merely stunned. It was morning. The sun rose over the stony streets — those noisy, terrible streets of New York — and found him miles from home. With the new life of the new day, his stupor, his walking dream, ended. He realized and remembered all. He was worn out; and despairing lovers must eat and sl«^ep, although hearts be shattered and heads be reeling. Leonie De Montreuil was false, but Alwyn Bartram must go home and go to bed, and eat his breakfast presently, despite his bleeding wounds. He hailed a passing stage, and was rattled down Broad- way. At his hotel, he got out, went up to his own room, and flung himself, dressed as he was, upon the bed, worn out in body and mind. And sleep, the consoler, took him as a mother might her tired child, and in ten minutes all earthly troubles were ended, and he was wrapped in blessed Elysium. It was long past noon ere the young man awoke. As he opened his eyes and started up, memory came back like a sword- thrust, and told him all. False! false! false! his golden idol potter's clay — cruel, heartless, mercenary! On Thursday next to be married to old Hutherford, and this was Saturday morning. " I will see her!'* he said, setting his te»th hard. ** From her own lipg I will hear how false, and selfish, and cold- I!, II' 1(1 (I II . Il> < I?' piffivi'J ii ;«." 134 estella's husbanl blooded she can be! She shall see me face to face — she shall, by Heaven! — and then — " His face was absolutely livid, his hands clinched, his strong white teeth ground. ** And then/^ he thought, in the fierce wrath and bitter- ness of his heart, ** men have shot women they loved for less!" But, though Mr. Bartram might propose, it was for Miss De Montreuil to dispose. An hour after, when for the sec- ond time he presented himself at the Manners 's doorstep, the answer was " Not at home." Mr. Bartram glared at the servant in a ferocious way that made the trained understrapper recoil. ** Not at home! When will she be at home, pray?" ** Can't say, sir," impassively, but keeping the door be- tween them. '* Miss De Montreuil don't receive callers this week." " Then I wish to see Mrs. Manners." ** Not at home, sir." Again Mr. Bartram glared; again the tall footman re- coiled in alarm. It was plain enough the servant had received his orders. The troublesome lover was not to disturb the ante-nuptial serenity of the bride-elect ** Give Miss De Montreuil this when she is at home." He drew forth his card, and wrote rapidly on the reverse side: '' 1 must see you! 1 shall see you! 1 will call again to- morrow at ten." The man took it with a bow. The next instant the house door closed with a sonorous bang upon the rejected lover. Alwyn Bartram passed that night in a horrible fever of suspense, half the time pacing his room. Morning found him haggard, and hollow-eyed, and wretched. Ten o'clock, to the minute, saw him again at Mrs. Manners's door. ** Miss De Montreuil is engaged, and can see no ona She begs Mr. Bartram to excuse her." And, with the pitiless words, the door absulutely closed in bis face, leaving him, white and stunned, on the thres- hold. estella's husband. 135 Lanners s For fully five minutes he stood motionless; then, with a look on his face the heartless Leonie mi^t never forget had she seen it, he turned away. That was his last visit — the bride-elect was troubled no more. Immersed indiamoniis, point lace, orange-blossoms and white moire, there was little time left to think of her slaughtered victims; but at dead of night, in the quiet and darkness of her room, Alwyn Bar tram 'a face rose before her, pale and reproachful as a ghost. She had loved him — she did love him, never so well as now, when of her own free will she gave him up forever. ** What a wretch he must think me! what a wretch I am!" she thought, covering the beautiful, wickef't face with both hands. ** I promised to love and be true to him al- ways, and see how I keep my word!*' But the days went on. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and it was the ** night before the bridal." Up in the bride's '* maiden bower,*' all white and glistening lay spread the wedding paraphernalia. The parure of dia- monds and opals, pearls and turquoises fit for a queen lay blazing in their velvet nests — Mr. Ruthe /ford's princely gift. If remorse clutched at Leonie's heart, she had only to lift the lids of those dark caskets, and the sunbursts of splendor there hidden consoled her at once. Upon the bed, in all its white richness, shone the Paris- ian wedding-robe, the shining veil of priceless lace, the jeweled orange- wreath, the gloves, the slippers — pale as shimmering phantoms. And, in the midst of all this dazzle and snowy glitter, the bride walked up and down, clad in a loose dressing-gown, all her rich black hair unbound, the beautiful face white as her dress, the great, luminousne com- therer Was he waiting to waylay and murder Mr. Ruth- erford on his way home? He was just the kinil of man, this dark-eyed, hot-blooded, fierce-tempered lover of her» to do such a deed. She shivered convulsively, crouching there, the throbbing of her heart turning her deathly sick. Oh! what woultt happen to-night? Nothing happened. The house door opened; Mr. Ruth- erford came forth, and walked briskly up the avenue, and still the dark figure never stirred. It might have beea carved in 8t#ne, so motionless it stood. Mr. Rutherford fassed from sight — his home was but a few doors off — and jeonie breathed again. *' Thank Heaven!" she thought—** thank Heaven! It IB to watch my window, not to commit murder, he is there. My poor Alwyn! my poor, poor Alwyn! Will any one in this world ever love me again as you do?" The hours wore on, and still that strange vigil was kept. The despairing lover gazed at his lady's lattice, as hundreds of despairing lovers have done before him, and William. Rutherford's bride-elect watched him on her knees. Midnight came, passed, but he never stirred. Worn out at last, Leonie's head dropped forward on the window-sill, and she fell fast asleep. V *tF •!* •!• •!• •!• T» The fashionable Broadway church was crowded. Silks rustled and jewels flashed, and perfume filled the air as the elite flocked in. As Clara Leesom had said. Miss De Montreuil's wedding was to be the wedding of the season. The beauty of the bride, and the wealth of the bridegroom, were the talk of the citv. It was a clear case of buying and selling — every specta* tor there knew that; but society approves of this sort of thing, and society mustered strong to behold the bargain clinched. Long before the hour for the ceremony the stately church was filled. They came at last — the bridal train. Mr. Rutherford, red-faced, portly, vulgar, self-conscious as ever. But na one glanced twice at hi?n. A silver-shining vision swept up the carpeted aisle upon the arm of Mr. Manners— a vision of such dazzling beauty and splendor that society fairly caught its breath with speechless admiration. 'Hi': If' 1 1 <«!■ : ill ft i «fi 1^ if 138 ESTULLA'S HUSBAND. Pale as a lily, bnt lovely beyond comparo, in that exqni* site dress and yell, half hidden in the silvery cloud of laoe, the long lashes s^veeping the colorless cheeks. Miss De Mon- treuil floated by as Miss De Montreuil for the last time. Many a fair patrician bosom throbbed with bitterest envy as its owner gazed; many a masculine heart that shoulil have been better regulated quickened its beating as she went by. And standing near the door, half hidden by a marble pil- lar, was one whose dark face never moved a muscle as the radiant apparition flashed by. He was long past that — poor Alywn Bartram! What he had suffered, what he did suffer words are weak to tell; but the haggard face and hollow eyes betrayed little of the deathly bitterness and despair within. The organ pealed forth its grandest notes — the cere- mony began. Dead silence fell — you might have heard a pin drop. The solemn words were spoken; the marriage rite was over; William Rutherford and Leonie De Mon- treuil were man and wife until death should them part. The bridal cortege swept down the aisle and out. As the bride, leaning on her husband's arm, passed that mar- ble pillar, a tall young man stepped forwara, stood straight in their way, and looked her full in the face. She just repressed a cry, and no mora A specter in its grave-clothes could hardly have been more terrible to her then; no dead man, murdered by her cruel hand, could have looked at her with more passionately reproachful eyes. Then he stepped back and let them pass. The bridegroom's red face turned redder with sardonic triumph, and his fat, protruding under lip came out a little further. That was all; there was no scene; a very few noticed the young man at all. The carriages rattled away, bearing off the happy pair to their blissful honey-moon. The crowd dispersed, chat- tering volubly; the church was deserted and closed. And Alwyn Bartram stood alone in busy Broadway, with the garish sunshine everywhere, and the endless stream of life flowing by. Alone! Friends, future, love, all lost — poor and alone! Oh, little Estella! if you were wronged, surely your hour of vengeance had come I I M ESTELLA^S HUSBAND. 130 CHAPTER XVI. ON CHRISTMAS-EVE. CI tf And there is no hope, Doctor Sinclair?" ** While there is life there is hope. Miss Mallory." Helen Mallory turned round from the window with a gmile upon her pale face — a smile very sad to see. '* 1 think 1 know what that means — the old formula. Well, »^octor, I am glad I know my fate. I thank you for your candor. How long will this fleeting flame of life last?" ** Impossible to say with any certainty, my dear Miss Mallory. Life is sometimes prolonged indefinitely in these cases, sometimes goes out like the snuff of a candle. Let us hope you may have many years before you yet Don't distress yourself by dwelling upon what you have forced me to say. You may outlive the best of us." Again Helen Mallory smiled — that faint, melancholy smile. They were alone together — doctor and patient — in the pleasant drawing-room of the Chelsea home. " You are very good. Doctor Sinclair. 1 am not in the least distressed. I have few ties to bind me to life. I have long suspected my fate, and I have looked upon death before now with a quiet eye. 1 will not detain you longer. Permit me to thank you once more for your can- dor, and — gocd-morning!" The doctor departed. Helen sat down alone, her thin hands folded in her lap, her large, brown, melancholy eyes fixed on the quiet, sunlit street. ** So," she thought, with a strange calm, ** 1 know the worst — I am to die. Well, as I said, there are few ties "io bind me to earth. Death and the grave have little ter- ror for me, and yet — poor Estella — it is hard to leave her alone and unprotected in this big, bad world. There is Norah, of course; but I had hoped to see her in the safe shelter of a loving husband's arms. My poor little Essie! She, too, has been learning life's bitterness of late. 1 al- most wish Alwyn Bartram had never come here. I almost wish I had not written last week to ask him again. Is it you, Norah? Come in." ill' ■ ii tu I m lil m I I if* Ill 140 estella's husband. Thertj had been a rap at the door. It opened, and Korah entered, with three letters and a paper in her hand. **Poslmun'8 been, ma'am. 1 saw Doctor Sinclair go away. What does he say. Miss Helen?" She spoke abruptly, not looking at her »nistress. But Hek'ii's face was chaiigelessly calm. *' What I told you he would say, my good Norah. No earthly power can restore me to health. The fiat has gone forth — my days are numbered." *' These doctors know no more than other folks some- times," Norah said, harshly. '* I never had no great opinion of old Sinclair, either. Don't mind his croaking. Miss Helen. You will be better by the spring." *' I hope so, Norah," with a misty, far-away look in the beautiful eyes — *' free from pain forever. Ah! what is this? A letter from France — from the Count De Montreuil! Norah, where is Estella?" '* Out walking, as usual. The child will wear herself off her feet. Yesterday she went to Chelsea Beach, to look at her old friend, the sea, she said. I shouldn't wonder but what she's gone there again. ' ' But the mistress had not waited for the answer. She had torn open the large, official-looking seal, and was glancing eagerly over its contents. Norah waited near the door. "* What does he say. Miss Helen, please? He is not going to force away Miss Essie, surely?" ** He could hardly do that," Helen said, proudly. ** He can not take Estclla, unless Estella chooses to go. But he wants her — yes. lie is quite alone in the world now, he says — the possessor of immense wealth, and the highest position in the brilliant circles of Paris. A favorite ward, the daughter of a distant cousin, whom some years ago, he adopted as his heiress, has recently made a wealthy mar- riage, and left him doubly alone. He wishes most ardently for his daughter. He asks me if it is fair to let old jeal- ousies rankle between us, and keep Gaston De Montreuil's only child out of the lofty sphere in which he can place her. And, Norah, I begin to tliink it is not." " What!" exclaimed Nonih, tihrilly. ** You never mean to send the child away to that nasty foreigner — to that wicked, far-off city — among a pack of rubbishing French? You never mean to do it. Miss Helen!" estella's husband. 141 '' Norah, that * nasty foreigner ' is the child's father/' " And what if he is? A pretty father l>e^ll be to her! A pretty husband he was to his wife! Don't you do it. Miss Helen, or you'll repent it ull your life, and break the poor dear's heart, besides. She's lonesome enough, and dismal enough, ever since that young man left lus^ September without thai. Drat the men!" cried Norah, with a vicious glare; " they're all alike." Miss Mallory smiled, but the smile ended in a sigh. ** They make mischief wherever they go — don't they, Norah? Let us thank our lucky stars that we, at least, hare escaped their clutches. Poor little Essie! It was all my fault, I am afraid, and she is so romantic, and Alwyn so handsome. Don't be too hard on him, Norah; he can't help that face of his, or all those winning ways, and he can't fall in love with our little girl and marry her, just to please two sentimental, match-making old maids. Here is a note from him, accepting my invitation to come and spend Christmas with us. Very good of him, is it not, to leave his gay life in New York, for our dull old Chelsea homestead?" Norah's answer was a contemptuous snort. " Better have let him stay — that's my opinion, Miss Helen; but it's likely you know best. He'll only make that child worse, with his wishy-washy picture-painting and piano-sfcrumming, and song-singing, and walking, and gadding. He'll make her worse than she is, and that's bad enough, goodness knows, and then he'll go off at New Year's, and we'll all have the mopes for a month. You can do as you like, but if 1 was mistress I'd no more let a man near the house than 1 would a fiery d ragon. There!" " Norah, hush!" cried her mistress, impetuously. " Listen to this." ^ She had torn open the third letter, and her thin cheeks flushed and her eyes kindled, as she read its few curt lines: •' Fisher's Folly, Nov. 2%th, 18—. " Miss Helen Mallory: Madame, — It is my painfui duty to announce to you the death of my friend and your nephew-in-law. Captain Roysten Darrell. The * Haven ' was wrecked off the coast of Bermuda, and all on board perished. I send you a paper containing a full account of the disaster. Mrs. H. D. is consequently a widow^ and h\". m \ A: if a nar- 9" I 142 estella's husband. when her wealthy father makes her his heiress^ 1 trust to her generosity and sense of justice to remember hand- somely the old man who was a parent to her for so many years. ** Very truly yours, ** Peter Fisher." "There, Norah!" exclaimed Helen, eagerly, **Estella is free!" '* Thank the Lord!" said Norah; " not that I thought she was anything hut free. Still, it's a great deal better he's drowned and out of the way; he can make her no trouble in the future. Don't sit up too long. Miss Helen, and don't tire yourself reading. Will 1 send Miss Essie to you when she comes in?" " Yes; I will remain here. How relieved the poor child will be at the thought of her freedom! The fear of this Roysten Darrell has been her waking nightmare all along." Norah quittejl the drawing-room, and descended to the kitchen, to prepare supper. The short December after- noon, with its pale, yellow sunshine, speedily darkened down, and the twilight lay grayly in the dull street when the area door opened and Ei^^ella came wearily in. She had sadly changed since the bright September. Her step was slow; he cheek was pale and thin; the glad, buoy- ant light was gone from the brown, beautiful eyes. She looked wan and weary as a tired spirit, coming in through the misty gloaming. ** At last. Miss Essie," Norah said, sharply. " 1 began to think you were lost. Where have you been all the afternoon, pray? Back to Chelsea Beach, I'll be bound." ** Yes," said Estella, listlessly. *' I like to go there. It is like gazing on the face of an old friend to sio and look on the sea. Where is Aunt Helen?" moving away. *'Up in her room?" " No; in the drawing-room, and waiting for you — and good news, too." " Good news!" Estella stopped short. ** Oh, Norah! is it from — from New York?" " From Mr. Alwyn Bartram?" said Norah, shortly. ** Yes, she's got a letter from him saying he's coming to spend Christmas, if you call that good news. 1 don't! I wish he was at the bottom of Boston Bay — there! Go bstella's husband. 143 aloDL with your I'm aggravated enough .iiout you standiDK staring!" Estella kuew testy Norah well enough not to mind these little ebullitions of temper. Her heart gave a great bound at the news she heard — that poor, foolish heart that loved thfe handsome painter so dearly. He was not married yet, then, else he had not accepted Aunt Helen's invitation. ** He is mourning for his uncle, no doubt," she thought, *' and must wait a little, it will come, all the same. Oh, what a foolish, foolish girl I am to feel like this, because 1 am going to see him once more — see him who does not care one straw for me! And he hiows I love him, and I shall never, never be ab^ > look him in the face again I" She ascended to the d .v ing-room, and found Aunt Helen still seated by the window, her letters and papers loose in her lap. She sat gazing dreamily out at the December twilight, lighted with sparkling, wintery stars. " In the dark, auntie?" Estella said, quietly. " Shall I light the gas?" Helen Mallory turned round to her niece with a bright, loving smile. *' Back, my dear? How tired you must be! Norah says you walk all the way to Chelsea Beach. Too far, my dear — too far!" ^* I am so strong, auntie," with a dreary little sigh; '* nothing hurts me. Norah told me you had good news for me — good news! What is it?" She had lighted the gas, and now stood removing her hat and mantle. Helen Mallory, for answer, placed Peter Fisher's letter in her hand. *' Bead that, my dear. Your bugbear will be your bug- bear no longer. You need never fear Roysten Darrell on this earth again." ^^Dead!" Estella said, her great eyes dilating. '* Drowned! how terrible! And yet—oh. Aunt Helen, is it right to be thankful at any fellow-creature's death?" ** Let us forget him, my dear; let us only remember he can never persecute you more. You are free from his machinations forever — free to marry whomsoever you please. W ill you read Al wyn Bartram s note. He is com* ing to s{)end Christmas." The girl's pale face flushed. She took the note and ma l> .1 ' V: 1 iv - ^ • - w I If m ii\ 144 bstella's husband. m' m\ over the brief contents. Very brief — only two or three lines to say he would come. She did not give it back when she had finished; she crushed it m her hand, and kept it there. '* And here is a third letter from your father/' Helen said — ** the most important letter of the three. Essie, my dear, ho wants his daughter very much." " Does he?" very coldly. '' Well, he can not have her." " My dear, sit down and let us talk it over. My feelings have changed, Estella, toward the man who wronged my sister. We must forgive, as we hope to be forgiven. And, after all, no one alive has the claim upon you he has — your father." " A father 1 have never seen — whom I never want to eee. Aunt Helen what have I done that you wish to be rid of me? to send me to this strange man? ■* Essie dear, you know better than that — you know 1 could not part with my little ^irl if I tried. It is not that I wish to send you away — it is that I must leave you, and ▼ery soon." ** Leave me. Aunt Helen?" ** Dear child — ^yes. Doctor Sinclair was here this after- noon while you were out, and what 1 have lon^ suspected will come true. You know what I mean, Essie. I have spoken to you of this before. Death will part us, and very soon." ** Auntie, auntie — don't! 1 can't bear it I" She could say no more. The quick tears of sixteen started and choked her voice; Helen Mallory's own eyes were humid. " I don't say this to distress you, my pet — only to show how soon we must part. And I can not leave you alone with only Norah for a protector; therefore, when I go, 1 think — I really think, Estella, you must return to your father. 1 had hoped — but I am only a foolish, sentimen- tal woman, and that hope is past." Estella lifted her hand and kissed it. No need of words to tell what that past hope had been. ** 1 will write to your father in the course of a few weeks, my dear, and tell him all. When 1 am gone — my child, my child, be calm — he will come for you, and take you to sunny France, where my Eslella will reign en I ! estella's husband. I4d princisse. But while 1 live, my dear, we will never part. Let us talk of this no more; let us wait and trust in the good God not to separate us too soon. Come, dear child: Norah will be waiting supper. " The subject was dropped; not one of the three spoke of it again, but on every heart the thought of the coming parting lay like lead. " I can not reconcile myself to let her go to her father,** Helen Mallory thought. '* Oh, why could not Alwyn love her and marry hor — my pretty Essie? Whv must things go so crooked that might be straight? My fortune would render him independent of his profession and his uncle, and she would make him such a dear little, loving wife. 1 should have nothing left to desire, if 1 could only see her his wife. ** The December days wore on. Life went very quietly in that dull old house with only those three women. Alwyn Bartram's coming was the only event likely to disturb the stagnant current of their slow lives. To Estella fell the pleasant task of preparing his room — and oh, what pains the girl took to beautify and adorn that sacred chamberl The books he had read, the pictures he liked, the colors he preferred, the flowers that were his favorites, all found their way there. Brightly burned the fire on his hearth-stone, and Estella's Christmas-gifts— biippers, dressing-gown and smokiug-cap, all her own handiwork — lay awaiting the coming of the dark-eyed hero. He came at last — a week before Christmas — late in the evening of a snowy, windy day. A cab rattled up to the door — trunks and valises were taken off, and Mr. Bartram himself, in furred cap, and long, picturesque cloak, sprung out and rang the bell. Estella saw him from the drawing-room window, where ihe had hidden behind the curtain, and her heart throbbed at the sight of that tall, graceful form, as though it would burst its way and fly to him. Another instant, and she heard his voice in the hall greeting Norah and Aunt Helen — that dear voice, the sweetest music earth ever held for her! Another, and he would be before her in the draw- ing-room. A sudden paroxysm of girlish fear seized her; she fled incontinently up to her own room. " How shall I meet him?' ' she thought, hiding: her bom- !■' Pi- I i I 1; 'J" 'm m \ i{ ■!»« I 1 M t ir I'.i i m 140 estella's husband. ing face in hor hands. ** Oh, how shall 1 meet him, when I love him so dearly — so dearly — and ho Itnows it?" Sho heard him pass into his apartment — she heard Aunt nelen give him naif an hour to change his dress before dinner. *' We dine late, out of compliment to you, Alwyn,'* Miss Mallory said. *' You are accustomed to late hours, of course; so don't spoil Norah's temper and broiled birds by keeping us waiting. How do you like your room? Estolla arranged it." " It is perfect! Mademoiselle's taste is exquisite. Where is she, pray?" " In her room. Don't stand talking! Beautify your- self, and come down. *' Miss Mallory descended. Estella went over to the mirror ior a parting peep. How would he think her looking? she wondered. She had taken such pains with her toilet; she wore all the colors he had told her she should wear, and the mirror certainly reflected back a bright little image. The silk dress of brilliant bine set off the fair complexion and shining brown hair. The thin, pale cheeks were flushed, the yellow-brown eyes full of streaming light Yes, she was pretty; but the image of that pictured face arose before her — the darkly beautiful face of Leonie — and she turned way in cold despair. ** What does it matter?" she thought, bitterly; " what does it signify whether I look well or ill? He will never glance at me twice!" She went down to the drawing-room, and, seating her- self at the piano, began to play softly in the fire-light She had a natural talent for music, and already her sing- ing and playing were the pride of Helen's heart That fond protector looked at her now with kindling eyes. ** How pretty she is! how pretty — how pretty!" she said, to herself. ** Surely, Alwyn Bartram must be stone- blind if he does not admire my brown-eyed darling. Only, unhappily, admiration is not love. " Alwyn" Bartram entered as the fancy crossed her uijik:, and walking over to the piano, held out his hand to Es- tella. ** We meet sooner than we thought la&L September, Misf^' Essie/' he said. * ' Tell me you are glad to see me agaiiL- " » estella's husband. 147 She laid her hand in his, her lingers turning cold in his grasp — her voioe quite gone. She tried to say something, but only an inarticulate murmur came. Norah appeared to the rtauue. ** Dinner, Miss Helen'/' throwing open the drawing- room door, sharply; " and everything getting cold.'* Mr. Bartram drew Estella's hund within his arm, and followed Miss Mallory to the dining-room. Here the gas bhized down upon the antique silver and china, and here, for the first time, the female triad had a full view of their guest. ** Alwyn,"Mi8s Mallory said, hurriedly, *' have you been ill?" For the dark face looked haggard and worn, the cheeks sunken, the large eyes hollow, and deep lines that only time or trouble can plow furrowed the smooth, broad forehead. ** He's got ten years older since last September!" cried Norah. ** lie looks like a man just out of a sick-bed. " Estella's great brown eyes fixed themselves in wordless inquiry upon the handsome, altered face. She, too, saw the change. Alwyn Bartram laughed, but the laugh sounded hollow and mirthless, and a fierce flash shot from his somber eyes. ** Sick?" he said. ** No, I am never sick. 1 have been working hard — that is all. I have to labor for my daily bread now, you know. Helen, never mind my haggard looks — a week in old Chelsea will set me up again." ** Can it be the loss of his uncle's wealth?" thought Helen. ** He is in debt, no doubt — young men are always in debt. Something is certainly wrong. Ah, if he would only marry Estella, and take my fortune, how gladly I would resign it! If 1 could only summon courage to speak." *' Can that beautiful lady have deserted him?" tiiought Estella, stumbling unconsciously upon the truth. " Some great trouble has surely come to him. But, no! No lady alive could prove false to liim /" '* He's bilious," thought Nora; *' your dark, thin people are always bilious, and, I dare say, if the truth was known, he drinks more that is good for him. Young men always do; and they sit up all night playing cards and going ta parties. He's bilious — that's what't the matter." I» ;..( I ' 1 iUJ- l!«|.'fl f'v :!■!; li i!.l 148 estella's husband. So each had her own theory, but no one spoke. There was that iu the rigid compression of his mustached mouth, in the fiery gleam of his nollow eyes that warned them his altered looks was dangerous ground. He eat and drank, he talked and laughed; but the appetite for Norah's dain- ties was forced, and the talk and the laughter had a forced and joyless sound. Helen Mallory watched her guest very closely, very silently, during the next three or four days. He had set up his easel iu his pretty room, and worked hard; and Helen had a fancy for taking her sewing and sitting by the sunlit window while he painted. Sometimes Estella came, too, but not often; she had her studies, her music, and dearly as she loved to be near him she yet shrunii from the gaze of those powerful dark eyes. Did he not know her secret? Must he not in his inmost heart despise her for her folly? And Alwyn Bartram smoked and painted, and the dark gravity of his face never wore away, and the smiles that answered Helen's were cold and fiittiug as starlight on snow. ** Alwyn." she said, tenderly, one evening, ** what does it all mean? Will you not tell the friend, who loves you almost as a mother might love, this great trouble of your life? It is not the loss of John Wylder's wealth — 1 know that." It had grown too dark to paint. They sat alone together in the December darkness, only the flickering light of the fading fire lighting the room. The young man's face, in the luminous dusk, looked cold and fixed as stone. She laid her hand upon him, and bent toward him. ** Alwyn, my boy, tell Heleu what it is. Who knows? she may be able to help you." " No one can help me, and 1 nerd no help," he answered, in a cold, measured voice. ** I hi ve been a fool, and have met a fool's punishment — that is all. 1 richly deserve what I have suffered — what I suffer still, I have been the most egregious idiot, Helen Mallory, that ever laid life, and heart, and soul at a woman's feet, to be trampled on at her pleasure!" ** A woman! Then I was right — it is not the loss of your 'nheritance, after all?" ** My inheritance? no — and yet, yes, for the loss of it has lost me all. It is an old story, Helen, and not worth ESTELLA S HLSHAIhD. 149 repeating — the old story of Delilah over again. I trusted, »nd have beeu betrayed; aud when a man has played the fool as long as 1 have, he can not become wise all in a moment. We'll not talk of it; deeper wounds than mine have been cauterized, and I richly deserved it all." Helen looked at him wistfully. ** My poor boy! if I could only console you! Oh, Alwyn, if you had only turned to the girl who loved you, not to the girl you love!" ** I love no one!'' he answered, sternly — '* no one! But I don't understand. Who is mad enougli, blind enough, to love me?** ** Alwyn, do you really need to ask that question?" There was silence. The winter twilight deepened and deepened; she could hardly see his face now. * I think I understand you," he said, slowly; *' I suppose you mean Estella. But you are mistaken ; she is only a child, and she cares for me as she does for Edgar Ravens- wood, or Earnest Maltravers, or Vivian Grey, or any other of her ideal heroes. She is a romantic child, and I am to her what they are — an image to dream of for a week or two, until a newer hero comes. Your little niece does not know what love means. " " 1 hope so," Helen said, quietly, repressing a sigh. " Perhaps you are right; and yet — oh, Alwyn! could you not care for her? She is pretty enough, surely." ** Too sweet and too pure for me. No, Helen; 1 have done with love and love-making forever. The lesson one false woman has taught me shall last me all my days. I would not darken our pretty Essie's young life if I could by linking it with mine. And, besides, how could you part with her? She is all you have. " '* We must part," replied Helen, ** and before long. I suppose it is the dread of leaving her alone and friendless that makes me speak. My fortune, Alwyn— -no princely one, it is true — would still have sufficed for you and her, even if Robert Bartram should turn up. It has been the dream of my life to see her your wife, but like most of my life-dreams, it seems doomed to disappointment. Look in my face, Alwyn, and read my fate there. Essie and 1 must part. At least you will be as a brother to her when 1 am i;one: V* : t I 1 1 r Mi* I 1 :3! i ... i !i ill ** Dear Helen^ could 1 be less? 1 have no words to tell 150 ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. you h»w sorry I Ahi, and yet I have suspected something of the kind this many a day. iStill^ let us hope the time of parting may be far off; some one more worthy of youp pretty niece than a jilted wretch like me may have wooed and won her long before. She cares nothing for me, and I would be a villain, indeed, if I tried to link her bright life to such a wreck as mine has become. Men's hearts don't break easily; but better men than 1 have gone head- long to perdition for less provocation than a false woman has given me. " Silence fell. Alwyn Bartram rose, after a time, and quitted the room. *' I will take a turn in the starlight and smoke a cigar before dinner," he said. ** Tell Norah not to fidget rll keep nobody waiting." And so it had ended. Holen Mallory got up with a long-drawn sigh and went slowly to her room. ** Like all the rest," she thought, bitterly; ** like every hope of my life — doomed to end in nothing." Kext day was Christmas-eve — bright, sparkling, frosty. All day long Estella flitted like a brown-eyed bird from room to room, decking them with wreaths and evergreens, and singing as she worked. She loved Alwyn Bartram, her dark-eyed, moody hero, very dearly, very hopelessly, but her heart was not quite broken, and possibly never would be. She could sing still — one can hope so much from young Eersons of sixteen. Helen was ill — an attack of nervous eadache that kept her confined to her room. Mr. Bartram was finishing his Christmas picture — a little German scene of Kriss Kringle — a pot-boiler, such as he had to paint and sell now to appease his relentless creditors. Norah, down in the kitchen, was immersed in her tur- keys, and mince pies, and plum pudding. The day went — the day whose one event was to alter the whole future lives of Alwyn and Estella. That event was the coming of the postman. It was already dark — the short December day — when the sharp ring echoed through the house. Estella ran to the door. There were a half a dozen letters for Alwyn Bartram. Her light tap made the artist drop his brush and open the door. estella's husband. 151 How pretty she looked! His lamp was lighted, and in its glow he could seethe flushed cheeks, the sparkling eyes, the smiling lips. How pretty she was! His artist's eye lighted as he saw her. '* Letters for you, Mr. Bartram." She dropped them in his extended hand, and was gone. The young man's face darkened into an impatient frown. Letters of late had been one of the most annoying events of his existence. " More duns," he thought, angrily. " The harpies will have their pound of flesh, do what I may. 1 work like a galley-slave, but I can not appease them." He tore open the bufi envelopes. Yes, duns — duns pa- thetic, duns eloquent, duns vituperative — five of them! To make the matter worse, they were debts contracted for faithless Leonie— the jeweler, the florist, the bookseller, etc. He set his teeth hard, and flung them one by one into the fire. The sixth was different — a gossiping letter from an artist friend. He took it up with sullen indifference, but soon he became absorbed heart and soul. *' There is little news," wrote his friend. " The city is quiet. The festive season drags on slowly enough. The one event of interest in our circle is the return of your old flame, the brilliant Leonie. I met them — Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford — last night, at the Lessom's, and she was too beautiful and too magnificent to tell. Some one spoke of you — mentioned ycu had gone heiress-hunting to the Hub, now that Uncle Wyider had failed you, and said we might look for a Mrs. Bartram — a three-bullion heiress— upon your return. You should have seen little Leonie's inso- lent smile, the triumphant light in her eyes, as she slowly iisped : * I think not! The greatest heiress in the United States could not tempt Alwyn Bartram now ! Poor fellow! the loss of his fortune was a sad blow. I suppose he is trying to conquer trouble by hard work. ' ** Confound the impertinent little monkey! It would have done me good to shake her there and then. Every one laughed — every one knew what she meant. By Jove! Bartram, it's a thousand pities you can't hunt up a Boston -1.1 U\- ■H'' IV, if ^•^ nil % If; at /;>m n ''3 -• ^!- \i'i ,: h \\' i|: Hi if 'I* ■ "1; !|l ^ n 1'' i ii.». In i.ki»3j 152 ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. hoiresS; and fetoh her back Mrs. A. B. It would be glori- ous revenge on the heartless little De Montreuil." Alwyn Bar tram read no more. His face had turned white and rigid with suppressed passion, his black eyes glowed like coals of lire. A moment he sat, h>s teeth locked, ^iia hands clinched in a paroxysm of rage not the less deep and deadly because still. Then he started to his feet. ^^Itvill!** he hissed — literally hissed. "It is not to* late yet for revenge!'' In another minute ho stood knocking at Helen Mallory's door. She opened it herself, pale and worn-looking, still wearing her loose morning-robe. Only the shadowy fire- light lighted her room; she could hardly see her visitor's face. ** Helen," he said, in a voice strangely hard and cold, *' I have been thinking over what you said to me last evening. I have changed my mind. I am going to ask Estella to be my wife." "Alwyn!" She could just gasp the name — no more. ** She is in the drawing-room, no doubt. I hear the Eiano. I have your best wishes, have I not? If I can win er consent, I will marry her before the New Year begins." Estella sat alone at the piano, playing and singing softly, in the December dusk. The light of the rising moon streamed in white and chill, and lay in squares of luster upon the carpet and upon her ringeleted head. She was dressed for dinner — in bright rose-hued merino, with ribbons fluttering and jewels sparkling about her, and her song was a plaintive little love chant: " Soft and low I breathe my passion." The door opened hastily; some one strode quickly in. She looked up, thankful that the wintery twilight hid her flushing face, her heart beginning to throb as it always throbbed when the hero of her life came. A moment and he was bending above her <]s he had never bent before. ** Go on, Essie," he said; '* finish your song." *' It is finished. I hardly knew 1 was singing- I was only trying to pass the interval between dressijig and din- \- estella's husband. 153 ner. It is dinner-time, is it not? And Aunt Helen — has she sent you for me?" ** Aunt Helen is not coming down, I think. I saw her a moment ago at the door of her room, and she was not dressed. I am afraid she is ill.'' **111!'' Estella roso up in quick alarm. ** Oh, Mr. Bartram, what is it? You know the doctor said — Oh, I must go to her at once!" He laid his hand upon her shoulder, and gently held her back. ** One instant, Essie— only one, and you shall. She is waiting for you. She knows why I have come here. She knows I have come to ask you to be my wife I" CHAPTER XVII. A WEIRD WEDDING. The murder was out — blurted abruptly enough. The words were plain. Heaven knows, but the girl stood like one who does not understand, staring with wild, brown eyes. '* Do you hear me, Essie? To ask you to be my wifel I have Aunt Helen's best wishes and consent. Have I also yours?" The words were very gentle, the voice low and soft, but underneath there was a hard intonation, a cold, metallic ring. In the moment of asking, he despised himself. It was the first mean and cowardly action of his life. ** Speak, Estella," he said, impatiently — ** speak and tell me! Will you marry me? Will you be my wife?" " Your wife?" She gasi)ed the words. Then she stopped. A flood of celestial bliss seemed suddenly to fill her heart. Oh, was she dreaming, or did earth hold such rapture for her? ** My wife, Essie — mine, your whole life long! I will do my best to make you happy. You shall never regret it, if it is in my power. I am not a good man, but I will do my best, by and by, to become worthy my dear little bride. Essie, Essie! is it to be yes or no?" He bent above her; he tried to see her face. The mo» mentary excitement of love-making, like the excitement of '■Ol :1t' 'SI ■' ■A \ Mil 'ii t &' If . mm 154 estella's husband. gambling or horse-raoing, had carried him away for th« time being, and he was really in earnest. He wanted EstelU to say yes now. But Estella had covered her face \, 1th both hands, and sat trembling from head to foot. "Estella! Estella!" he exclaimed, bitterly, ** you tool And 1 thought you cared for me a little.'' At that cry, selfish and empty as it was, her hands dropped. She lifted one of his, and kissed it passionately. " 1 love you with all my heart," she said, with something that was almost a sob. ** 1 have loved you from the first Oh, Alwyn, do you mean it? Can you care for me?" ** Very much, my dear little girl," he answered, with the sharpest pang of humiliation and self-reproach he had ever felt in his life. " It is not so difficult a matter. And you will really be my wife?" "If you wish it." He drew her to him, and kissed the white, pure brow with remorseful tenderness. " I wish it more than anything else on earth just now. And so you really love me, my poor little Essie? ** With my whole heart." He held her in silence, his own heart full of passionate bitterness and remorse. What a wretch he was — what a mean, despicable wretch — in his own eyes! The girl s happ^ face lay hidden on his shoulder — the face of this girl who loved him — where so often the false, beautiful face of Leonie had lain. " Cheat and hypocrite that I am!" he thought; ** and this poor child really loved me from the first! It must atone — it shall atone! I will devote my life to her! I will make her happy if I can!" He lifted the drooping face, all rosy with blushes, and looked at it. Even in the dusk he could see it radiant — glorified with new-born bliss, rosy with luminous light " My pretty little Essie! my bright little fireside fairy! And when is it to be?" " What ?" in the shyest of happy whispers. "Our wedding-day." She gave a little hysterical laugh, and the roseate face hid itself again. " I— 1 don't know. Whenever you and Aunt Helen like." estella's huspand. 155 Alwyn Bartram laughed— for the first time, perhaps, since Leonie De MontreuiFs wedding-day. ** You good little girl! it shall be very soon, if it depends on me. Why not oefore 1 return to New York, nexl month?" She did not speak. Literally she could not. The flood- tides of bliss were too high; her sudden happiness was too great for words. ** Run away and ask Aunt Helen,'* he said, opening his arms and letting her go. " It must be as she says; only coax her, Essie, to name an early day." She flitted from his embrace — out of the room and up- stairs — with winged feet. " Oh, in all this wide world,*' thought rapturous sixteen, " is there such another happy girl as I?** Alwyn Bartram, left alone, leaned moodily against the mantel and stared in the fire. He had done it, then. He had followed Mrs. Rutherford's br'Uiant example, humbly and afar off, and *' bettered himself." He had won a wife and an heiress. The harassing duns, those barking curs, could be muzzled now, as soon as he pleased, and Mrs. Rutherford would see that her victim was not quite so much her victim as she thought. His revenge was complete; he could pay her back at last in her own coin. " For she did love me," he said, setting his teeth; ** she does love me, as much as it is in that cold, selfish, mer- cenary heart of hers to love. She does love me, and she shall meet my wife face to face, and every pang she has made me endure she shall endure in return threefold!" It was the hour of his triumph, and yet — oh, words are weak and poor to tell the bitter self-scorn and loathing that filled his heart! What a pitiful part he was playing — what a pitiful, spiteful part! What a false, deceitful traitor he was to those two women — the only two in the wide eartk who really cared for him! ** They love you," his reproachful conscience said, '* and see how you ropay their love!" He started up and began to pace hurriedly to and fra In all the passionate misery of his undisciplined heart he had never felt as he felt this moment. '* And she loves me," ho thought, bitterly, ** and she has told me so. I would be the basest villain on earth to \i\' !}'■:: f V t ■ 1+ I 1 '«•. i- i\ w 156 estella's husband. Kit m w 'If] II um m ! " M (.11 III if retract now. If it can add one iota to her happiness to be my wife, my wife she shall be!" A shrill scream answered him. Flying feet came down the stairs — the door was flung open. Pale and wild, Es- tella stood before him. ** She is dead!" she cried. ** She is lying on the floor like a stone! Ob, Mr. Bartram, cornel" She sped away like the wind. The young man followed her at once; bv intuition he understood all. He followed Ther upstairs to Helen Mallory 's room. Thert on the floor lay Helen face downward, white as death, still fts death, and almost as cold. ** Ring for Norah," he said, hurriedly. ** I will go for the doctor at once. " He lifted the light form and laid it upon the bed. She had slipped from her chair, and never moved after she felL Estella rang a sharp peal, and then lighted the gas. A flood of light fell full upon the marble face. "She is not dead,*' Alwyn said, ashen pale himself. ** It's only a death-like faint. Tell me where Doctor Sin- clair lives; I will go directly." It was Norah who told him. Estella had fallen upon her knees by the bedside in a wild outburst of passionate weeping. He hurried from the room and house at once, his own plans dissolving in thin air before the awful presence of death. Yes, death! Dr. Sinclair bent above the rigid form, half jkXi hour later, with a face of dark, ominous gravity. ** She will never rise from this bed," he said, solemnly. " Ti:is death-like swoon is the beginning of the end. She may Jive to see the new year dawn; she will never live be- yond it. 1 feared this, but not so terribly soon. I warned her, and she knew her fate." The physician applied restoratives for a weary while m. vain; but the large, sad eyes opened at last, the white lips wreathed themselves in the old, gentle smile. " What is it?" she asked. ** Am I ill?" Their faces answered her. The sound of suppressed sob- bing came from the foot of the bed. The soft, dark eyes turned tenderly upon Estella. ** It has come very soon," she whispered to the doctor. ESTELLA S HUSBAND. 167 with her mournful smile — ** sooner than we thought, my old friend. How long before the end?'* " My dear Miss Mallory — *' '* Tell me the truth, Doctor Sinclair, if you are my friend I J can bear it, and 1 most know. How many days —how many hours?" '* You will live to see the new year, I hope." " So long? That is well. 1 will have the desire of my heart, then, before I go. Alwyn,*' she held out her hand feebly, her smile at its brightest, '* the last thing I remem- ber is something very pleaspnt — something you told me — something I have longed ardently to hear. Surely it was not a droam?'^ He kissed the slender hand with eyes that grew diu. ** It was no dream, dearest Helen. Estella will be my wife.'' " i am so glad — so glad! I can die in peace now, Al- wyn. Oh, my boy! she did love you, did she not?" " She is an angel, and 1 am — " He stopped short. *' But 1 will become worthy of her — she shall bo liappy. I Bwear it by your dying bed, Helen!" he cried, with sudden passion. That oath! Could he have seen the future — could he have known how awfully it was destined to be broken — how terribly it would haunt him in the days to come! That impetuous oath! And, if he had loved her, what need to swear at all? ** I can die happy," Helen murmured. ** My darling will no longer be friendless and alone. And before I go, Alwyn, I must see hei your wife. By my death-bed she shall become yours forever. I will have nothing left on •arth to wish for then. " *' Miss Mallory is talking too much," Dr. Sinclair said, sharply. " I can't allow it. She must drink this, and go to F)eep." He had not heard a word — neither had Estella. The young man retreated as the physician advanced, cup in nand. ** You will sleep after this. Don't excite yourself — don't talk. 1 will not be answerable for the consequences. " She took it like a child, and closed her eyes, with a iMig, satisfied sigh. I -K ■,- I r ( ■}^ I . if ir t^ i58 E.STKLLA's IIUSIJAND. m hi ** I am tired/' she said. " I will sleep. Tell Estella to sit by me until 1 awake/' And then the brown eyes closed, and, with her darling's hand in hers, she driftoJ away into dreamland. No one went to bi d that night. Through its long, cold hours, they sat beside her — Estella and Norah — and Al- wyu Bartram paced the corridor outside, lie could never retract now — the half-formed resolution he had made down- stairs to draw back from this loveless marriage could never be carried out. It was too late. Estella loved him, and hi«d told him so. He would bo a villain, indeed, to tell her the truth after that. And the glad light in Helen's dy- ing eyes! No; it was too late — too late! What Alwyn Bartram suffered that night, in his self- scorn and humiliation, was known only to Heaven and himself. Morning came — Christmas-day, with brightest sunshine and clajging bells. But the jubilant sunshine was shut out of that sick-room, and, in its dusky light, the face of the sick woman looked hardly whiter than that of the pale girl who bent above her. *' You must go to bed, Essie," Mr. Bartram said, au- thoritatively, coming in, *' or we will have two patients be- fore the day ends. You are as white as the snow-drifts outside." The wonderful brown eyes lifted themselves to his face with a look of inexpressible love. How sweet it was to be cared for by him! She rose at once to go. ' * And I have been talking to her for the last two hours to go to bed, and all in vain," grumbled Norah; *' and one word from him does it. Drat the men! He's got her be- witched, like all the rest." Mr. Birtram swallowed a cup of coffee, snatched a couple of hours sleep, had his morning walk and smoke, and went on with his painting. He was no use in the sick-room, and he must work to drown reflection. ** ' Men must work, and women must weep,' " he said to himself as he took up his brush. '* 1 thought the race of women who weep was extinct until I came here. Poor Helen, and poor Estella! How will it all end, I wonder?" How, indeed? Could he only have foreseen! But that merciful veil that shrouds the future was down, and h© went on blindfold to his fate. !;f E8TELLA S HU8KAND. 159 Later, that day. Miss Mallory sent for her lavryer, and made her will. All went to Alwyn Bar tram. Estella would have it so when stie was consulted. " Let it till bo his, dear Aunt Helen," she said, hiding her happy face in the pillow — ** let me owe everything to him. Oh, what is the wealth of the world in comparison to his love?'' And so the will was made, and signed, and sealed. The lawyer departed, taking it with him, and aunt and niec« were alone in the Christmas twilight. *' And you are happy at last, my Essie?" the elder lady said, fondly caressing her beloved one's hand. '* Thank Heaven for that!" *' Too happy for words to tell," Estella answered, almost with a sob. *' I never thought he could care for me. It seems wicked and heartless to be happy now, but, ohi Aunt Helen, I love him so dearly — so dearly I" " Thank Heaven!" Aunt Helen repeated; '*beashappy as you can, my darling; shed no tears for me. Ab! my life has been loveless and lonely — 1 am not sorry to go. But, Essie, what of the past — your father — your — 1 mean Eoysten Darrell? Shall we tell him all?" " Whatever you please. Aunt Helen." There was a pause. *' Tht.. 1 think not," Helen Mallory said. " I shrink from repeating the troubles of your life, and 1 know how acutely sensitive he is. And why need he know? The Count de Montreuil is nothing to you — never need be now. He and Alwyn Bartram's wife may meet face to face in the future, and never know each other. Let him and his wealth go — that wealth which broke your poor mother's heart, and left her to die in misery and loneliness. And for Roysten Darrell, he is dead, and will never trouble you more. To Peter Fisher 1 will send a sum sufficient to sat- isfy him and silence him forever. Let by-gones be by-gones — Alwyn will be none the happier for knowing the miseries of your past life. If in the future you feel inclined to tell him yourself, do so; but my hours on earth are numbered. I want to pass them in peace — I can't go over the old ground. Unless he asks for your past life, we will bury it in oblivion. " " Whatever you like," Estella said, submissiyely; ** you know best." !(! T ^1. i' .'in ■ ; I V i il'LLiJ m 160 ESTELLA'S HUSBAND. And SO, with fatal sophistry, the past was hidden, and the story which, if told, might have saved them so many years of sorrow and parting was not told to Alwyn liar- tram. The days of that Christmas week went by, each one bringing the fatal end nearer and nearer. There was no time for love-making now; the awful presence of death filled every room in the house, darkened the very air. Helen Mallory was dying — they counted her life by hours now, not by days. ** You will marry Estella on New Year's-eve, Alwyn?" she said, wearily. ** I am going with the old year. I can hardly hope for more than to see the new year dawn, and I can not die until my darling is your wife.'* ** Whenever you please, Helen," the young man an- swered, very gravely. ** The sooner the better — since it must be," was his silent conclusion, with a groan. Estella *s preparations were few — there was no time, and less inclination, this mournful Christmas week. And yet she was happy, unutterably happy, though the aunt she loved lay dymg. The stronger love conquered the weaker — her heart was full of inexpressible bliss, despite the ter- rible shadow of Death. It came — New Year's-eve — Estella's wedding-day. Her second wedding-day — she remembered that with a sharp pang of terror and remorse. ** I wish Aunt Helen had told him," she thought. '* What would he say if he knew of Roysten Darrell?" The day dawned dull and leaden — no glimmer of sun- shine in sky or earth. A wailing wind sobbed round the gables, and drove the snow in wild drifts before it. As the afternoon wore on, the threatening rain began lo fall, freezing as it fell, anl lashing the windows in slee. and hail. A bad, black day, cold and tempestuous, dark and dreary. The dying woman shuddered as she listened to the raging of the storm. '* And I had hoped for sunshine and brightness on this last day," she thought, trying to shut out the eerie cries of the winter wind — '* my darling's wedding-day. What if it should be omnious? What if it should be prophetic of the future, after all?" She turned suddenly, and looked trM at the bridegroom. He sat beside her, alone, looking very little like a bride' JSTELLa'8 HUSTlANn. Ibl groom, his dark face set, and stern, and smilelebs as the January sky without. ** Oh, Alwyn, toll me!'* she cried, in shrill affright, ** you do love Estolla, do you not? You will cherish and protect her when I am gone?" Alwyn Bartram's pule face turned a shade paler. ** If 1 can,'* he slowly said. *' Truly and faithfully; Helen, 1 promise you to do my best to make her happy. Rest in peace; 1 will keep my marriage vow.** *' She is so friendless, so utterly alone. Oh, my poor little Essie! She will have no one in the wide ';oHd but you. And she loves you, Alwyn; no one on this earth will ever love you as well. ** No, surely not. To be twice loved so passionately, so unselfishly, rarely falls to the lot of one life- time. Up in her room the bride was dressing for her second bridal — this bride of sixteen — with Norah standing by to assist. But the simple toilet was easily made, and the de- mands upon Norah were few. Very sullen and overcast looked the face of Helen Mallory*s old servant. To her this hasty marriage was the maddest of all mad acts. " He doesn't care for her,** Norah said to herself. *' Pretty as she is, and good as she is, he doesn't care for her. What, then, is he marrying her for?** Very pretty Eatella looked to-night — very pretty, very pale. Her gauzy robe floated pure and white around her; a pearl necklace encircled the slender throat; a white rose nestled among the brown curls — and that was all. No costly veil, no orange-blossoms, no train of bride-maids; jind few brides ever looked fairer, sweeter, purer, on their bridal night. •' Will I do, Norah?*' She turned from the glass, a faint smile lighting her pale face — fair as a lily. '* You might do for a king. Miss Essie, let *vlone a pen- niless painter,** Norah answert*!, brusquely. ** You re a million times too good for that black-a-vised ^oung man. Why you and Miss Helen come *o set such sto>e by him, I don't see. I never took to him . nd 1 never w* I. There!** *' Norah!** utter horror in Eace and eyes at this h\^^ phemy. '* I don*t care!** said Norah, folding her arms. ** ItV the truth, and I should burst if 1 didn't tell it 1 don*t 'I I' I Hi Mi : I .li J63 estella's husband. if S 1 * V ti:' k " ■ -i! , il believe in this marriage, done up in a hurry, and I donH believe in him f There! it's after ten; if you're ready, *Jome down. " She opened the door and flung out in a temper. On ^he landing stood the bridegroom waiting, pale as the bride herself. '* Is she ready?" he asked. ** Miss Mallory grows im- patient, and the clergyman is down-stairs." Estella answered for herself. She came forward, lio: heart throbbing so fast and hard that she felt half suifo- cated. Scarcely looking at her, he drew her hand through his arm, and led her down. ** We must not excite her, and she is in a fever of impa- tience already," was all he said by the way. In the sick-room, the doctor, the clergyman, the lawyer and Norah stood. The dying woman sat propped up with pillows, a feverish fire in her eyes. The room was di'nly lighted by one shaded lamp, and the uproar of the storm Bounded awfully loud without. A solemn scene and a sol- emn hour; a weird wedding at dead of night, in that raging tempest and by a death-bed. Tne clergyman opened his book. Side by side they stood, those two — both deathly pale — both hearts full of iiwe unutterable, and Death stood in their midst. For the sec- ond time, Estella heard the mystic words of that solemn service. Once again in night and storm she was a bride. It was over. She was Alwyn Bartram's wedded wife! With a great cry she flung herself upon the breast of the dying woman, and broke out into a passion of hysterical weeping. Helen Mallory strained her to her bosom in s wild grasp, the livid hue of death stealing over her face. " This will never do," Dr. Sinclair said, decidedly. '* If vour niece can not restrain herself. Miss Mallory, she must leave the room." But Helen only held her the closer. ** "JN'ever again!" she whispered, with a radiant smile. ** Oh, my dearest, never again, until we part forever!" They were almost her last words — the ebbing life was al- most gone — dying truly with the old year. An awful hush fell upon them all. The moments wore on, the wind rose and fell, the sleet and hail beat against the glass, midnight drew near. With the first chime of the new year's bells the smile froze upon her face; with her head upon the bride's JfA iii,:i,. ,i. estella's husband. 168 a I don't re ready, per. On the bride Trows im- ward, iio: alf suiio- i through r of impa- the lawyer )d up with was di'nly the storm and a sol- hat raging side they full of awe ir the sec- at solemn a bride, tided wife! ast of the hysterical )som in a ler face, lly. '' If she must int smile. 3ver!" Ife was al- Ivvfulhush Iwind rose ] midnight 1 bells the le bride's breast, the gentle eyes closed, the new day and the new year that dawned upon Estella a bride dawned upon Helen Mallory a corpse. CHAPTER XVIII. A DREARY HONEY-MOON. It was a very lengthy procession of carriages that fol- lowed Helen Mallory, three days later, to Mount Auburn. She had died with few around her bedside. She had lived ft lonely and secluded life, but all the old friends who had known her, and known her father and mother, assembled to see her laid in the grave. Perhaps, too, curiosity had something to do with it. The news of the extraordinary marriage by her death-bed had circulated, and people wanted to see this romantically wedded bride and groom. So the dull old house filled on the funeral day, and Mr. and Mrs. Alwyn Bartram were stared at to their hearts' content. Mrs. x^lwyn Bartram ! Yes, she was that now — the one name of all others on earth she had most desired to bear! Poor little lonely bride! Pitifully small, and pale, and thin she looked in her deep mourning, all her bright hair brushed away, her eyes dull and sunken with incessant weeping. She had never known how dearly she loved this indulgent relative — this gentle Aunt Helen — until she was lost forever. And the girlish tears that would almost have been bliss- ful had they fallen upon Alwyn Bartram's breast fell slow- ly and wretchedly upon that clay-cold bosom or Norah's faithful shoulder. For Mr. Bartram was very busy, of course. All devolved upon him, and he went about those three days with a face 01 such dark gravity, not to say gloom, that his poor little bride quite trembled in the presence of her idol. " Did he love Aunt Helen so much, or did he love me so little?" she thought, with a sharp pang of doubt and dread. " He looks so unhappy, and I am afraid to speak to him — 1, who am his wire now, and who love him so dearly." His wife! Oh, magic words! They thrilled througli the hearts of this lovesick little girl like the mnoc of heaven. .1, HI' i I )'■ !^^ 164 estella's husband. '* He will think of nie — he will love me — by and by,** she thought, rapturously. " How can I expect him to love me as 1 love him — he so noble, so handsome, so tal- ented, so far above me every way? And 1 am to pass my whole life by his side! My love, my darling, my hus- band /" But these exalted fits would go, and moods of darkest despondency follow. Mr. Bartram wrapped himself in gloom as in a mantle, and, had he been anything less than a hero, might have been suspected of a tendency to sulki- ness. Ab it was, he grew in romantic Essie's eyes more like Conrad, the Corsair, every day, and she began to think Medora's life must have been one of the dreariest at times, sitting at her black-browed lord's feet, essaying in vain to win one fleeting smile. The funeral day was dark and raw, with a piercing east- erly wind, and a flutter of snowflakes in the leaden air. Shivering in her crape and sables, Mrs. Alwyn Bartram leaned upon her husband's arm, crying wretchedly behind her veil, while the sods rittled down and the solemn words of the burial service sounded in her ears. Dark and stern as doom her new-made husband stood beside her, his gloomy eyes fixed upon the grave — grown strangely worn and haggard since the memorable Christ- mas-eve. It was all over — the carriages were rattling homeward chrough the chill, leaden dusk. He sat beside his bride, she still weeping incessantly, and not improving her pretty looks by the process. Between tlie cold and the tears, Estella's nose was red and swollen, her bright eyes dim and sunken, her cheeks white to ghastliness. The sensitive eyes of the artist saw all this amid the trouble of greater things. "Audi thought her pretty!" the fancy flashed upon him through all his gloom. ** Poor little babyish Essie! How they will criticise Alwyn Bartram's bread-and-but- ter bride in New York!" And then, athwart the blackening gloaming, flashed the radiant face of lovely Leonie De Montreuil — that faultless face, that peerless form, those perfect maouers. Contrasts are good, but not such contrasts as these. He ground his teeth, and for the moment was base enough and estella's husband. 165 cruel enough to hate his unhicky little bride as well as himself. ** Fool that I was to sell myself to spite a cold-blooded jilt!'' he thought — " to insure the misery of my own future life and that of this weak-witted girll'^ It was a very dreary drive. He made no attempt to dry the falling tears of his companion. She had the luxury of a long and wretched cry. No one could have despised him more thoroughly than he despised himself. In all wide America there were few more miserable men, this dull January evening, than Estella's husband. He left his bride at home, and wended his way to the lawyer's ofiBce. Dark, and silent, and dreary as a tomb was Helen Mallory's old home — the silence of death reign- ing in every room. Estella had cried until she could cry no longer. She toiled wearily up the long stairway now to her own room, and sunk down on her knees by the bedside, her poor, pale face hidden in the clothes. ** He does not love me," she thought, in dull despair. *' He never loved me! Oh, why did he ask me to marry him? Why can 1 not die and leave him free?*' The night darkened down; she never stirred. She lay there, forlorn and miserable, not caring if she ever rose again. What was the world and all it contained, since the idol of her life was lost? It was Norah who found her out, and tried to comfort her some hours after. He whose place was by her side was absorbed in other things, and it was the faithful arms of the old servant that drew her close to her heart. ** Don't cry for him, Miss Essie!" Norah said, in tones of concentrated scorn. " He isn't worth one tear. I al- ways thought it; I'm sure of it now." Estella lifted her head suddenly, and the brown eyes quite flashed. " Hush, Norah! Not one word against him in my hear- ing. He is my husband, and I love him!" Norah snorted disdainfully. ** Of course you do, and he's begin ing to break your heart in time. Most men wait until the honey-moon is over to do that. Mr. Alwyn Bartram seems to be in a little more hurry than the rest. Oh," cried Norah, with a vi* ?•.' ' hA¥